tree to tree to avoid gunfire. And when I got to the other side, I crept around to the corner of Melody’s building, pulled the car out of gear, and glided along in neutral, attempting silence.
And sure enough, the Explorers sat running and idle in front of her building, the vehicles empty but for the drivers.
Three minutes. Nothing.
Then with a burst through the glass door at the bottom of her apartment came three large men, suited and armed: U.S. marshals. And in the center of their triangle walked Melody, cloaked in a bulletproof vest so large it overlapped the waist of her jeans, hung on her like a football jersey, a small garbage bag in her hand that appeared almost empty.
Two of the men pushed Melody into the backseat of the first SUV, flanked her on each side; the other man got into the passenger side of the second SUV. Both engines raced and their exhaust hung in the air as they disappeared out of the complex and onto the road that led to Columbia Pike.
And as I waited ten seconds, then zoomed from the parking lot in an effort to follow them, my heartbeat was hardly as noticeable as the word echoing through my brain: Why?
The three of us—two Explorers and one red sports car—raced down Columbia Pike, onto Maryland Route 32 for a few miles, then onto I-95, heading north toward Baltimore. Whenever I followed Melody it seemed I was always retracing my steps, always going backward. I flipped on my sunglasses and ball cap and punched the accelerator. And as the SUVs briefly separated in an effort to slide over a lane on the interstate, I just barely made out each license plate, the only unique identifiers of these nondescript government vehicles.
J21275
J21263
I didn’t have the time (or concentration) to come up with a foolproof pattern for the tags the way I did with Melody’s parents’ Oldsmobile. My best effort at seventy miles per hour: Both tags started with 212, the original area code for New York. Beyond that, the easiest thing to do was repeat the last two digits of each tag over and over in my head until recalling them became second nature. Sixty-three, seventy-five, sixty-three, seventy-five.
All of my experience shadowing Melody came into full utilization, felt like a series of preseason games in preparation for this championship event. I was tailing the feds now, following the very enemies who waited and watched my family from dark Chevrolets in plain sight, for little other reason than to let us know we were being watched; Pop would occasionally send out a plate of bucatini all’amatriciana for them. And now that they had Melody in their possession, I hated them even more. Neither Melody nor the marshals keeping her had any understanding of how unsafe she really was.
I’d become her only hope of holding on to life.
I’d long since mastered the art of keeping a safe distance—the perfect distance—from the car in my crosshairs. Highways remained easy space to navigate; cities were another story. Traffic lights repeatedly posed a problem, creating potential gaps that could last more than a block. Not to mention the obvious intrusions: other drivers cutting you off, delivery trucks blocking traffic, short stops that had me right on top of Melody’s car.
So as I followed them down into the center of Baltimore, right in the middle of the skyscrapers, my hands began to sweat; I knew if I lost her then, I’d likely lose her. Her life depended on my ability to stay right on the tail of those government vehicles.
Then, the inevitable: We wound down an alley darkened and cooled by a lack of sun, a strip of pavement where natural light had not shone down since those towers were erected. They slowed behind a smaller ten-story building. I waited farther back as they came to a stop at a rear entrance for a gated parking garage. With a swipe of a badge, both SUVs disappeared into the mouth of the garage, and the teeth of the gate quickly closed. Once they were out of sight, I gunned it down the alley, slowed enough to read the small sign identifying the garage as belonging to the Garmatz Federal Courthouse. I suppose one way or another I was destined to be brought to the feet of such a building.
I didn’t move, every sense aware, my car waiting for instructions. I stared at the sign for some answer. What could I do? Go find a