Spencerville

down on the false bottom of the case, and it sprung loose. He lifted the bottom and saw that his passport was still there, as well as several hundred dollars in various denominations. He put the money in his jacket pocket, then stuffed everything except the briefcase back inside the locker and shut it. Keith carried the briefcase and walked quickly and purposefully into the hallway, glanced left and right, and located the elevators to his right. He went directly to an open elevator, stepped inside with hospital staff, and rode down to the lobby.
    In the lobby, he saw a uniformed policeman sitting in a chair, reading a magazine, and across from him a man in a suit who Keith figured was a detective.
    Keith went outside and spotted a taxi dropping someone off. He got into the rear of the taxi and said to the driver, “Airport, please.”
    The driver got onto the airport highway. It was still rush hour in both directions, Keith noticed, but they were making decent time heading away from Toledo. The commercial strip looked different in the daylight, and he noticed the Chevrolet dealership on the right, but didn’t spot his Blazer. Further down, on the opposite side of the highway, he saw the sign for the Westway Motel.
    He wasn’t certain how Baxter had found them, but he assumed that the manhunt had been intense enough to finally turn up the only two clues he had left: the conversation with the security man at the airport, which led to an area search and eventually to the Westway Motel, the dark sign notwithstanding. America was, by no means, a police state, but it had far more policemen with far more advanced gadgetry, mobility, and resources than any police state Keith had ever been in. Nevertheless, it was only a bad break at the airport that changed the outcome of that evening so quickly and completely.
    Keith knew that if he dwelled on it too much, if he let the rage and the guilt take over, he wasn’t going to be able to do what he had to do. He put it out of his mind and considered his next moves. He wasn’t going to get many more shots at this, if any. But all he needed was one more.
    The taxi arrived at the airport, and the driver asked, “Where to?”
    “Just stop over there near the USAir sign.”
    The driver stopped at the terminal and said, “That’ll be twelve seventy-five, please.”
    Keith gave him a twenty, took the change, and tipped him.
    He went into the terminal, turned around, and came out another door twenty feet away. He stood at the curb, looking at his watch, and seeming for all the world like a businessman who just got off a morning flight. He’d been to this airport many times over the years, and he knew the ropes. He ignored the line of taxis and said to a skycap, “Anyone around who wants to take a long ride?”
    “Sure. Where you headed?”
    “Lima.”
    “Okay.” The skycap signaled to a customized van parked in the lot across the ramp. The skycap asked Keith, “Luggage?”
    “No.” Keith gave the skycap two dollars as the van pulled up. A skinny kid of about twenty jumped out and asked, “Where you headin’?”
    “Lima. How much?”
    “Oh… let’s say… that’s about two hours, so we got gas and the return… is fifty too much?”
    “Sounds okay.” Keith opened the passenger door, and the driver got in the van, and they were off. As they drove out the airport, the young man stuck out his hand. “Name’s Chuck.”
    Keith shook his hand. “John.”
    “Good to know you.”
    “Nice van.”
    “Ain’t she, though? Did it all myself.” Chuck gave Keith a complete rundown of the customizing done on the van, a late-model Dodge. Chuck was currently unemployed and supported his expensive chroming habit by undercutting the fixed taxi rates at the airport. By the time Chuck was finished with his monologue, they were on Interstate 75, heading south.
    Keith was going to tell Chuck to step on it, that he was late, but Chuck already had the van cranked up to seventy-five. Chuck saw him looking at the speedometer, laughed, and said, “Route 75, I do seventy-five. Lucky we ain’t on 106.” He added, “Hey, if this is too fast for you, let me know.”
    “It’s fine.”
    “Yeah? Good. I got the best fuzz-buster made—right here.” He tapped the radar detector on the dashboard. “Fuck them.”
    “Right.”
    He nudged it up to eighty and asked, “Where you from?”
    “New York.”
    “Yeah? You like it?”
    “It’s okay.”
    “Never been there myself.”
    Keith