Relic of Time by Ralph McInerny Page A

might have recognized in Arroyo what he could not recognize in himself—an impractical romantic.
    There was only one passenger in the car that had been on his tail since St. Louis, a dark blue Pontiac with tinted windows, although of course the windshield was clear. Traeger had slowed to make sure that there was only one man besides the driver. The Pontiac slowed, too, ignoring the chance to pass. Traeger sped up. Watch your back, Dortmund had said. Approaching an oasis that arched over the freeway, he turned in at the last moment, not flicking on his turning signal. The Pontiac did the same.
    Inside were fast-food places, restrooms, large windows through which travelers could look down on the road that had carried them here from the west and east. Backpack slung over one shoulder, Traeger went to the men’s room at the far end and, looking for feet beneath the closed stall doors, felt like that senator in the Minneapolis airport. He stepped into a stall next to the one where dropped trousers all but hid the shoes of a man seeking comfort. There was a set of car keys on the floor next to the dropped trousers. Traeger listened for the sound of flushing, then snatched the keys and got out of his stall.
    Out the north door then, he hurried toward the parking lot, punching the door opener on the ignition key he held. Lights began to blink and he headed for them. All he had taken with him was the backpack that held the two computers. He pulled open the door of the car, threw in his backpack, and a minute later was headed down the ramp and barreling eastward. There was no sign of anyone following him now.
    The next oasis was forty miles away but that wasn’t his destination. By the time he got back to his rental car, the driver of the Pontiac should have given up, realizing that he had been flummoxed. Normally, doubling back over miles he had already covered would have been an annoyance. But not now. In any case, the miles flew by as Traeger tried not to think how clever he had been. Nearly an hour passed before he had found an exit leading to a bridge over the freeway and was driving westward again to the oasis where he had left his car. He went slowly through the parking lot, looking for the Pontiac and not finding it. He parked, left the keys on the seat, and walked back to his rental. Once behind the wheel, he relaxed and lit a cigarette.
    There was a metallic tap on the window beside him and he looked up into the smiling face of Will Crosby. Traeger rolled down the window.
    â€œCan I buy you a cup of coffee?” Crosby asked.
    â€œWhere’s the Pontiac?” Traeger asked when he had gotten out of the car and shook hands with Crosby.
    â€œWhat Pontiac?”
    â€œWhat are you driving?”
    â€œA Toyota.”
    â€œI think we’ve got company.”
    Before they went inside, they checked out the parking lot again, making sure the Pontiac with the tinted windows was not there. Crosby insisted that he had not noticed the Pontiac.
    â€œI was too busy keeping an eye on you.”
    They ordered coffee and sat in silence, consulting their own thoughts. Traeger said, “So you talked with Dortmund.”
    â€œEverybody talks to Dortmund.”
    There was no point in brooding over the Pontiac. Neither of them had an explanation that wasn’t wild guessing. But Traeger was certain that his employers had put a monitor on him. All the precautions of the Amtrak ride and the rental car now seemed foolish. Apparently alerted by Dortmund, Crosby had seen him while he was cooling his heels waiting for the train’s departure for Chicago. He had flown from Boston to Dulles and, having hit on the Amtrak idea, too, was on the train with Traeger.
    â€œI thought we might talk in the club car.”
    â€œI had a roomette.”
    â€œSo I learned. I wish I had thought of that. Where are we headed?”
    â€œFirst, we get off this freeway.”
    Crosby nodded. “And then?”
    â€œHow