Page 55 of Cross Down
The TV is still on.
“But tonight I ask you, the American people, to remain calm and keep trusting your friends and neighbors. The goal of terrorism is terror—to make us retreat from our lives, to make us suspicious and fearful of our countrymen. We are better than that. You are better than that. And I trust in the inherent goodness of the American people.”
Part Three
Chapter
64
After nearly tenhours of very fast driving—breaking only for two short naps and a quick phone call to FBI agent Ned Mahoney—I’m finally in Slocum, Vermont, where Elizabeth Deacon, our CIA tour guide, supposedly lives. I pull over and rub my eyes. I’ve had plenty to think about these past several hours, but one scene has been playing over and over in my mind.
Later, John.
My call to Ned went to his voice mail, so I left him a message: “Ned, check into the background of Harry Maynard, a Treasury enforcement agent, former Special Forces, former NYPD, contract worker with the NSA. He and three others ambushed me and Mel Carr a few hours ago. Mel got killed.”
I turn on a small flashlight—it’s still dark—and cup the beam in my hand so it doesn’t flare out and expose me. I scan the detailed map of Vermont I picked up at an all-night gas station just over the border from Massachusetts. It gives me a fair overview of the town of Slocum. A small squiggly line denotes Mast Road, where Deacon lives.
If the information I got from Bree is accurate. If someone from the CIA didn’t spoof Bree. If Deacon didn’t bail after seeing Ruiz’s bloody head displayed on our Zoom call.
Too many ifs.
I check the clock. Close to dawn.
I’m tempted to send her a text saying I’m coming, but I want to surprise her so she won’t decide to skip town before I arrive.
I remember Deacon was a light sleeper.
Time to see if that’s still true.
Mast Road is one lane, twisty and turning, flanked by two farms and a few houses and not much in the way of street numbers. No sidewalks, just stone walls topped by barbed wire or fences holding in cows or horses.
Deacon’s address is 9 Mast Road, but through stopping and starting and using my flashlight, I find just two mailboxes: 1 Mast Road and 11 Mast Road. I spend a few minutes puzzling over this and decide a small two-story home built in the Federal style must be hers.
I pull over about a hundred yards down the dirt road and get out of the stolen Lexus, again apologizing to the sweet young lady who’s the real owner. I grab my duffel bag in one hand and hold my Glock in the other and start walking.
It’s a long heavy walk. I’m thinking of Alex, of Willow, of Bree and the entire Cross family, and of the attacks, bombings, and snipers out there that are tearing this country apart.
I plan to get to the end of her driveway and send her a text sayingSurprise, I’m here! Let’s talk.There’s a lightening of the sky to the east that promises the start of a new day and whatever bad news and horror it will bring.
Like what I see now.
About twenty yards from the driveway, I see a narrow line of bright red light come from near the mailbox. It ends with a red dot in the middle of my chest.
I stop. I call out, “Elizabeth, I certainly hope it’s you. John Sampson here.”
The dot doesn’t move.
Chapter
65
I’m relieved whenI finally hear her familiar voice: “You alone?”
“I am.”
“Where’s Mel Carr?”
“Dead,” I say. “Back in North Carolina. You want to move your targeting laser, Elizabeth? It’s making me nervous.”
