The Burning Wire

a bit. About two hundred yards behind the truck.”
    “We’re almost there,” I said. “Let’s go.”
    I passed the poultry truck quickly and pulled in behind the decoy—a tight fit. It was driven by a man from our organization; the passenger was an FBIagent who resembled Alissa. There’d been some fun in the office when we picked somebody to play the role of me. I have a round head and ears that protrude a fraction of an inch more than I would like. I’ve got wiry red hair and I’m not tall. So in the office they apparently spent an hour or two in an impromptu contest to find the most elf-like officer to impersonate me.
    “Status?” I asked into the phone.
    “He’s changed lanes and is accelerating a little.”
    He wouldn’t like not seeing me, I reflected.
    I heard, “Hold on . . . hold on.”
    I would remember to tell my protégé to mind the unnecessary verbal filler; while the words were scrambled by our phones, the fact there’d been a transmission could be detected. He’d learn the lesson fast and retain it.
    “I’m coming up on the exit. . . . Okay. Here we go.”
    Still doing about sixty, I eased into the exit lane and swung around the curve, which was surrounded by thick trees. The chicken truck was right on my bumper.
    My protégé reported, “Good. Subject didn’t even look your way. He’s got the decoy in sight and the speed’s dropping back to the limit.”
    I paused at the red light where the ramp fed into Route 18, then turned right. The poultry truck turned left.
    “Subject is continuing on the route,” came my protégé’s voice. “Seems to be working fine.” His voice was cool. I’m pretty detached about this business but he does me one better. He rarely smiles, never jokes and in truth I don’t know much about him, though we’ve worked together, often closely, for several years. I’d like to change that about him—his somberness—notfor the sake of the job, since he really is very, very good, but simply because I wish he took more pleasure in what we do. The endeavor of keeping people safe can be satisfying, even joyous. Especially when it comes to protecting families, which we do with some frequency.
    I told him to keep me updated and we disconnected.
    “So,” Alissa asked, “we’re safe?”
    “We’re safe,” I told her, hiking the speed up to fifty in a forty-five zone. In fifteen minutes we were meandering along a route that would take us to the outskirts of Raleigh, where we’d meet the prosecutor for the depositions.
    The sky was overcast and the scenery was probably what it had been for dozens of years: bungalow farmhouses, shacks, trailers and motor vehicles in terminal condition but still functioning if the nursing and luck were right. A gas station offering a brand I’d never heard of. Dogs toothing at fleas lazily. Women in stressed jeans, overseeing their broods. Men with beer-lean faces and expanding guts, sitting on porches, waiting for nothing. Most likely wondering at our car—containing the sort of people you don’t see much in this neighborhood: a man in a white shirt, dark suit and tie and a woman with a business blond haircut.
    Then we were past the residences and on a road bisecting more fields. I noted the cotton plants, shedding their growth like popcorn, and I thought of how this same land 170 years ago would have been carpeted with an identical crop; the Civil War, and the people for whom it was fought, were never far from one’s mind when you were in the South.
    My phone rang and I answered.
    My protégé’s voice was urgent. “Abe.”
    My shoulders tensed. “Has he turned off the highway?” I wasn’t too concerned; we’d exited over a half hour ago. The hitter would be forty miles away by now.
    “No, still following the decoy. But something just happened. He made a call on his mobile. When he disconnected, it was odd: He was wiping his face. I moved up two car lengths. It looked like he’d been crying.”
    My breath came quickly as I considered possible reasons for this. One credible, disturbing scenario rose to the top: What if the hitter had suspected we’d try a decoy and had used one of his own? He’d forced somebody who resembled him—just like the elfin man in our decoy car—to follow us. The call my protégé had just witnessed might have been between the driver and the real perp, who was perhaps holding the man’s wife or child hostage.
    But this, then, meant that the real hitter could be somewhere