I manage to say, “You have no idea,” before hustling by her and getting into my Jeep.
CHAPTER 6
I STOP at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. Our house is on a cul-de-sac, meaning there’s only one way in and one way out.
One way out.
Before me is the busy traffic of Kingstowne Boulevard, which eventually leads into the extremely busy traffic of I-95 if you make a left-hand turn. If you were kidnapping a dad and young child from this neighborhood, heading to I-95 would be your best bet. Get buried in traffic, lots of options north and south to make your escape…
Escape where?
Just across the street is a Sunoco service station and minimart.
The light changes.
I hit the accelerator.
Drive across the street and behind the service station.
I take a deep breath, step out.
Inside the service station there’s a coffee setup, a pastry cabinet, and the usual narrow aisles filled with overpriced junk food, from chips to cupcakes—and I shouldn’t be a wiseass, because there have been a number of times when I’ve stopped here with Denise to pick up something to drink or munch on while going on an errand or a school trip.
At the left is a counter with two register stations with piles of cigarettes in shelves on the rear wall, and there are lines of three people each in front of the registers.
Busy day.
I’m wearing my class B service uniform with a short zippered dark-blue jacket, and that has the benefit of not displaying my name tag. Good enough.
But the lines aren’t moving.
Any other time, any other day, I’d be patient.
By God, this sure as hell isn’t any other time or day.
I push my way forward, saying, “Excuse me,” in a low but brisk voice, and I pull out my military ID—making sure my thumb is covering my name—and I come up against a cashier named Sarah, plump with brown hair and a silver nose ring.
I flash my ID at her. “Ma’am, I need to see the manager. Right now.”
“Ah.” Her eyes widen. “That’s Tommy…he’s on break.”
“Then who’s in charge?”
She looks over to another woman, older, with long pink fingernails and bright blond hair. Her name is Tina, and she shrugs and says, “It’s you, hon. You’ve been here longer than me.”
Sarah nods, takes her new responsibility well, puts up a sign saying USE NEXT REGISTER PLEASE with a little arrow pointing to Tina’s station, and leads me around to the side office as the three good Americans in line quietly join the other one.
I don’t waste time. “Sarah, I’m investigating a matter of national security. Can I look at your surveillance camera system, please?”
“Sure,” she says, pointing to a wall that has a bank of six small monitors, with a larger monitor nearby, and a computer and keyboard. The wall is cluttered with tacked-up greeting cards, notices from the Virginia Department of Labor and Industry, and sloppy photocopies of memos from the home office, warning workers about the latest phone scams.
There’s a counter below the keyboard and two chairs, and I take one and Sarah takes the other, and I look at the six monitors and oh my God, yes, yes, yes, monitor number 4 shows the entrance to the Sunoco station, Kingstowne Boulevard, and the very beginning of our street, Jackson Street.
“Sarah, I know you have lots of questions, but I’m sorry, I can’t answer them,” I say. “But I need for you to go back and review the footage for monitor number four.”
She scoots the chair closer, starts working on the keyboard. “How far back do you want to go?”
I check my watch. It’s six p.m. Mrs. Gaetz said the supposed carpet guys were at our house “a few hours ago.” Call it four hours, just to be safe.
“Starting at two p.m.,” I say.
“All right.”
She works with a wireless mouse, and on the large monitor, a menu appears. After a series of clicks, we’re watching the video feed from monitor number 4, and the time stamp is for two p.m.
“Great, Sarah, that’s just great,” I say. “Now…can you fast-forward it for me, please?”
“Sure,” she says, and soon enough, the images of the cars and trucks are moving along—flick flick flick—like a silent film from the 1920s speeded up, and at the 2:46 p.m. mark I see our CR-V turn into Jackson Avenue, and I just nod and think, Okay, Tom’s home, and the flick flick flick goes on until—
A school bus stops, extends the Stop sign from the driver’s side, and when the bus moves away, there are four little shapes racing out of view, one with a pixie blond haircut, wearing a soccer uniform, and I must have gasped or made some sort of noise, because Sarah says, “Oh, do you want me to stop there?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Keep on going.”
And, thank God, I don’t have long to wait.
A red van shows up at the traffic light and I say, “There, right there.”
Sarah works the keyboard again. The view goes into normal time. In the movies you get to see the keyboard operator freeze the film, zoom in so you can see the license plate of the suspect vehicle, and sometimes you can even see the driver’s lips move and decipher what he’s saying.
This little Sunoco station is definitely not Hollywood. On the screen the van makes a left-hand turn onto Jackson Street and I catch some of the letters on the side: ABLE CARPET. It looks like it has Virginia license plates, but the numbers and letters are too fuzzy. I check the time.
Wait.
Per the video feed, the van comes back sixteen minutes later. There are two men in the front. Can’t tell if they’re Caucasian, Asian, African American, or any mixture thereof. I chew on my right thumbnail. My two loved ones are in the rear of this van. I’m positive.
The van makes a left and then disappears. I know the geography. The exit to I-95 is only about five minutes away.
That’s that.
I push the chair back and say, “Sarah, thank you so very much.”
She nods, looking quite serious. “Glad I could help. And I promise, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks,” I say. “One more favor? I need to use a restroom.”
Sarah says, “I’m not supposed to let customers use it…but this is important, right? Follow me.”
Six minutes later, at the rear of the service station, I’ve changed into civilian clothes—blue jeans, black turtleneck, short black leather jacket. I quickly walk to my Wrangler, lots of thoughts and plans bouncing around in my head.
I suddenly remember being with Tom on a warm night in McLean, walking off a fine restaurant meal, and as we went past a corner Walgreens, a man leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, smiled at us both and said something I didn’t understand.
Tom said, “Excuse me,” and walked back to the man, said something. The man said something back and went after Tom, and in a quick movement Tom made a boxing stance, and in one hard punch, the man was on the ground.
Tom later said, “He called you a whore in Farsi. I told him he shouldn’t have said that. You saw what happened.”
“I didn’t know you knew boxing.”