The Tracker Read online

  The cops were getting closer. It was time to go. I stepped away from the wall, found the ladder, began to climb. Quickly. Quietly. I’d reached the top when the beams of light hit the back wall. I looked down below me. The cops seemed to stare at each other for a moment, confused. I turned, crawled across the top of a few wooden crates, reached the edge of the shelf. The jump to the metal balcony was at least six feet. I didn’t even take a moment to consider. I just jumped. I landed awkwardly, flipped over the railing, banged to the floor. I spun around, blinded by a flashlight beam. I had no time to waste. I pivoted, pushed through a metal door. Just like I’d envisioned, there was a hallway with six offices. I could see a split in the hallway. One way led back into the warehouse. The other out the backside of the building.

  I raced to the back. The metal door was not locked. It pushed open easily, and I found what I was looking for. An emergency exit stairwell on the outside. I hit every third step on my way down, then jumped for the gravel.

  Thirty seconds later, I was lost in the industrial park. No signs of cops.

  I felt strangely exhilarated and yet weirded out by what had just happened.

  That was the first time my mind had done something like that.

  But I’d accomplished my mission.

  I’d stolen my first car ten days before my fourteenth birthday.

  I was ready to be my own man. Time to get lost from the system.

  SEVEN

  Saturday, 6:56 a.m.

  Boerne, Texas

  2 days, 17 hours, 4 minutes to Election Day

  I drove forty-five minutes down the road to Johnson City and parked the Chevy truck next to a silver Toyota Camry behind a small grocery store that was still closed. The car probably belonged to the grocery store manager who was getting the store up and running inside. I could see some lights on in the windows. Perfect. The Camry owner would not likely be coming back to their vehicle anytime soon. I needed to create space and distance, to get a head start. The Camry’s doors were locked. It slowed me down for maybe twenty seconds. I scrambled inside the car and quickly removed the access panel on the steering column, then grabbed the electrical wires. Like I’d done a hundred times, I connected the ignition and battery wires and sparked the starter wire. The engine started. I unlocked the steering wheel by pulling hard in both directions. A couple more revs of the engine and I was on my way.

  The boys from my old street crew would be proud. There had been four of us. All the guys were a bit intimidated by my uncanny ability to think on my feet. Especially if we were pulling a con.

  A shady guy named Kenny had offered us a sweet deal one night. Kenny would strip stolen vehicles in his ghetto garage and sell the parts for cash. Two hundred fifty a pop for low-end rides, five hundred or even more if the cars met a certain standard of luxury (Mercedes, Lexus, BMW). In my three years of stealing cars, I could practically do it in my sleep. That night, I pulled seven cars in under four hours. All high end. All without breaking a sweat. My closest competitor from our group got to three. But I wasn’t satisfied with that. I was bored and wanted to push myself. Target number eight was a sweet black Bentley that I knew cost a quarter million dollars. Kenny said he’d give me three grand. I stole it from a secure restaurant parking lot.

  I was halfway down the street with a big smile on my face when I saw the first set of flashing lights. Then I quickly spotted four or five more sets of lights. Police sting. I had been set up. Someone had squealed. Long story short, I felt the tight grip of metal cuffs on my wrists. With the quick pummel of a judge's gavel, I was sentenced to twelve months in juvie and served three of them, where I fought off the unwelcome advances of a three-hundred-pound bear of a kid named Nard who was supposedly sixteen but looked more like thirty-five. That was the end for me. I swore I’d never go back to that kind of life.

  At least two from my crew were in prison right now. I wondered if I’d be joining them soon.

  I pulled onto the road and continued on my journey.

  Next stop, Austin. I had no identification, no money, and my name and face would likely be plastered everywhere within hours. I needed a friend. Quick. Someone who had the power to really help.

  I needed to see Ted Bowerson.

  EIGHT

  Saturday, 7:28 a.m.

  Austin, Texas

  2 days, 16 hours, 32 minutes to Election Day

  I’d only met Ted twice. Once in DC when my old roommate, Josh, and I were invited to some fancy political shindig at a popular DC nightspot. And then again two weeks ago, when I sat down with Rick in the Austin office of Bridges Over America to get my marching orders. Ted seemed like a decent guy. About forty, short brown hair beginning to gray, thin build of a marathon runner. He spoke with his hands, moved constantly, pacing like he downed a case of Red Bull every morning. He was a powerful man with powerful connections. I’d done enough research on Bridges Over America to know that. Ted had been involved in politics his entire career. He was on the senior staff of several prominent U.S. Senators, had success as a lobbyist, and now made a very nice life for himself bouncing back and forth between DC and Austin.

  Bridges Over America had a small but exquisite office suite with about ten staff on the fourth floor of One Congress Plaza in the heart of downtown Austin, a block north from the Colorado River and ten blocks south of the pink granite splendor of the Texas State Capitol Building. Most employees parked in a garage right next door and took an underground tunnel into the main lobby. I did the same when visiting the office two weeks ago.

  Once I was in the main lobby, right inside the tunnel from the garage, I stopped behind a planter. It was seven-thirty. I’d left the Camry on the fifth level of the garage. I needed to keep swapping out vehicles, just to be safe. I also needed a shower and some new clothes in the worst way. But I’d managed to clean myself up again in a truck stop restroom on the way to Austin. My hair was now dyed dark black, and I chopped off the waves, which was painful. Girls loved the waves. But there were no girls in prison. My hair was really short now. I hadn’t worn it this short in over ten years. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

  I still had on the tan hunting jacket. It was buttoned up near the neck, covering my blood-soaked flannel shirt. I had to get out of this shirt already. That was next up on my to-do list.

  I hung around by the planter, out of view, head tucked low. I wondered how many of these men and women who were working this Saturday morning had watched the national morning news, how many had seen my face on their TVs while they ate breakfast or worked out at the gym. I wondered how many of my friends and classmates and professors had seen the news. What were they thinking? Had Sam Callahan lost his mind? I wondered if my mom had watched the news. I really needed to call her and tell her the truth. Make sure she was okay and knew that I was safe. However, everything on my to-do list kept getting pushed down by priority number one: Stay alive.

  At two minutes to eight, I spotted Ted Bowerson. He looked all business, as usual, wearing a sharp, pin-striped, dark blue business suit, red tie flapping, very patriotic. He was clutching a black briefcase, hustling from the walkway toward an elevator up to his office. I knew he’d be at work on Saturday, just three days before Election Day. I stepped into the flow of traffic, sidled up right beside him, within earshot.

  “Ted,” I said, as close to him as possible.

  He turned, slowed, as if he didn’t know me. Then it seemed to register. He stopped, turned fully toward me. His eyes flashed for a second. “Sam? What are you doing here?”

  His tone told me he was not startled to see me. He was frightened to see me. He must have gotten the news about Rick. I had to diffuse this quickly.

  “I didn’t do it, Ted. I swear. I’m not a drug dealer. I was set up. I need your help.”

  Ted was head of an organization trained to track and read people. He studied me for only a moment before grabbing me by the elbow.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  NINE


  Saturday, 7:42 a.m.

  Austin, Texas

  2 days, 16 hours, 18 minutes to Election Day

  We huddled over coffee in the back corner of a diner nearby.

  “What happened?” Ted asked me. He hadn’t touched his coffee. “This morning I check my voicemail first thing and there’s an urgent message from Rick. He says he’s sitting in a motel room with you. To call him immediately on your phone. That you guys have got something big to share with me. Then I turn on the TV to news that Rick is dead, and they are saying that you are the main suspect. They found drugs in your motel room. And now you show up with this new look, and you smell like death.”

  Death felt like the right word. I took a swig of hot coffee, considered where to start. There was no use cloaking any of this in mystery. Someone needed to know the whole truth, every detail. As I said, I needed help. So I started at the very beginning with the anonymous text and laid out the whole nightmare that followed. Recounting the whole thing out loud in vivid detail made it seem even more surreal. It had been one hell of a night. But I couldn’t get a good read on Ted. He was just sitting there, watching me.

  “You get a good look at the guy who tried to kill you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I caught a glance.”

  “It wasn’t one of McCallister’s security guys?”

  I shook my head. “No, I know all those guys. He wasn’t one of them. Unless he was brand new to the team. Like added that day.”

  Ted was drumming his fingers on the tabletop. I could practically see his mind processing the information. “No texts since then?”

  “Nothing. I searched for the phone number and found nothing. I think it was one of those cheap temporary cell phones you can buy anywhere.”

  “New York City?”

  I shrugged. “Was a 212 area code.”

  “And no idea who the woman was?”

  I shook my head again. “But she definitely had McCallister’s attention.”

  “Do you think he knew her?”

  “Maybe. I mean, they certainly seemed to be comfortable with each other. Look, I’m not sure who sent me the text. But it seems pretty clear to me that once I got there and saw what I saw, someone from McCallister’s team wanted to make sure I didn’t share it.”

  Ted continued to tap the tabletop with his fingers. He couldn’t stop moving for two seconds. He was making me nervous. I also found it odd that there was no talk about Rick, about informing his family, about the fact that the man who had worked with Ted for almost five years was dead. These political guys were callous. Ted couldn’t take one minute to mourn the death of a friend?

  “Have you talked to anyone else, Sam? Who else knows about this?”

  “No one.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, of course I’m certain. I talked to Rick, he’s dead. Now you.”

  This didn’t seem to faze him.

  “We need to somehow find where Rick sent that video,” Ted said.

  I took another swig of coffee, thought about where Rick might have uploaded the video. I vividly remembered spotting a small cartoon pig skull and crossbones logo on the screen of his laptop. But there was no name or any other distinctive characters. Even though it was only a split second, I was sure. I was usually able to catch things at a glance and log them away. We used to hold contests at a diner when I was a teenager and put each other to the test. You walk in, sit down in a booth, and you’ve got five seconds to scan the room. Then you’d get peppered with questions. No one could touch me. I could tell you the lipstick color on the waitress behind the counter, the color of Nikes on the man by the checkout, whether the little girl sitting with her mom had green eyes or brown eyes. It was the only way to pull a con clean. To make sure there were no wandering eyes. No loose ends. No off-duty cops out of uniform. No mistakes. I kept the info about the pig server to myself for the moment.

  I felt uncomfortable every time the door jingled and a new customer entered the diner. I watched eyes to see who returned my stares. So far, no one seemed to have any interest in me. I’d already spotted the back door to the kitchen, where I was sure there was a rear door to the diner. I’d already put together a mental map. I could be in the back alley in ten seconds, if necessary. Gone in twenty. But I was tired of running.

  “What do we do?”

  Ted rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I’ll call my lawyer. See what he has to say. You need to hide out for a few hours.”

  “Hide out where?”

  “I’ll go get you a room next door, at the Four Seasons. You can hide out there, get yourself cleaned up, get some rest. Take a shower.” He pulled a thick roll of cash from his pocket, bundled together inside a shiny gold money clip. He quickly counted off about five hundred-dollar bills and slid them across the table. “Just in case you need it. You can charge whatever you want to the room. I’ll put it on my card. But wait for me to come get you. You understand? Just be patient and trust me, Sam.”

  I guess Ted didn’t understand something about me. I trusted no one.

  But a hotel room, a hot shower, and some new clothes sounded perfect right now.

  TEN

  Saturday, 8:53 a.m.

  Austin, Texas

  2 days, 15 hours, 7 minutes to Election Day

  The room was on the third floor of the plush Four Seasons Hotel, with a private walk-out balcony and a view of the river and the running trails. I was grateful for a hot shower in a luxury hotel room with strong electronic bolts and a thick metal bar securing the door. I soaked for probably thirty minutes, letting the scalding water beads punish my skin, trying to wash out every remnant of the night before. But the expensive shampoo could only do so much. The stink of sweat and dirt and blood and tissue were gone, but the vivid images were locked in my memory.

  I found deodorant, toothpaste, and a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. I’d picked up a few clothing items at store nearby. A black T-shirt with Keep Austin Weird printed in white on the front, blue jeans, gray cotton pullover, and a black ball cap with the familiar burnt orange Texas Longhorn logo. The items were laid out neatly on the bed. After shampooing, I examined myself in the mirror. My short hair was now a mix of splotchy colors, all shades of black and brown, as I was no professional stylist. I changed into my new clothes and threw on the ball cap to hide the botched color job.

  I sat at the small desk in my room, picked up the hotel phone, and punched for an outside line. Then I dialed the number from memory. I anxiously waited as the phone rang several times. My mom answered on the fifth ring. I felt a wave of relief. She sounded weak. We now talked a couple of times a day, usually once in the morning and once in the evening. I could always tell how she was feeling right away by the level of strength in her voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom,” I said, almost a whisper, even though I was alone.

  “Samuel? Thank God. Are you okay? What the hell is going on?”

  She must have seen the news. I was hoping that maybe she’d slept in later than usual, that I would catch her before she got worked up about it. I could picture her in her cramped room, staring in bewilderment at the small TV in the corner. Sneaking cigarette puffs, even though it was against the rules, quickly spraying afterward with a deodorizer. Her gray-brown hair pulled up in a tight bun. The quilt her lady friends from the church up the street had given her pulled up snug to her neck. She was always freezing in that place.

  “I’m fine, Mom. I promise. And whatever you saw on TV this morning, it’s not true. You have to believe me.”

  “I do believe you. I knew that man was lying.”

  That man? “Mom, who are you talking about? What man? On TV?”

  “No, the man who came by to see me an hour ago. He said he was with the FBI. He said he needed to find you right away. For your own protection.”

  “Did this man show you identification?”

  “No. I didn’t think to ask for it. Plus, he was handsome. And I never get compan
y around here, so I let him talk. He just wrote down a phone number on my pad. Asked me to call him immediately if I heard from you.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Like I said, really handsome. Like Sean Connery. Probably in his sixties, with a gray beard. He wore a black sport coat, gray slacks, I think. He was really warm and pleasant. And he had the prettiest clear blue eyes. Reminded me of yours.”

  The FBI? I seriously doubted it. Which did not make me feel any better. I’d rather it be the FBI than whoever else was out there hunting me down right now. They had already found my mom. They’d been in the room with her.

  “Listen, I don’t want you talking to this man again. Or anyone. You have to trust me. Do not call that number back and do not talk to anyone else who comes by asking you questions. Not until you hear from me again. Do you understand? I’m serious.”

  “Okay. But what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to be okay. Don’t worry. I just need some time to figure this out. And don’t watch the news. You just need to focus on getting better. Did Dr. Wilson come back with the test results?”

  “Yeah. Last night. They don’t look great. They’re running more tests. I’m not sure any of these doctors know what the hell they are doing.”

  This made my heart sink further. We had desperately hoped the latest treatment would work. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll get through this. I promise.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m tough, you know that. I didn’t survive the last forty years to get taken down by a few bad cells in my body.”