42

            Cutty stood alone in the garage in which, only a short while ago, Thorne had parked the jeep.  Beyond the open door, the storm punished the night, as if God were venting his displeasure at Cutty’s repeated failures to eliminate the man.

            He’d come so close to nailing Thorne that it could only be Satan keeping him out of harm’s way.  Overhearing on his radio that Thorne was in the house with Valdez after Thorne had miraculously evaded him outdoors, Cutty had rushed inside and gotten a crack at him—and Thorne had given him the slip again.

            A perfunctory search of the residence in which they had taken refuge had turned up no clues as to their ultimate destination, other accomplices, or strategy.  Thorne and his Jezebel had left behind no trace of themselves, as if they were not physical beings at all, but only visiting spirits.  They’d proven so elusive that the notion that they were phantoms seemed almost plausible.   

            This had become more than an opportunity for him to curry favor with the Prophet, more than a chance to win Valdez’s hand, more than a shot to earn a promotion in the division. 

            This had become a trial of faith. 

            At such times, weaker men crumbled into a state of despair and cursed God’s name, while the strong called on the Lord for support and offered praise.  

            He lowered himself to his knees on the concrete floor, bowed his head, closed his eyes, and submitted a prayer requesting the deliverance of his enemy into his hands.  He praised God’s goodness and mercy.  He thanked God for the Prophet, the divine mouthpiece, and this opportunity to serve them both.  

            As he prayed, he removed the silver crucifix from around his neck and clasped it in his palm, gripping it so tightly that the metal edge punctured his skin and drew blood. 

            He continued to pray, oblivious to the pain, lost in communion with the spirit.

            When he emerged from his prayer trance and looked up, Valdez had parked the Suburban in front of the driveway.  He straightened, ran outdoors, and climbed in on the passenger side, stowing his rifle in a steel rack on the dashboard.

            Valdez had pulled away her rain-jacket hood.  Drops of water glistened like jewels in her lush hair.   

            “Ready?” she asked. 

            “One thing before we get going,” he said.  He paused, carefully choosing his next words.  “I wanted to ask you: are you okay?”

            She nodded.

            “You sure?” he asked.

            “I am okay.  Si.”  A slight frown crinkled the edges of her features.

            “I was only concerned because of your encounter with Thorne.  Did he uh . . . touch you?”

            Her frown deepened.  “Touch me?”

            “On the radio, I overheard your scuffle.  Did he touch you in any uh . . . inappropriate areas?”

            Crimson flushed her cheeks.  She shook her head angrily.

            “I handle myself, senor Cutty.”

            Once again, he had violated one of those invisible boundaries that separated men from women.    

            “Of course,” he said.  “You’re a servant in our division.  You’re highly capable and trained.  I was only . . . never mind.”   

            Jaw rigid, she turned away, clenching the steering wheel.  “Where to go now?”

            He was grateful for the change in subject.  Besides, it was time to get moving.

            “Gen’s tracking their vehicle,” he said.  “Let’s see where they’re headed.”

            He opened the map on the MDT display.  Currently, Thorne was traveling south on Georgia 400, a highway that extended from the northern reaches of metro Atlanta all the way south to Buckhead, where it merged with Interstate 85. 

            He estimated that Thorne had a ten-minute lead on them. 

            “Get to 400 south,” he said.  Unfamiliar with the neighborhood, he inputted the highway into the navigation system.    

            She roared away from the curb, windshield wipers flinging away the persistent downpour.

            He studied the dot inching down the map.  Where was Thorne going?  Had he learned how they had pinpointed his precise location at the house?  If Thorne was wise to them—and at this late stage, Cutty couldn’t risk underestimating the man any more—he would have figured out that satellite tracking had betrayed him, and would be planning to ditch the vehicle and find alternate transportation.  

            In metro Atlanta, the most popular alternate transportation was MARTA, the metro rail and bus system.  At that early morning hour, taxis could be hailed only within downtown Atlanta, or at the airport.  Or, Thorne could be plotting to steal a car.  

            He entered a command to access a listing of area MARTA stations and shopping malls, a popular place to find parked vehicles to steal.  In a few seconds, he received several results.

            He looked at the map again.

            “I think I know where Thorne is going,” he said.