The back of the van was filled with tools, both hand and power, and several

pairs of work overalls. All that might actually come in handy.

 

Rogers drove for six hours, covering about one hundred and fifty miles. It was

slow going because the roads were two-lane for the most part, twisting and

loaded with switchbacks as he made his way through a chunk of the tree-laden

Appalachians. He longed for a straight shot at interstate speeds, but that was

still a ways off according to the map he’d found in the glove box.

 

He pulled off, slept for a few hours, and got back on the road. He finally hit

the interstate and headed east. An hour later he stopped to eat.

 

He pulled out the photograph of Chris Ballard. Brilliant guy, Rogers had to give

him that. Far ahead of his time.

 

But the woman who liked to stay in the background was even smarter than Ballard.

In her twenties back then, she was head and shoulders above all others at the

company in sheer brainpower and vision.

 

She would be in her late fifties now. He wondered where she was.

 

In fact, he was obsessing over that question.

 

Claire Jericho.