Guilty Minds

“You charged it before you gave it to me, right?”

“Huh. I forgot. Very funny, Heller.”

“How long does the battery last?”

“Thirty days at rest. In motion, considerably less, but it should last the rest of the day at least. Probably a couple of days. They’re still on the interstate, in Falls Church, heading west/northwest.”

“Take my phone,” I said, “and try texting her again, just in case.” I took my phone from my jacket pocket and handed it to her.

“And say what?”

“Just ‘where are you?’”

It had just begun to rain, a few droplets splashing against the windshield. I put on the wipers, which only smeared the glass, so I flicked on the washers, and that cleared it up. But the rain only came faster, thrumming against the SUV’s hood.

“No reply?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She was silent for a time, and then went on, “Nick, what do you think’s going on? What’s your theory, why she called you?”

“She knows what I do for a living. She knows I have some idea what she’s involved in. I think she called me out of desperation-she doesn’t know what else to do or who else to turn to. She’s scared. That’s what I think.”

“So what’s happening to her? Hold on-they’re at the junction with 267, and they just took the exit onto the Dulles toll road. Where are they headed, do you think?”

“Dulles airport,” I said.

“Why?”

“Their whole plan just collapsed and they want to get her out of town before it spins out even further.”

“Who’s they?”

“That’s the question. It’s whoever wanted to take Jeremiah Claflin down.”

“And getting her out of town means-what?”

“That I don’t know either. She was the most important part of this conspiracy, whatever this conspiracy is, but also, I’m guessing, the soft spot-the most vulnerable part. She’s a frightened young woman who could easily spill the truth about what’s going on. And who put her up to it.”

“Nick, they’re turning off. They’re approaching what looks like an airport.”

“It’s way too soon to be Dulles.”

“It’s not Dulles, it’s… it’s a small private airport. The Middleton Regional Airport, it’s called. A general aviation airport. They’re turning in there.”

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“We’ve got to move it. General aviation means private planes, and private planes means no set schedule. They can take off as soon as they get there.”

The rain had become torrential, coming down in sheets, splashing up from the road. The visibility was poor. We drove in anxious silence, the windshield wipers beating a quick tempo. I took the turnoff onto Route 267, which would become the Dulles access road.

I passed a few slower-moving vehicles, but I couldn’t floor the accelerator. Traffic had slowed to a crawl; I couldn’t go faster than the cars ahead of me. The four-lane highway had given way to two lanes, plus there were traffic lights.

“The dot’s stopped moving. They’ve come to a stop.”

“The airport’s probably ten minutes away. Check the map-is there a faster way?”

“We’re on the most direct route. The exit’s three point five miles ahead.”

But we were moving at no more than twenty miles an hour, so another quarter hour passed before we finally saw a sign that said MIDDLETON REGIONAL AIRPORT NEXT LEFT.

“Is the dot still stationary?”

“Just started moving again.”

“Shit.”

I signaled left, shifted into the leftmost lane, waited at the red light. I had no choice but to wait; the oncoming traffic was steady. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Finally the light turned green.

I gunned it. After about two hundred feet, another sign for the airport loomed into view, and I turned into the airport access road. Very soon I reached a parking lot where no more than five or six vehicles were parked. Next to the lot was a chain-link fence that enclosed the tarmac. There was a small brick terminal building, and there didn’t appear to be an airport control tower. A small private airport. I pulled into a space and left the SUV idling.

“What’s the plan, Nick?”

“Is it still moving?”

“No.”

“How accurate is this thing?”

“Very. Up to a foot.”

“So can you figure out where it is?”

She looked at her iPad, swiped at it a few times. “She’s on the tarmac.”

“Or at least her laptop bag is.”

She pointed. “There’s a security booth at the entrance to the tarmac.”

“Okay. Can you get out the scope?”

“The monocular…?”

“The Canon.”

She took out from her bag a pair of 18 x 50 binoculars, and handed them to me. I put them to my eyes, turning them toward the tarmac. Once I got oriented, I located a plane on the airfield and zoomed in on its tail number.

“Could you write this down?” I said. “November one-five-five-X-ray.”

“What’s that?”

“A tail number.”

“Which plane?”

“No idea. Now, how about you go into the terminal building and look for her. See if she’s waiting somewhere. It’s not a big building-shouldn’t take too long.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Drive onto the tarmac.”

“You can’t.”

“We’ll see.”