Back in the room, he sent the telephone by the clock a longing stare. He wanted so much to call Anna and let her know he was okay. Even more, he wanted to hear her voice. He shook his head. He’d figured his phone was tapped back at the place he’d had by himself. The CIA wouldn’t have suddenly lost track of him when he moved in with Anna after they married.

The most he could hope for was that they kept on not knowing where he was. If they had the note he’d left, they’d be looking in the wrong area. But if they traced a call, he was toast.

You can’t make any mistakes. Not even one. Calling home is a mistake, he told himself firmly. Calling Tim or Alex or his dad was also a mistake. Professor Krikorian, too. The CIA guys had talked to his advisor before they ever met him.

That left … nobody. He wasn’t an outgoing person, which put it mildly. He didn’t have a whole swarm of friends. Even if he did, the Agency might monitor all of them. Not only could he not make mistakes, he couldn’t take chances.

His back gave a reproachful creak when he got into the Corvair the next morning. The car wasn’t as comfortable as the Rambler—either that or he’d spent too goddamn much time in it lately.

Away he went, heading east and a little north. The country changed. This wasn’t the Southwest anymore; this was the South. It was greener and wetter than he was used to. It wasn’t the jungle paradise of Hawaii, but it wasn’t desert, either. Somewhere near Hot Springs, Arkansas, he tried out the Corvair’s windshield wipers for the first time.

He bought gas in Hot Springs. He bought new wiper blades, too. He’d forgotten to check them when he bought the car from Rodolfo. “These here, they’re shot t’hell an’ gone,” said the attendant who put on the new pair.

“Yeah, I found that out,” Jerry said. The man gave him an odd look, but didn’t ask any questions.

With wipers that actually did something about the rain, Jerry drove on. In Southern California, every rain seemed a separate natural disaster. People didn’t know how to drive in wet weather. They went too fast and they tailgated. Here, they were used to water falling from the sky. They spread out, took their time, and got where they were going.

Jerry made another stop just before crossing from Arkansas to Tennessee. Memphis was where he was going. But he bought an umbrella before he got there. “Bet y’wish you hadn’t left yours at home,” said the fellow who sold it to him.

“Bet you’re right,” Jerry answered. It was still coming down pretty hard.