glimpse of the lone product in the marshal’s hand.
Hostess Orange CupCakes.
I caught and held my breath like I was about to dive into a pool, and though I bolted from that store, my movements tight and swift, those seconds felt like slow motion. Walking back to my car, I looked over my shoulder at the blackened windows of the Explorer parked no more than a snowball’s throw away, knowing Melody was nearly in my grip.
And as I turned the ignition of the Audi, I empathized with Randall, for there is an undeniable rush that comes from having played the long shot and knowing it’s about to pay off.
I followed them another hour south on U.S. Route 13, rode through enough small towns to feed the Justice Department a decade’s worth of addresses for protected witnesses: Temperanceville, Accomac, Melfa—I couldn’t tell you where they began and ended, if they began and ended. We stopped again just before the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, pulled into a shabby-looking two-story motel that looked like its heyday came and went before I was born, that nothing had been updated since, not the paint, the sign, definitely not the parking lot. The building sat so close to the bay that you could see the water shining in the moonlight, smell the salt and rotting sea life, taste it in the air. The strip of beach at the edge of the property glowed like a bright beige stripe, three abandoned chairs stared out at the water at equidistant points.
The Explorer drove onto the crumbling pavement in front of what might’ve been considered the lobby of the motel, pulled forward next to another SUV that had been waiting for them. This particular vehicle was another Explorer—that must have been some deal Justice had with Ford—but it’d been given more attention: trim running along the doors thick enough to be bars, weird-looking roll bar on top, enormous wheels. Everything the marshals did, every swap of vehicles, seemed planned, all part of some larger operation, some organized chaos developed to transport witnesses. I found it hard not to admire it.
Melody was the pea in the Marshals Service’s shell game.
I tucked my car at the edge of the building adjacent to where the Explorers rested, their engines still running. I reached under the passenger seat and pulled out a pair of binoculars, an item I’d purchased and chucked under there just after I bought the car, reserved for my pursuits of Melody, though never used.
But that night they were required; between the darkness and distance, I’d never make out any usable details. I pulled the lenses apart, removed my glasses, and pressed the binoculars to my sockets.
Two marshals surfaced, one from each SUV. They talked briefly—all business—then returned to their respective vehicles. The driver of the Explorer pulled his vehicle forward and parked in a space in a poorly lit area of the parking lot. A minute later, he turned the car off, got out, walked to the other SUV, and got in the passenger side.
Then they drove away, leaving J21263 by its lonesome.
And my greatest fear surfaced at what might remain under the shell: no pea.
I stared at that Explorer for five minutes, convinced Melody was still in there. I never saw anyone move her. On the other hand, I never saw her in the thing either, had no idea exactly what I was following. And if it weren’t for the orange cupcakes, I might’ve doubted the entire journey.
Then in the sixth minute: The driver’s side rear door opened and out stepped another marshal, one I hadn’t yet seen, a taller and thicker version of the previous marshal, who appeared to have stopped accompanying his partner to the gym a few years earlier, this one’s power being derived more from sheer size than muscle. The guy looked like management. The previous marshal had all the danger and potential of a butterfly knife; this one was simply a butter knife.
He surveyed the area with casual interest, then walked around to the passenger side and opened the rear door.
And Melody emerged.
For those first seconds, I forgot a marshal stood beside her. Her hair ran down the back of her neck, stopped before her collar. She wore clothes that had probably suited her at the start of the day, but now at the end she appeared disheveled. She looked almost alive.
From my distance it seemed either Melody was more petite than I remembered or that the marshal was enormous. It took me a second