Chapter 16: Family

Dixie Wexler.

Sandra Fleming let Dr. Lindsey Conners read the forensic psychologist’s analysis. Dr. Deborah Norton. And Lindsey also read transcripts of the extensive interviews that various agents had conducted. Tried to conduct; Wexler wasn’t a model of cooperation.

Later, Lindsey told me, “The consensus is that Wexler is actually a rather brilliant man. Masks it well — those bar fights, groping women. Hiding his talent behind meaningless bluster. But he is clinically unable to empathize with another person. He just wasn’t born with the equipment to feel what others feel.”

“He was awfully calm, detached, when he had me.”

“Yeah, just doing his job. Not a thrill to him, he wouldn’t have been getting any kicks. Just another day in the life.”

Then Matt Striker checked in with me. He’d been running his own investigation of Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler for Senator Wainwright. At Constance Grayson’s direction. They were interested in any possible connections to the Meriwethers.

Matt told me, “There’s more to Wexler than I realized. And there is a Meriwether connection.”

“Oh? I mean, I know they used him for intimidation. Wexler and others like him, that’s the impression I got.”

“Yeah, that part’s true. But what Sarah Meriwether didn’t tell you ... Wexler was the Meriwether’s roving ambassador to white supremacists all over the country. He kept the major factions up to date, enthused. He was also the funding conduit from the Meriwethers.”

Fuck. “I should have listened better to that Yellowstone sergeant. What’s her name? Cathy Riggins. She told me Wexler was gone for long stretches — weeks, sometimes. She speculated that he was getting resupplied. Drugs.”

Matt said, “That could well be right. Drugs are often a primary moneymaker for some of the supremacist groups. Or the supply could come from hangers-on, camp-followers. But Wexler’s main mission was spreading the Meriwether gospel of hate. And the cash to back it up.”

“I thought drugs were a bigger deal.”

“Not for the true believers. The take-back America crowd. But drugs are everywhere so Wexler must have picked them up somewhere on his travels.”

“Butler Brothers Security never cared about his Billings schedule. His absences. He was really working for the Meriwethers.”

“Yeah, but he looked out for himself. First and foremost.” Matt paused, ‘I guess that’s true for most of us.”

I laughed, “I know what you’re on the lookout for.” Hung up. Last-Word Jennings, that’s me.

A DC call from Senator Harper Wainwright to Ash Collins shifted the landscape in Kansas City. Ash passed along the request to Sandra Fleming, “Constance Grayson wants to interview Wexler. See if she can ferret out any Meriwether details.”

“Who is Constance Grayson?”

“Chief of staff to a senator with clout. Harper Wainwright.”

“Oh. Of course. I’ll clear the way. Is he Appropriations?”

“No, but he has reach. Keep her happy.”

“Will do.”

I volunteered to chauffeur the visitors. And not just because a certain fella was traveling with Constance. Matt had told me enough that I had been impressed with the chief of staff before I even met her. And that one DC meeting in the Capitol Building had more than confirmed those feelings.

I had the boys at Mac’s Garage wash, clean, wax, vacuum, my new, newish, red F-150. Restrained them from hanging a pine-scent air freshener from the rear-view. I’d already said no-thanks to a large pair of fuzzy dice and someone’s bronzed baby shoes that had been left behind by a previous customer. Probably a few decades ago.

They topped up the tank, double-checked the oil, squirted some air in where it was needed, and I headed for the airport.

When it was constructed, back in the Dark Ages, KCI, or MCI, whatever the fuck it’s called, consisted of three brand-new terminals. With dedicated parking convenient for each of the three. Only problem ... the airport seems about 200 miles north of the city. Maybe 300.

Kansas City voters recently passed a referendum — tear down all three ugly terminals. One of them is vacant anyway. Build something new, anything new. I voted in favor for one simple reason — there isn’t a decent restaurant anywhere in the complex.

Matt Striker was easy to spot — tall and distinctive looking. Plus, he and Constance were the first passengers off that United flight. Clout has its ... um, clout.

He was carrying both of their cases; they were traveling light. They’d be in KC for two nights, but only one day — tomorrow. He gave me a brief hug and a light cheek buss. I can also be as restrained as need be. Fit right into the proper social circumstances. Circumspect, that’s me. Refined.

I shook hands with Constance, nodded at my guy, “He thinks he thinks he’s getting lucky tonight.”

Constance smiled, “À chacun son goût.”

Matt was looking off in a middle distance.

Ash Collins told Sandra Fleming who filled Daddy in. He said, “This Wexler is ... deeper than any of us realized.”

“How so? I mean Matt told me about shilling for the Meriwethers. To those fringe groups. Anti-government extremists.”

“Yeah. But apparently there’s another layer to the guy. The FBI doesn’t have it nailed down, but ever since his arrest there have been too many Wexler rumors to ignore. Underground rumors.”

“Oh?’

“Remember a couple of years ago — all that chatter about the Silent Magellan?”

“Yeah, vaguely. The quiet assassin who popped up here and there. Did a high-level wet job and disappeared. No one knew who he was.” I frowned, “Fuck, don’t tell me the SM is Wexler.”

Daddy sighed, “Like I said, it’s all talk right now. But word has been quietly circulating — the Silent Magellan is no longer open for business.”

“Fuck.”

“Whether it’s Wexler or not ... well whoever this SM guy was, he was known only to the top echelon. You couldn’t contact him to rub out a bookie.”

“Fuck.”

Nature Boy’s white sneakers gleamed as brightly as a pimp’s new kicks. Red anklets this evening. He half-bowed, “Ms. Grayson, an honor.”

If you work in DC, if you toil in the local industry, if you’ve waged and won internecine battles, a nude elevator operator doesn’t make you blink. Constance smiled, held out her hand, “A pleasure.”

He looked at me, “Floor, please, Ms. Winter.”

“Three, thank you, Boy.”

Constance, Matt, and I were greeted by our two sentries, Hobo and the Proper Villain. Constance, wearing a dark blue Ralph Lauren number, sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor and lifted the Proper Villain onto her lap. Reached out and presented the back of her fist for Hobo to investigate.

Walker and Pilar were instantly won over. So was Vanessa. Matt smiled and gave me a ‘see what I mean?’ look. I gave him: ‘yeah.’

I let Matt do the introductions — I’m integrating him into our family functions. The night before I had asked Vanessa, “Is Walker really cool with Matt? Matt and me?”

“Almost, almost. We’ll get him there, gentle him home.”

At dinner, Constance easily carried the conversation — making Vanessa, then Pilar, then Walker, feel like the center of the universe. She smiled at my son, “The Proper Villain is also the name of a dog in a Ross Thomas mystery.”

I said, “He’s one of my favorite writers!”

“Yep. The Smithsonian called him America’s storyteller.”

Constance apologized to the rest of us, then spoke to Pilar in what sounded to me like flawless Spanish. They discussed Colombia — Constance had actually been to Pilar’s hometown, Hondo. Pilar grew more and more animated as the conversation covered familiar and much-missed territory. Then Walker started chiming in — all those Spanish lessons from Pilar paying off. Good boy, my boy.

Later, over California brandy, Constance smiled at Vanessa, “Matt told me about you. He’s right, you’d fit right in — New York and Los Angeles.”

Even when you know you’re being flattered ... well, it feels good.

I studied Constance. So poised, so confident, so comfortable with herself. Sullivan & Sullivan Research, well Jessie Sullivan, had told me, “She had a kind of old-fashioned background. Went to Katherine Gibbs — the Boston campus — before it closed. Moved to the Barbizon Hotel for Women. Well, it was called something else by then.”

I knew about the Barbizon from my John Jay days. Back in the day, it was a legendary launch pad for women moving to Manhattan for the first time. It was touted as a ‘safe retreat’.

I consulted my mental Rolodex of famous Barbizon residents. For a change, I could recall some of them. Grace Kelly. Sylvia Plath. Lauren Bacall and Joan Didion. There were dozens of others. Myself, I grew up and lived in Kansas City. Otherwise ... fuck.

Back at the Raphael, Matt escorted Constance up to her room. At the elevator, I told her, “I’ll be in the lobby at 8.”

Matt came back down and met me down in the bar, Chaz. We had just one drink. Rumor had it there might be some upstairs activity on offer. I showed Matt my purse, “Damn, forgot my BlingSting.”

He mock-frowned, nodded at my purse, “Well, I’ll just have to make do with those bracelets.”

Sandra Fleming was waiting for Constance with a condensed and precisely annotated file on Melvin ‘Dixie’ Walker. She said, “I’m next door. You have him for as long as you want.”

“Thank you so much, Sandra. DC is not unaware of you.” Big smile, “Positively aware, I should have said.”

Constance turned to Matt, “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

That night Constance was taking my family and me out to dinner. At The Oliver. A fairly new joint on the Plaza, already one of my favorites. Of course she would know what’s in, what’s good.

I head-bumped Matt’s arm, “Is he invited?”

“Depends. We’ll take a vote.”

The Wexler session will be videoed; I’d catch up on it in my leisure. My non-Matt time. In the meantime, back to the Rafael where Matt had already ordered linen-refreshment.

The FBI — local and national — started piecing together what had happened with Dixie Wexler while the junior senator from Wyoming was rushing to Kansas City. Harper Wainwright had departed out of Andrews on an Air Force jet, courtesy of the DoD.

The official analysis began with the footage from Constance Grayson’s interview with Wexler. Or, what was intended to be an interview. I’ve watched it a dozen times. More.

Constance entered the secure interrogation room, stopped short. “Where’s Wexler?”

An off-camera voice, intercom, “He got sick on the way up here, threw up in the corridor, Ms. Grayson.”

She turned to leave, saying, “Call me when he’s ready.” Just then, two guards, hands on Wexler’s arms, came in through the rear door that leads to the prison section. Wexler looked limp, almost asleep. What happened next was a blur.

Wexler, wrists cuffed in front, leg irons about two feet apart on his ankles, suddenly wrenched free and flung himself across the table at Constance Grayson. The video shows her reacting immediately — leaping back and lunging toward the other door. Too late.

Wexler got to her, his cuffs snaking around her neck. He was choking her with the steel links. The two escort guards had their pistols drawn and aimed in an instant. Constance was subdued in moments, powerless; Wexler eased the pressure.

I’ll always remember the calm look on both Grayson and Wexler’s faces. Wexler looked like he had when I was in his custody. Another day in the life. His lopsided, misshapen face showed no emotion. Grayson was obviously evaluating, thinking, planning.

A building-wide alarm was klaxoning. The entire FBI complex was in immediate lockdown; the entrances covered by armed teams inside and out.

Grayson looked up at the camera, mouthed, “Harper.”

I’d been wrong; all of us had. Wexler had used a good portion of his $100,000 to fund an escape. Or, an escape attempt. As we would learn later, $35,000 went to his Public Defender, Justin Harding. Who had made a series of clandestine calls on a throwaway cell.

His journey from defender to defendant would be swift. And unpleasant.

Harding was caught trying to enter Canada around noon on the following Saturday. He was driving a white Miata convertible, top up. They nabbed him in the one lane that’s set aside for cars at the Blaine / Surry crossing in Washington state. He had over $175,000 in cash hidden in his laundry. Stuffed inside a scruffy army duffle bag.

Every one of his pre-Wexler case files was now under a magnifying glass. All of that cash hadn’t come from a savings account. Not on his Public Defender’s salary. It would turn out that a select few of his purportedly indigent clients had merely cried poverty. Harding had developed an underground reputation in certain circles. In twenty-some years, three in-the-know wise guys maneuvered to have him defend them. Wexler was the fourth.

Here in Kansas City, there was no way Wexler could get out of that interview room. Let alone the building. Streets were barricaded for three blocks around 1300 Summit. Two KCPD helicopters were in the air. Television and traffic copters were quickly moved out of the immediate airspace to establish a twelve-mile perimeter.

Both airports — public and private — were shut down. The Feds simply didn’t know who else — perhaps one of those Neo-Nazi cadres — was involved with Wexler. After the Charlottesville riot, they weren’t taking any chances. Unsaid ... a United States senator was flying into the middle of this mess. His Air Force jet would be priority-landed at the now-private airport just north of downtown. Minutes from the FBI office.

A total media blackout. The press knew something major was going on at the local FBI headquarters. But not a word about Wexler, not a whisper, was leaking out. And that wasn’t much of a surprise. Wexler had never been in the local spotlight. Bulldog Bannerman had tugged a few strings to keep me out of the coverage.

The still-running FBI video showed Wexler now seated in the metal chair that had been intended for Grayson. She was forced to sit on his lap, her head stretched back by the links on the cuffs. Ugly red welts were on her neck. Wexler turned to look up at the camera, calm, quiet demeanor. “Let’s talk about her.” Constance Grayson.

The two guards, their pistols unwavering, aimed just to the side of Wexler. Neither guard was foolish enough to fire, foolish enough to endanger the hostage even more. Their careers were almost certainly over; to their credit, they performed professionally from the moment that Wexler sprang out of their grasp.

The two men glanced at each other; they briefly considered putting their firearms aside and simply rushing Wexler. But each knew that could risk Grayson’s neck. Literally.

A quiet, steady, voice, a little tinny, came over the intercom, “Wexler, let her go. Let Ms. Grayson go.” Sandra Fleming. Could be the twilight of her career too, depending on how this played out.

Ash Collins was also on his way to Kansas City now, private FBI jet. Reserved for the top echelon. And emergencies. This fucked-up mess qualified both ways. Ash would be the sole DC presence; he owned it so far as the FBI headquarters was concerned.

Wexler glanced up at the camera, “I will let her go. That’s my plan. But only when I walk out of here. Otherwise...” He lifted his eyebrows, no need to spell out the threat.

“You know you’ll never leave our custody.”

Wexler shrugged, “Your call.”

One guard inched his way around the table. His back was now to the lone camera. He had a possible profile shot that might not hit Grayson. Wexler watched, unmoved. He seemed almost disinterested. He’d played his hole card; now he was just waiting to see what the rest of the table would do.

There were no more communications with Wexler for a little over seven minutes. The room seemed frozen in time. Fleming was on a three-way conference call with Ash and Senator Wainwright. From what Daddy and I could piece together later, the senator was blunt, “Keep Constance alive. No matter what it takes.”

The US position on terrorists is clear — no negotiating. And Wexler was now considered a domestic terrorist.

But in a way, he’d become a common blackmailer too. Constance Grayson was the bargaining chip. Wexler’s release was the ransom payment. All of it, in the final analysis, depended on Senator Harper Wainwright. It was his call, and his alone.

The senator arrived at 1:33 that Wednesday afternoon. Ash Collins was 18 minutes behind him. Both men had traveled alone — no aides, no seconds, no backup. No bulging briefcases, no notes.

Their four-minute, closed-door meeting with Sandra Fleming wasn’t part of any video record. Nor audio. There was no written account of what was said. Of what the senator decreed; nor what Ash and Fleming agreed to.

The next significant moments were captured on that interrogation room video which ran continuously — with one brief exception — and was saved, duped, and eventually distributed. For posterity, for future training, for blame assessment.

Ash, over the intercom, said, “Rowan. Stravinsky.” The two guards looked up at the camera. “This is Ash Collins. I’m in charge now. Engage your safeties. Re-holster your pistols. Take your time, do it right. Be careful.”

Not looking at all happy, they complied. Then left through that rear door when Ash told them to. Left to a bleak future.

Ash spoke again, “Wexler, I’m coming in.”

“Whatever.”

Wexler’s ugly face was still ugly. Still deformed from Vanessa’s strike. But his voice was different now. That country, nasal twang had disappeared. He sounded more ... cultured. Educated. Civilized. It was an eerie sensation. Like someone else inhabited his body. His body language was almost serene; he seemed so relaxed in that blue prison jumpsuit.

I found Ash’s composure to be remarkable too. Tall, black, calm, he strode in and stopped in front of Constance Grayson. “Okay?” She nodded, not much room to move her head.

Ash quickly unlocked Wexler’s handcuffs, then the leg irons. “Let her go.”

Wexler put his thick, gnarled hands around Grayson’s neck and seemed intrigued by the idea. Thought about it. “She’s my leverage.” He flexed his knobby fingers one time and Grayson choked out a cough.

Ash said, “Take me. The FBI cares more about one of their own than some Senator’s secretary.”

Probably true even though Grayson is hardly a secretary. But what mattered in that room, in that instant, was what Senator Harper Wainwright wanted to have happen. The FBI was now a sidebar. All Dixie Wexler decisions would be made by the junior senator from Wyoming. And by Wexler himself, of course.

It was like time had slowed down. The three of them — Ash Collins, Constance Grayson, Dixie Wexler — were in some surreal tableau. A slow-motion vignette. Wexler kept both of those strong rodeo hands around Grayson’s neck.

I caught my breath as Ash held out, butt-first, a Glock 17L. Just like the one Wexler had carried when he’d taken me. Wexler put out his left hand, palm up, and accepted the pistol. He glanced at it, hefted it.

“It’s light.”

“One bullet only. That’s all you get.”

“It could be inert powder. Or maybe the firing pin has been shortened. Bring one of the guards back.”

Ash didn’t hesitate. “Stravinsky, bring me your pistol.”

Wexler watched calmly as Ash emptied the replacement gun, slid one bullet back in. “There, no tricks.” He handed the remaining bullets to the guard. Who left as quietly as he’d come in.

Wexler, hefting the new Glock, assessed his situation calmly. Thought it through. He looked at Ash, “Talk to me.”

“You have options now.”

Wexler tightened his one-handed grip on Grayson’s neck.

Ash said, “You can kill me.”

Wexler shrugged.

Ash nodded at Grayson, “You can kill her.”

Wexler continued gazing at the FBI agent with calm eyes.

Ash said, “Or you can let the secretary go and walk out of this room, this building, with a gun on my spine.”

Wexler gave a thin, mirthless smile and said, “Secretary.” Shook his head, “The Ten People You Don’t Know.”

Ash frowned.

I learned later that Wexler was quoting half of a headline from the current edition of a DC magazine, Washington Monthly. The entire headline — “The Ten People You Don’t Know. Who Happen To Run This Town.”

The next day, after this phase of the Wexler standoff had played out, Matt explained the significance of that particular article. It profiled the most influential, behind-the-scenes players in DC.

It was a checklist, a visceral verification, of the very swamp people the Meriwethers and RightWorld despised the most. Wanted to be rid of. And Wexler, a much more complex man than any of us had realized, was highly aware of those ten individuals. Of Constance Grayson. Of her value.

Ash said, “So what? That won’t get you out of here. Let her go. Take me. Walk out. That’s the only way you’re leaving this room alive. Unless you surrender.”

Wexler gazed at the FBI executive evenly.

Ash said, “The safety is off.” Translation: you can kill either one of us, Constance Grayson or me, now.

Wexler looked up at the lone camera, “Just for the record, Senator Wainwright.” He paused, gave another one of his small, mirthless smiles, “I know about the Whittaker Fund.”

The video went blank four seconds later. It resumed two minutes, thirty-seven seconds after that. Wexler still had that strong right hand around Grayson’s neck. The Glock was still in his other hand.

He said, “I’m ready.”

Moving swiftly, efficiently, Wexler let go of Grayson, transferred the Glock to his right hand and aimed the barrel at Ash’s chest. Wexler moved surely, carefully.

Grayson stood, loosening her shoulders, craning her neck, rubbing at the soreness in her throat. She looked steadily at Ash, over to Wexler, back to Ash. She patted his arm and left the interrogation room, stepping carefully over the discarded leg irons.

Still on video, Ash told Wexler, “Everyone is standing down. You have me. There’s a car waiting outside. I’ll drive you wherever you want.”

Wexler started to say something, didn’t. He knew, everyone who watched television would know, that the car would have a tracer, that it would be followed by satellite surveillance; that drones and helicopters would be tracking his every move. FBI agents in cars would be trailing him.

He nodded to himself. Stood and moved behind Ash, “Let’s roll.”

Wexler and Ash Collins walked through brightly lit hallway corridors, down a flight of stairs to a side door. Wexler had that Glock positioned against Ash’s back almost casually. Agents frowning, arms crossed, silently watched the two-man procession. Feeling frustrated. Helpless. Furious.

I had to stay in the conference room. I was the one person Wexler might be willing to die for. If he shot me, he’d have fulfilled his contract with Greta Gunther. He’d die with his honor, his manhood, intact. Or maybe I wasn’t worth it. But I wasn’t about to find out. Not that day, not that way.

The responsibility needle had swung back to Sandra Fleming. Now that Constance Grayson was free, the entire Wexler mess had shifted from a strategic problem to a tactical operation. It was Fleming’s call whether to let Wexler leave the building. He could be shot, killed in a second.

But no one could predict what would happen to Ash. And Fleming wasn’t about to risk the legendary agent. Who had mentored her, shielded her from faceless bureaucrats, given her full credit for Oscar Norville’s capture.

Ever since Wexler had been handed that Glock, he’d instantly acquired some degree of de facto control over the tenuous situation. The first outside thing he did was demand a different car. An agent brought another black Impala around. Ash settled in behind the wheel; Wexler was the only passenger. They both fastened their seatbelts. Both noted the gas tank was full.

The footage from a series of revolving drones was intermittently better than the copter coverage.

Matt and I, Daddy, Senator Wainwright and Constance Grayson, watched avidly that Wednesday afternoon and into the night. Sandra Fleming and her team, hushed and morose, scribbled notes, made quiet calls, sat slumped.

Wexler first directed Ash to drive a short distance — under a mile — toward the Missouri River. Then across the Broadway Bridge to North Kanas City. Our private airport — the Charles B. Wheeler Downtown Airport — is just to the west. It was where both Senator Wainwright and Ash Collins had landed. But Ash drove past it, still heading north.

We all stared at the live feeds from various drones and the two helicopters that had to take turns refueling every couple of hours. Intermittent still shots from rotating satellites didn’t add much. All of us were focused on that black Impala. Then Senator Wainwright left the conference room to take a call. Pulled Fleming aside. She nodded and told everyone, “Creech has their drone in place, they’re routing us in.”

The video feed immediately improved and steadied; in all, we would watch for almost seven hours. It was boring and mesmerizing at the same time. Like the OJ car chase that wasn’t a chase.

As the ambient daylight changed, as shadows impinged, the live feed shifted from clarity to dimness, focused to bleary. An eerie night-vision green glow. Always on that one car — Ash driving, Wexler with that Glock.

Once again the decision, now that Grayson was out of danger, was whether to take Wexler down and risk Ash’s life. The Wexler part would have been relatively easy — a strategic roadblock then a mass assault on the car. Or spike strips could be deployed to blow out all four tires. Or Creech could have simply ended it all with the first-ever domestic drone strike.

But while Ash Collins didn’t carry the political value of Senator Wainwright’s chief of staff, he was a prominent and visible presence at the J. Edgar building. Besides, no one wanted to lose a fellow agent. Not even a rookie agent, let alone someone with Ash’s track record.

The final decision would come, should come, from DC. From the top floor of the J. Edgar building. Sandra Fleming was nominally in charge of the operational details for now, but any ‘attack’ order would emanate from someone far above her level on the executive ladder. In fact, with the exception of the New York City office, no SAC could have made a call that would further endanger an Ash Collins.

Local and state police along the route were not notified. The feds didn’t want interference, didn’t want jurisdictional disputes, didn’t want media leaks.

In all of the flurry, the excitement, the worry, no one had thought to track Ash’s cell — Wexler used it three times. Under a minute per call. The next day Verizon traced it to a twice-convicted parolee in a white supremacist compound outside of Bemidji, Minnesota. About 200 miles north of Minneapolis.

The 28-year old felon, Roger ‘Hoppy’ Cransdale, had disappeared. Killed by Wexler? Hidden by racist networks? Living in some luxury exile? It looked like we would never find out. Until we did. After it didn’t make much difference.

Ash and Wexler hit the interstate — I-35 North — and were heading toward Iowa when it turned dark, a little after six in the evening. Sandra Fleming said, “I don’t like this.” Nor did anyone else in that FBI conference room.

Fleming, mumbling to herself, second-guessed each tactical decision she made. It was that type of uncertain operation — everything she chose to do could be wrong, could go wrong. When something is this fucked up from the jump ... well, it’s tough to play catch-up, to course-correct on the fly.

The Impala crossed into Iowa, moving at a steady clip. Just over the speed limit — 70 mph — a little slower than most of the cars around them. This freeway runs north, passes on the west side of Des Moines, jogs east on top of the metro area, then heads north again.

Daddy spoke to the room, “That Impala have the Police Interceptor suspension?”

One of the Pittsburgh agents, Red Maplethorpe, said, “Yeah. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing specific. Just wondering about what Ash’s options are.”

Better to know than not.

Ash pulled the car into a crowded Mobil station where I-35 intersects I-80. Both men sat in the car for two minutes, twenty-four seconds. Then Ash opened the driver’s door and got out, leaving it open. He walked around the back of the car and, using an FBI Visa card, filled the tank. He was on the passenger side, Wexler watching from his own open door.

Red Maplethorpe said, “Ash won’t do anything. Won’t run away.” It looked as if he could possibly escape — Wexler would be risking his one bullet on a running target. Fleming said, “Not Ash, he won’t rabbit.”

One of her agents said, “And Wexler could grab another hostage.”

Daddy asked, “What’s the MPG on that Impala?”

Matt, looking at his cell, said, “Highways ... easily 20 miles. With an 18-gallon tank that’s a range of...”

One of Fleming’s guys said, “360 miles. Des Moines is about 200 from here.”