43

            At Anthony’s direction, Lisa exited the highway at Abernathy Road, in Sandy Springs.  She braked for a traffic light at the bottom of the exit ramp.

            “My old stomping grounds,” she said.  “Why are we coming over here?”          

            Before they had married and moved to Grant Park, she had lived in a condo in Sandy Springs.  At least three times a week, he would make the long trek from Decatur to pick her up for dates.  Over time, he’d learned the area well.  Perimeter Mall, a popular metro shopping destination, was in the vicinity, and a large MARTA station was nearby.

            It was the perfect setting for the strategy he had in mind.

            “I want to go to your old condo,” he said.  “We’re going to leave the jeep in the garage.”        

            “Ah, gotcha.  Good idea.”

            When the light turned green, she made a left.  They took an underpass beneath the highway they had exited.  Corporate parks bordered the road on either side, dark, glassy, modernist buildings pointing like stakes toward the swollen sky.

            Farther ahead, corporations gave way to retail: strip malls full of chain businesses and restaurants, all of them still closed.  She turned right, and after a quarter mile or so, Heritage Condominiums rose into view on the left, the community fronted by tall elms and pines.  Entering the parking lot, they rolled down a blacktopped slope toward the entrance for the underground parking garage. 

            The wide door hung open.

            “They still haven’t fixed this door,” she said.  “All that damn money I paid to the homeowner’s association the years I lived here, you’d think they would’ve used some of it to repair the door.” 

            “I was sort of counting on them not having fixed it yet,” he said.  “Nothing as trustworthy as good ole’ bureaucracy.”

            The garage was a cavernous, dimly lighted space, perhaps three-quarters occupied.  Spaces were assigned to residents by numbers painted on each spot.

            She cruised slowly down the aisle.  “Any preference for where I park?”

            “See if you can find a spot in the back.  Why make it easy for them?”

            At the far end of the garage, in the corner, there was a vacant slot between the cinderblock wall and a black Harley motorcycle adorned with orange flames.  She parked, cut off the engine.

            He had already placed his duffel and their suitcase on his lap, and stashed the .45 in his waist-band holster. 

            She grabbed her purse, and they got out of the truck.  The slamming doors echoed through the garage.

            “Now what?” she asked.  “Are we going to steal a car here?”

            He shook his head.  “That might take too long.  I don’t know how much of a lead we have, and I don’t want them to catch us while I’m trying to boost a ride.  First, we need to drop off their radar and put some distance between us.”

            “We’re going to the MARTA station,” she said.

            “Married folks’ telepathy is for real, isn’t it?”  He glanced at his wristwatch; it was twenty minutes to five.  “When do trains start running on Saturday?”

            “They start around five am, every day.  I remember that well.  When I was working at the firm downtown I’d catch the first train every morning.”

            “Then let’s go.  I want to be on that five o’clock.” 

            They hurried to a stairwell in the middle of the garage.  He motioned for her to hang back.  He pushed open the door, hand resting on the butt of the revolver. 

            The stairs were deserted, the only noise the patter of rain.  They ascended the steps to the first level, the courtyard.  An awning sheltered them from the elements.

            “Is there a back door out of here?” he asked.  “I don’t like the idea of walking out through the front gate.”

            “There’s a rear entrance.  Follow me.”

            They threaded past condo units, patios full of plants and furniture, stairwells, and around a large swimming pool, the rippling surface reflecting the sky.  As they prowled through the complex, they saw not a single resident.  It reminded him of being in a war zone, where locals stayed indoors for fear of encountering enemy soldiers.

            At the fence at the back of the courtyard, there was a lever-activated gate.  They went through, and descended steps to asphalt and the rear entryway.  Unlike the front, this vehicle entrance was secured by a white cross arm that lifted whenever a resident swiped a card through the reader.

            He edged in front of Lisa and stepped around the arm.  The adjacent road was draped in tall trees that overhung the pavement and shed droplets of falling rain like tears.  Across the street, woodlands dominated.                 

            “This is mostly a service road for some stores and restaurants around here,” she said.  “If we go left, it’ll take us toward the MARTA station.  It’s only a few blocks away.”

            He checked his watch.  “It’s a quarter to five.  We’d better double-time it.”

            They started off down the road at a jog, keeping close to the curb.  No vehicles passed by.  A streetlamp ahead was the only relief from the darkness.

             “When this is all over, I’m going to sleep for three days,” she said, breathing deeply of the cool air.  “I know I’m tired, but I’ve stopped feeling tired, and that must be bad.”

            “You’ve crossed the threshold,” he said.  “When the crash comes later, it’s gonna hit you hard.”

            “Do you think these people chasing us ever sleep?”

            “They didn’t seem tired at all to me.  My guess is that they do this sort of thing all the time, probably at night, mostly.  Also, they might have a backup team to relieve them.”

            “So the longer this drags on, the better it is for them.  They can wear us down.”

            “In theory,” he said.  “But I don’t plan on slowing down at all until we’ve found the truth.”

            The cover of trees began to thin.  They paused in the shelter of an oak. 

            He surveyed the area.  To the left, several hundred yards away, there was a strip mall with a gigantic parking lot.  Beyond that, the MARTA station stood, a multi-level parking garage attached to the building.

            A few vehicles traveled back and forth through the area, headlamps aglow, but none of them were Suburbans.  There were a handful of vehicles parked around the strip mall, but none of them were the fanatics’ vehicle, either. 

            But that didn’t mean they weren’t conducting surveillance from afar.  What if Cutty had set up his rifle somewhere nearby and was waiting for them to emerge in the open?  He remembered how close the guy had come earlier to nailing him.

            “I don’t like this scene,” he said.  “We’ll be too exposed walking to the station.  This was a mistake on my part.”

            “We don’t have time to go back.  We don’t know how much of a lead we have on them, like you said.  We’ve gotta walk by faith.”     

            He rolled his eyes.  “Come on, Lisa, faith doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

            “You’re wrong—faith has everything to do with it.  Why did you go talk to Bob in the first place?”

            “That was different.”

            “Was it?”

            With that, she started running toward the strip mall.  He caught up with her and tried to grab her arm, but she increased her speed, eluding him.

            “Dammit, Lisa!  Stop!  This is crazy!”

            She ran on, purse knocking against her ribcage.  Slowed by the duffel and suitcase, weighted down by his body armor vest, firearm, and ammo, he struggled to keep up with her.  

            Legs pumping, they sprinted across the parking lot, shoes clapping on the blacktop and sloshing through puddles.  They cut around the strip mall, plowed across a sward of grass, ran under the boughs of a line of trees, and neared the road that fronted the MARTA station.

            Close by, tires squealed.  The Suburban careened around the corner, headlights glaring.

            Lisa had run across the street and reached the revolving doors of the station.  She waited for him.

            “Get inside!” he shouted.   

            Seeing the Suburban drawing near, she pushed through the doors.  Half a block away, the SUV shrieked to a stop.  The passenger door sprang open, and Cutty leapt outside, hand underneath his jacket, undoubtedly caressing a pistol.

            Heart in his throat, Anthony raced up the stairs and shoved through the revolving doors so fast he almost fell down.  When he hit the other side, Lisa beamed at him.

            “We made it,” she said.  “They won’t follow us in here.  We’re safe.” 

            But Anthony was looking over his shoulder.

            “Not over yet,” he said, gasping for air.  “He’s coming in.”