This is Installment 2.
For Installment 1, click here.

Chapter Three
Saturday, April 10, 1993

Wasco, CA -- 2:15 AM PST

The first leg of Deborah’s trek had gone well. Noah slept peacefully in his car seat while the Mustang hummed down Interstate 5 toward Kingman. At just before two o’clock Saturday morning the two hit their first patch of trouble.

The Mustang’s gas gauge was nearing ‘empty’ as Deborah exited Highway 5 and struck out down a frontage road in search of an out-of-the-way gas station. Absurd is it might seem, Deborah’s sense of caution dictated the assumption that Nachtmann had people everywhere, even here. If so, she thought, she would be far less conspicuous in a remote filling station than at one of the brightly lit, corporate facilities on the main drag.

Near the end of Merced Way in the tiny burg of Wasco, California, almost exactly halfway between San Francisco and Kingman, Deborah spotted what looked to be the most obscure service station in all Christendom: Earl’s Garage and Auto Repair. The gas pumps were ancient and the storefront was covered with layers of dirt and grime. Squinting through the window, Deborah saw a light. The station was open. There was someone inside. She drove up under the shelter and tapped the horn.

Beyond the window glass, the attendant jerked awake, narrowly avoiding a fall from atop his stool. Recovering himself, he stood, yawning, and made his way to the car.

“Evening, ma’am,” he said, leaning into her window. “I know it don’t look like it, but the pumps are self service.” The skin beneath the man’s eyes sagged and his face and jaw were covered with dark stubble. His breath was stale from sleeping.

“Well, even so,” Deborah said, turning her head aside, “if you’d be kind enough to fill my tank, check the oil and clean the windshield, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“In that case, I’d be happy to, ma’am. Premium?”

“Yes, please.”

The attendant flipped back rear the license plate holder, removed gas cap and inserted the fuel nozzle. Then he began washing the windows.

“You folks from Frisco?” he asked, squirting cleaning fluid on the windshield and wiping slowly as he talked. Deborah looked up. The oval patch on the man’s overalls identified him as ‘Earl.’

“What makes you think that, Earl?” she asked.

“I just saw it on your license plate holder, that’s all,” replied the attendant. “Just like you saw my name tag.”

Earl flashed Deborah what he apparently believed was an ingratiating smile then, shuffling his feet, he cleared his throat and glanced through the window toward the still sleeping Noah. “Where…uh…where you headed?” he asked.

“Why?” Deborah said. “Is there trouble on the road?”

“No. I’m just wondering.” Earl grinned as though he had said something clever. “Out here we like to talk to folks. It’s called making conversation. You know?”

Deborah’s neck hair tingled. Earl’s manner, she thought, was entirely too oily. Had he seemed a more outgoing person, she might have thought his forwardness flirtatious, but Earl was not flirting. He was scrutinizing. Deborah squirmed.

Noah fidgeted in his car seat, whimpered and came slightly conscious. He would likely have returned to sleep had not Earl’s squeegee, just then, clattered to the concrete. Noah rubbed his eyes and looked around.

“Mommy?”

“Hi, pumpkin.”

The boy frowned and wrinkled his nose. “I feel sick,” he said.

Deborah reached for the clasp on his car seat and unfastened it. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, “Do you want to go to the restroom? You do have a rest room?” she asked Earl.

“Sure enough, ma’am,” he said. “And it’s a clean one, too. Just go around back.”

Once again, even in those unremarkable words, Deborah sensed menace. Nervously, she stepped out of the Mustang and pulled the driver’s seat forward, making way for Noah to climb out and into her arms.

Holding the boy while walking toward the rear of the old building, she felt her legs beginning to shake. Noah was not that heavy and she was not tired. It was Earl’s manner that had affected her so. As she turned the corner, she realized that she was trembling, not from fatigue but from fear.

“Hope the little fellow is OK,” Earl called after her. Deborah shuddered.

There was no stall inside the restroom, just a toilet and a sink but, as Earl had promised, the facilities were clean. She closed the toilet seat and sat on the lid, holding Noah on her lap.

“What’s the trouble, sweetheart?” she asked.

“I’m hot, Mommy,” the boy replied. “And my tummy hurts.” Noah was indeed warm. Deborah pulled a hankie from her purse, moistened it with tap water and dabbed his forehead and cheeks, blowing on his dampened skin to speed cooling.

“Do you feel like you’re gong to throw up?” she asked.

“Not right now, Mommy,” Noah said, imitating the tone Deborah used when distracted. “Maybe later.”

Deborah smiled. “Mommy’s sorry you feel yucky, Noah,” she said.

“That’s OK,” the boy replied. She sat with him for several moments, rocking him slowly and holding his head to her breast.

In her familiar role as Noah’s mom, Deborah relaxed. She thought again of her encounter with Earl. Nothing had really happened. Why had she felt so edgy? Perhaps she had misread the man. He was probably quite harmless. It had been a long day and she was stressed. She decided that her imagination had run away with her.

“Are you ready to get back in the car, Noah?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m better now, Mom.”

“OK, good. Let’s go, then. Do you want to walk or should I carry you?”

“I’ll walk.” Deborah put the boy down and held the door open for him. Stepping outside in the cool air, Noah began to swagger, doing his ‘big boy’ strut. He was feeling better. He looked up at his mother and smiled, then reached for her hand and headed toward the car.

Coming around the corner, Deborah took one look at the Mustang and froze. She and Noah had been gone for several minutes, plenty of time for all the services she’d requested to have been completed. Yet the hood was standing open and the pump hose still hung from the tank. Inside the garage, she saw Earl talking on the phone. She couldn’t hear him, but the expression on his face was disturbing.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Noah said. “Why’d you stop?” Deborah leaned over her son and whispered in his ear.

“Noah,” she said, “remember when you showed me how you could lock yourself into your car seat?” The boy nodded. “Do you think you can do that now?”

“Sure,” said the boy. “But I thought you said you always wanted to lock me in.”

“I did say that, and I meant it, but now is a special time. Will you go over there and lock yourself in for me? Mommy will be right back and when I get there we’ll drive away really fast, OK?”

Noah grinned, thinking that his mother had invented a new game. “OK, Mom,” he said and scampered to the car.

Deborah watched until he was safely aboard, then turned and entered the garage. From her present vantage point, she could no longer see Earl, but she could now hear what he was saying into the phone.

“I’ve stayed open all night on the off chance this broad might show up,” he said, “and now you’re asking me if I’m sure it’s her? Of course it’s her. It’s got to be. Pretty blonde, jumpy, San Francisco car, traveling with a kid.”

Earl paused and listened to the voice on the other end for a moment.

“The kid?” he said. “What about the kid?…Yeah, it’s a boy…How should I know what his name is? It could be Noah, it could be Jesus Christ, for all I…What?…Hold her here?…How in the hell am I supposed to…All right, all right. No need to get snippy. I’ll do what I can. Just get here quick, OK?” He grunted into the mouthpiece a few more times and hung up.

Deborah’s vision pulsed in time with her heart. Blood rushed past her eardrums. She looked around. On a nearby workbench lay a set of wrenches. She picked up the heaviest one and moved into the shadows behind a stack of boxes.

From a few feet away she heard a rustling, then the sound of a twist top unscrewing and the gurgling of liquid as Earl gave himself a shot of 80 proof courage. She gritted her teeth and gripped the wrench tighter.

A shadow swept over the space between the boxes and the far wall. He was coming. Deborah raised the wrench over her head as Earl walked past, exactly where she expected, but quicker than anticipated. The wrench came down hard and fast, but missed its target. Deborah stumbled as the wrench fell, clanging to the floor. A surprised look on his face, Earl whirled around. Then he smiled.

“Hey, there,” he said, glancing down at the wrench. “That wasn’t very nice, now was it?.”

Deborah leaned forward on the balls of her feet, taut and alert, her arms outstretched. The smell of the man’s body odor and whisky breath stung her nostrils.

Earl feigned a left jab. Deborah parried.

“Oh, you’re good,” Earl said mockingly. “You’re good, all right. But you know what? I don’t want to fight. No, no. What’s that saying? ‘Make love not war?’ How about it, Blondie? You want to do some of that?”

Again he simulated throwing a blow. Again Deborah moved to ward it off. With surprising quickness, Earl grasped her defending forearm, gripped it firmly and pulled her toward him, laughing.

“Come here, mama,” he said. “I’m gonna get a thousand bucks for you, but maybe I’ll take a couple hundred out in trade.”

Deborah was momentarily overpowered, but not beaten. As Earl drew her toward him she clenched her free fist, cocked her arm and put all her weight on her back foot. Shifting her body forward, she swung, landing a punch with full force, squarely on his solar plexus.

Earl cried out, wheezing as his lungs collapsed. He released her, doubling over, groaning and holding his midsection, helpless, for the moment, on the floor.

“That was good for me, Earl” she said. “Was it good for you?” The attendant raised his eyes and looked at her, his lip curling as he struggled to rise. Deborah reached again for the wrenches, picked up the nearest one and drew back to swing. This time she connected. With a grunt, Earl crumpled to the concrete and lay still.

She stood over him, panting, then nudged him with her toe to ensure that he was really down. Then, remembering his last words on the phone, she rushed outside, slammed the hood, pulled out the fuel hose and replaced the gas cap.

Climbing behind the wheel, she threw the car in gear and sped away, her tires squealing.

Noah shrieked with delight. “Wow, Mommy,” he exulted. “You were right. We’re going fast!” In other circumstances Deborah might have laughed with her son but not now. She needed all her wits for thinking.

“Just get here quick,” Earl had said into the phone. That could have meant only one thing: Nachtmann had people very nearby. And because she had not overheard the entire conversation, Deborah had to assume the worst. Earl had told them where she was as well as what she was driving; maybe even her license plate number.

She had to get out of sight, and quickly.

A few minutes later, after weaving through Wasco’s web of paved and dirt roads, Deborah came to a likely looking plot of land. The moon, though not quite full, shone brightly over an open meadow. At the center of the acreage, some one hundred yards from the road, stood an old barn, partially hidden behind a small grove of cottonwood trees. It looked deserted.

Deborah slowed to a stop. Through a tangle of weeds, she detected the trace of a pathway leading from the roadside to the barn door. She pulled over and onto the path.

“What are you doing, Mommy?” Noah asked. “How come you’re driving in the dirt?”

“I’m looking for a place to park, Noah,” his mother replied. “Everything’s OK. Don’t worry.”

She slid off the front seat and walked toward the building. A hasp still hung near a wooden handhold, but there was no lock. She gripped the handle and pulled. Its hinges creaking, the door swung open, a dank and dusty smell drifting from within. The Mustang’s headlights lit the interior, revealing nothing, save a large spider, alone on its web.

Deborah parked the Mustang inside the barn, then got out.

Near the doorway, she pulled up a dried bramble bush and used it to sweep the ground, erasing whatever tracks the Mustang may have left. Then she went back inside the barn and closed the door.

For a few moments, she sat quietly, then reached across the front seat, flipped open the glove box and began rummaging.

“What are you looking for, Mommy?” Noah asked.

“Uh…a map, sweetie.”

“Oh.”

Deborah knew the main route from the Bay Area to I-40 in Barstow. She’d committed it to memory before leaving San Francisco, but now she was in unfamiliar territory. She cursed herself for not grabbing a handful of maps from Earl’s Garage when she’d had the chance.

Her hand fell on a familiar shape: a map book. Rand-McNally’s California Highways. She pulled it out. Then she saw the glow from a tiny red light.

Her flashlight still lay on the seat beside her. She switched it on, shining the beam into the glove box. The red light was on the side of a hard plastic case. On the edge of he case were the words “NoJax – Vehicle Pursuit and Recovery System.”

Deborah was not entirely sure what purpose the device served, but the words ‘vehicle pursuit’ troubled her. She reached into the glove compartment, pulled the plastic case from its moorings, twisted off the connecting wires and flung it out the window.

“Sorry, Rachel,” she said.

Inside the NoJax case, an electronic impulse from the power transformer alerted a chip in the central processing unit that its main power supply had been disconnected. Instantaneously, secondary power from a ni-cad battery source kicked in, allowing the unit to begin broadcasting a silent radio tracking signal.

Desert Pioneer Hotel Kingman, AZ – 5:30 AM

When the tall, red-haired man checked into the Desert Pioneer Hotel on the outskirts of Kingman, Arizona, he did so via an assistant. Waiting outside in a rented limousine until his rooms had been made ready, he swept through the lobby surrounded by his entourage. That he wore a crew cut and sunglasses was apparent to observers only because his riding boots added an extra two inches to his height.

Saying nothing and looking neither right nor left, he entered the express elevator and ascended to the seventh floor penthouse. There he remained, cloistered and unseen. That had been two days ago, on Thursday.

If the red-haired man had not ventured out of his suite, neither were any of the hotel staff allowed in. Brusque men wearing wireless earphones came to the door and intercepted both his food and his linen. Needless to say, tipping was at an all-time low.

By 5:30 AM Saturday morning, had any hotel employees succeeded in entering the penthouse, they would doubtless have been surprised by its appearance. Among other things, what once had been its plain, Southwestern-style sitting room was now teeming with technology. Numerous state-of-the-art communications devices, including a secure two-way radio system, three computer workstations and a bank of nine television monitors now dominated the room.

To its walls were now affixed a series of topographical road maps of the Kingman area, plus a layout of both the Kingman and Sun Valley Airports. The modest balcony, which once held only a pair of lounge chairs, now housed a satellite dish.

The shroud of secrecy that hung over the penthouse gave rise speculation that room 700 had been taken over by the FBI. That was incorrect. Although it was true that, through his employers, the red-haired man frequently collaborated with an FBI agent, he himself was merely the chief of security for a group called the Faber-Brady Trust (FBT).

Furthermore, though he was knowledgeable in electronic surveillance and surveillance detection, forensics, intelligence gathering and all manner of other security related areas, the red-haired man had ascended to his present position, not through hard work and diligence, but as the direct result of a blackmail scheme perpetrated against the wife and daughter of one of FBT’s senior directors.

Now wearing a desert field jacket with matching jodhpurs, he was seated at a writing desk on a low riser in the midst of his mass of electronics. A pile of books and boxes, as well as various sinister-looking gadgets lay before him. At the moment, he was reading over the instructions for something called a taser gun.

Within his line of sight, two technicians and their supervisor huddled around a TV screen, scanning video clips. After a time, the crew’s leader broke away and approached the man with the taser gun.

“What is it, Franklin?” asked the red-haired man.

“We’ve lost track of her, Mr. Nachtmann,” he said. “She went to ground around 2:30 AM after a confirmed sighting in Wasco. Since then, nothing.”

Nachtmann closed his eyes as if absorbing a great shock. With a great show of weariness, he allowed his head to droop. His eyes came to rest on the stun gun in his hand.

“Tell me, Franklin,” he said, holding up the gun. “What is this thing?”

“A stun gun, sir. I believe it’s called a taser.”

“Correct. Do you know how it works?”

“The same as ordinary stun guns, sir, except the two charge electrodes are attached to long wires.”

“Correct,” said Nachtmann. “And what is the advantage of such a design, may I ask?”

“That an attacker can be stunned from a distance, sir.”

“Exactly,” said Nachtmann, beaming like a proud parent. “From where I sit, for example, you would make an easy target.” He paused. “Excuse me, Franklin. I got sidetracked. You were telling me something about losing the woman.”

“Well, sir. I…this is a temporary setback only, sir. If you’ll…”

“If I what, Franklin? If I allow you to carry on, you’ll make good?”

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, if you…”

“If, Franklin,” Nachtmann said. “If, if, if. If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.”

Franklin was not sure what his boss was getting at, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“Tell me, Franklin,” he said. “Are wishes horses?”

Franklin swallowed again. Sweat began forming on his upper lip. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came.

“I asked you a question, Franklin,” Nachtmann said. “Are wishes horses?”

Franklin blinked. “No, sir,” he whispered.

A shout went up from among the technicians surrounding the video monitors. The heads of both Franklin and Nachtmann turned toward the sound.

“What is it, for god’s sake?” Nachtmann demanded.

“You were right, Mr. Franklin,” said one of his men. “She’s been spotted again, exactly where you said.”

Nachtmann’s face fell. He was pleased that Mrs. Garrison’s trail had been reacquired but disappointed that he could no longer mete out punishment for its loss.

“Get back to work, Franklin,” he said, perfunctorily.

“Uh...yes, sir.”

Resuming his seat, Nachtmann’s eye fell on a framed picture of a of young woman of perhaps 18 or 19. His expression softened as he gazed at it.

The image was fuzzy and indistinct, as though enlarged from a much smaller original. Still, it was easy to see that the girl was fresh-faced. Her lips turned up in a genial smile and her wavy blonde hair, though pulled back from her face, cascaded gaily down her back and over her shoulders.

A blurred inscription graced the lower quarter of the photo. Nachtmann ran his finger over the words and read them for perhaps the ten-thousandth time: “To HN, Good Luck, DF.”

Yes, Deborah, Nachtmann thought to himself. Good luck…to us both.

South Central Valley Highway, Near Rosedale, CA -- 5:40 AM

Deborah couldn’t sleep. Her mind wouldn’t let her. By now, Earl had certainly told Nachtmann’s people about the Mustang. The car was no longer safe. In less than twenty-six hours she was going to have to be in Kingman. That was plenty of time, but it wasn’t forever. Sooner or later she was going to have to venture outside. Sooner, she decided, was better.

Just as the sun began rising, she backed the Mustang out of the barn, turned it around and headed southeast down the South Central Valley Highway.

Out the passenger window, acres of fragrant red roses blazed in the morning light. Deborah inhaled deeply, relieving the tension by filling her nostrils with their aroma.

As her eyes swept over the field and back toward the highway, she noticed a pale glow in the distance. She sat up and craned her neck for a better view.

“Perfect,” Deborah murmured. She pressed down on the accelerator. Two miles ahead, at Rosedale Road, she turned right. Reassuringly, the glow was still visible.

Rounding a curve, just as the Mustang passed a copse of poplar trees, the source of the radiance revealed itself. A riot of flashing light and color, its rods reeled, its neon screamed.

“Here it is! Here it is!” it cried. “Come one, come all! Welcome to the one and only…Crazy Sally’s Used Car Emporium!”

Deborah pulled off the main drag, onto the adjoining side street and drove around Crazy Sally’s, then pulled onto the lot through a fallen length of chain between two steel posts. Parking near a late-model coupe, she got out, took the sale placard from the coupe and placed it on the Mustang’s windscreen.

Neither she nor the Mustang were visible from the road. That was good. She was going to do something new and she wasn’t sure how long it would take. A modular, corrugated steel office building stood nearby. The sign on it’s side read: “9 A.M. to Midnight - 7 Days a Week.” That settled it. A couple of hours was all she had.

Back inside the Mustang, Deborah checked her passenger. He was asleep. From a zippered bag, she took out a carton of milk and a package of peanut butter crackers, opened them and placed them beside his car seat. Then she got out and softly closed the door.

Had she been a bolder person, Deborah might have considered stealing a car. The thought never occurred to her, however, and, even if it had, she would not have known how to go about it. Taking a set of license plates, on the other hand, was another matter. The crime was less severe and the necessary know-how was minimal.

At first, she thought she might be able to remove a set of plates by hand. Three fingernails later, she accepted the inevitable. Another crime needed committing. She was going to have to break into the garage and steal what tools she needed. This realization presented her with yet another dilemma, namely, how do you break into a garage?

She walked around the building. There were only two means of entry: a sliding, metal door and a regular wooden door. The wooden door had a window. Deborah glanced at her watch. It was now 6:40 AM, less than twenty-four hours from her rendezvous and she’d made no progress. Then she heard Noah.

“Mommy!” he called out. “Mommy!” From his tone, she knew that he wasn’t yet afraid, but he was going to be. Time was running out and so were her options.

“What the hell,” Deborah said to herself. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” She picked up a large rock, walked to the wooden door and smashed the window. Half expecting to hear alarm bells, she reached through the shattered glass and let herself inside, then hurried to the nearest workbench where she found a set of screwdrivers.

She heard a soft click. Milliseconds later, flourescent light flooded the room. In the doorway stood the most outlandishly dressed woman Deborah had ever seen.

“You seem like a smart enough kid,” the woman said, “and yet you’ve just broken a $50 pane of glass to steal ten bucks worth of screwdrivers.” Deborah was too surprised to reply. “You might as well take a something valuable, honey,” the woman continued. “Anyway, that’s what I’m going to tell the insurance people you did.”

Deborah thought she might be hallucinating. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Who am I?” the woman said. The purple ostrich plume on her hat bounced with every word. “That’s rich. You’re the one robbing the joint, sweetheart. Who the hell are you?”

Outside, Noah called out once again. This time, he sounded afraid.

“At the moment,” she said, “All I am is Noah’s mommy. Excuse me, please.” Brushing past the woman Deborah headed out the door and down the rows of cars toward the Mustang.

“Now just a damn minute,” the woman called out. She turned and followed Deborah through the lot. “I haven’t finished being bitchy yet.”

Deborah kept walking. “Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry about the damage. I really am. I’ll pay you for it, but right now I don’t have time.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the woman. “I don’t think you realize who you’re talking to. I’m Sally Hank. You know...Crazy Sally? I’m the aggrieved party here and unless you’ve got a gun or something, I’m the one who gets to set the timetable. Now, suppose I want to take a few minutes to check in with the police?”

Deborah had already reached the Mustang and had the door half open. She looked over her shoulder. “Wait,” she said. “Hold that thought.” Noah had unfastened the restraint on his car seat and was standing with his arms outstretched. Deborah pulled the front seat forward.

“Where were you Mommy?” he said, striving to staunch his tears. “I try not to cry but I scared.”

“That’s OK, sweetie,” Deborah soothed. Her arms were around him. “You can cry all you want. Mommy’s here. Did you find the milk and crackers ?”

“Yeah. But I wasn’t hungry.”

“How about now? Are you hungry now?”

“A little,” Noah admitted, sniffling.

Deborah retrieved the snack from the rear of the car and sat on the edge of the driver’s seat with her feet in the dirt, holding Noah on her knees. For several moments the only sounds were the wind through the poplars and the occasional crunch of a peanut butter cracker.

“What’s going on, sugar?” Crazy Sally said at last. “Are you running from your husband? Does he beat you or something?” Deborah could not help laughing.

“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s nothing like that. I only wish it were.” The off-hand reply had its affect on Crazy Sally.

“You don’t mean that,” she said. “And even if you do, you don’t. Believe me.” The older woman’s eyes told Deborah that Sally knew whereof she spoke

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. That was a foolish thing to say.”

Crazy Sally was a successful used car dealer. Sentimentality had no place in her world. Still, the sight of the distressed mother and child moved her. She touched the corner of her eye.

“So what is it?” she asked again. “If it’s not your husband, who is it? Your boyfriend? Repo men? The cops?”

“It’s someone very dangerous,” replied Deborah. “That’s all I can say, and I’ve got to get to Kingman before he catches me.”

“Or what?” Sally asked.

“Or a lot of people will get hurt.”

Crazy Sally reflected for a moment. “If this guy is such a pistol,” she said, “why don’t you go to the cops?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t, Sally,” Deborah said. “I just can’t.”

“What is this,” the older woman scoffed, “an episode of Days of Our Lives?”

“No it isn’t,” Deborah said firmly. “This is real.” The two looked at each other for a long moment.

“OK, then,” Sally said, “what are the screwdrivers for?”

“I need to change my plates.”

“Change your plates? Why?”

Deborah began recounting her misadventures at the filling station. As she did, she became increasingly aware of how outlandish the whole thing sounded; a menacing adversary with spies at every turn, a man whose influence reached even to an obscure business like Earl’s Garage in Wasco. It was insane. Why would anyone believe me, Deborah thought, least of all someone who’s just caught me stealing?

Sally looked at her watch. “When do you have to be in Kingman?” she asked.

“8 AM tomorrow,” Deborah said. “No later.”

“Come on, then,” Sally said. “Let’s go to my place across the way there. You and the boy can rest. Then we’ll sort out this license plate thing.”

Deborah stood up and threw her arms around Sally’s sequined neck. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Thank you for believing me.”

“Don’t take it too personal, sweetie,” said Sally. “They don’t call me crazy for nothing.”