Roses Are Red

we might have. I felt as if I were moving in a dream. My clothes were soaking wet, my arms and legs sore.
    “Throw the bags faster!” the voice commanded. “Let’s see those muscles, Agent Cavalierre.”
    Could he see us? Probably. It sounded like it. No doubt he was in the woods with his two-way. How many of them were there?
    When the nine bags were gone, the train rushed around a sharp bend in the tracks. We couldn’t see what was happening fifty yards behind us. We fell to the floor, cursing and moaning.
    Betsey gasped. “Goddamn them. They did it. They got away with it. Oh, goddamn them to hell.”
    The Handie-Talkie came on again. He wasn’t finished with us. “Thanks for the help. You guys are the best. You can always get a job bagging groceries at the local A&P Might not be a bad career option after this.”
    “Are you the Mastermind?” I asked.
    The line went dead.
    The radio voice was gone and so were the money and diamonds, and they still had the nineteen hostages.

Chapter 65
    SEVEN MILES AHEAD, Agents Cavalierre, Doud, and Walsh and I stumbled off the train at the next available station.
    Two black Suburbans were waiting for us. Standing around the vehicles were several FBI agents with rifles. A crowd of people had gathered at the station. They were pointing at the guns and agents as if they’d spotted the Washington Redskins fresh from a hunting trip.
    We were given up-to-the-minute information. “It appears they’re already out of the woods,” an agent told us. “Kyle Craig is on his way here now. We’re setting up roadblocks, but they’ll be hit-and-miss. There is some good news, though. We might have caught a break on the tour bus.”
    Moments later, we were being patched in to a woman from Tinden, a small town in Virginia. Supposedly, the woman had information on the whereabouts of the bus. She said she would only talk to “the police,” and that she didn’t much care for the FBI and their methods.
    Only after I identified myself was the elderly woman willing to talk to me. She sounded nervous.
    Her name was Isabelle Morris and she had sighted a tour bus in the farmlands out in Warren County. She’d become suspicious because she owned the local bus company and the bus wasn’t one of hers.
    “The bus was blue with gold stripes?” Betsey asked without identifying herself as FBI.
    “Blue and gold. Not one of mine. So I don’t know what the tour vehicle would be doing here,” Mrs. Morris said. “No reason for a bus like that to be out in these parts. This is redneck territory. Tinden isn’t on any tours that I know of.”
    “Did you get the license number, or at least a part of it?” I asked her.
    She seemed annoyed by the question. “I had no earthly reason to check the license number. Why would I do that?”
    “Mrs. Morris, then why
did
you report the bus to the local police?”
    “I told you, if you were listening before. There’s no reason for a tour bus out here. Besides, my boyfriend is on the local citizens’ patrol hereabouts. I’m a widow, y’see. He’s the one actually called the police. Why are
you
so interested, may I ask?”
    “Mrs. Morris, when you saw the tour bus, were there any passengers on board?”
    Betsey and I glanced at each other while we waited for her to answer.
    “No, just the driver. He was a large fellow. I didn’t see anyone else. What about the police? And the infernal FBI? Why are you all so interested?”
    “I’ll get to that in a minute. Did you notice
any
identification on the bus? A destination sign? A logo? Anything you might have seen would be a help to us. People’s lives are in danger.”
    “Oh, my,” she said then. “Yes, there was a sticker on the side:
Visit Williamsburg.
I remember seeing it. You know what else? I think the bus might have said Washington on Wheels on the side panel. Yes, I’m almost sure it did. Washington on Wheels. Is that any help to you?”

Chapter 66
    BETSEY WAS ALREADY on another line talking to Kyle Craig. They were making a plan to get us to Tinden, Virginia, in a hurry. Mrs. Morris continued to talk my ear off. Bits and pieces were coming back to her. She told me that she had seen the tour bus turn onto a small country road not far from where she lived.
    “There are only three farms on the road, and I know ’em all very well. Two of the farms border a deserted army base built in the eighties. I’ve got to check this funny business out for myself,” she said.
    I interrupted her right