Jamison spoke in the same low tone. “It’s…um, unusual. He just jumped up and walked out of the storage unit. I had to race after him.”
Lancaster let out a rare smile. “Story of my life.”
The women drew apart when Decker dropped the notes on the table.
He looked sharply at Jamison. “The email address you got the story elements and photo from: Mallard2000 was the handle?”
“You know it was. I sent it to you.”
Lancaster said, “The FBI couldn’t trace it back, so I don’t see how it’s helpful.”
“It’s actually very helpful. And I should have seen it before.”
“Seen what before?” asked Jamison.
“That the answer I was looking for wasn’t in tracing it back to the sender. It was right there all along in the name.”
“In the name?” said Lancaster. “What name?”
Decker stood and looked at Jamison. “You have a car?”
She nodded and rose too. “A subcompact with a hundred thousand miles on it and held together with duct tape. But it gets great gas mileage.” She looked him up and down. “It might be kind of tight for you. Where are we going?”
“Chicago.”
“Chicago,” exclaimed Lancaster. “What the hell’s in Chicago?”
“Actually, it’s a suburb of Chicago. And what’s there is everything, Mary.”
“But how do you know where to look in Chicago?”
Decker said impatiently, “He gave me the address, seven-eleven.”
Lancaster shook her head and said incredulously, “Okay, but, Amos, do you know how many 7-Elevens there are in the Chicago metro area?”
“I’m not looking for a convenience store, Mary. I’m looking for the street number seven-eleven.”
Lancaster stared up at him blankly. “Shit, are you telling me it was never a 7-Eleven? It was a street number! But he said—”
“He said the numbers seven and eleven. Which can just as easily be seven-one-one. You just wrote it down the way anyone would have who lives in this country. You just assumed he meant the store chain, when he actually didn’t.”
“But he never corrected me.”
“Did you expect him to draw you a map? This is a game to them. Played by their rules.”
“Okay, you have the number, but that’s pretty useless unless you have a street to go with it.”
“I do have a street. That was in the email address.”
“Mallard two-thousand? But how do you even know it’s in Chicago? How does that city tie in to what happened in Burlington?”
“It doesn’t. It ties in to me.”
“But Amos, what does—”
Lancaster stopped in midsentence, because Decker had already rushed from the room.
“Son of a bitch!” yelled Lancaster.
Jamison shot her an apologetic look. “Story of your life?”
“Just keep me informed, Jamison. And watch him. He’s beyond brilliant, but even brilliant people do stupid things.”
“I will.”
And then Jamison hurried after Decker.
Lancaster slumped back in her chair and looked down at her notes. Then she balled them up and threw them across the room.
“Screw 7-Eleven!”
Chapter
40
AS IT WAS originally configured, the subcompact had not exactly fit Decker since they were roughly the same size. They had finally taken out the front seat and he had wedged himself into the tiny back with his long legs sticking into the front of the car over the hump where the seat had been.
He sat with his eyes closed and his hands resting over his substantial belly. They had stopped by his room and he had packed a canvas bag with some clean clothes. He had learned that Jamison kept a suitcase packed and in the tiny trunk of her car.
“Standard operating procedure for a reporter,” she informed him.
Jamison looked at him anxiously in the rearview mirror as they sped along. “I wish you could make the seat belt reach you back there.”
“Just don’t have an accident,” said Decker, his eyes still closed. “I will make a very large projectile, bigger than your car. You really don’t want to find out the mass times velocity of my ass in flight.”
She looked back at the road. They had been on the interstate for over three hours. They were now in Indiana. They had about another four hours to go.
“I got us rooms on Expedia,” she said. “At a Comfort Inn outside of Chicago. It won’t break my bank account.” She turned to look at him. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“I did tell you. Brockton, Illinois. It’s a suburb twenty miles south of Chicago. Not to be confused with Brocton, Illinois, which is a village in Embarrass Township outside of Champaign with a population of about three hundred.”
“Embarrass Township? Seriously?”
“I didn’t name it.”
“Okay, but you haven’t told me where in Brockton we’re going.”
“To the street address Leopold left for me to find.”
“Seven-one-one what?”
“Mallard two thousand is the street name.”
“There’s not a street with that name in Illinois. I checked.”
“There is a street with that name, but it goes by something else.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was a thinly veiled code, Jamison. Try to figure it out.”
Minutes went by. “Okay, I give. I suck at crosswords.”
“The street is Duckton Avenue.”
“Duckton?”
“Now try to figure it out in reverse. It won’t take you long. I have faith.”
She focused back on the road. “Shit,” she said a few moments later. “A mallard is a duck and two thousand pounds equals a ton. Duckton.”
“Congratulations, you just made junior detective grade.”
“But what is at seven-one-one Duckton Avenue?”
“It’s a place I used to call home.”
She jerked around to look at him, but he was now gazing out the side window.
“Your home?”
“Later, Jamison. For now, just drive. No seat belt, remember?”
She angrily turned back around, popped the accelerator, and smiled appreciatively when she heard his head clunk against the back of the car’s interior from the sudden uptick in speed.
They stopped at a truck diner off the interstate for a bathroom break, a refueling, and a bite to eat.
Jamison ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Corona. Decker had a large pizza and a Coke.
He eyed her food. “Despite the Chinese last night, I had measured you up as a health nut.”
She bit into the burger and let fatty juice roll down her chin