Interstate 95

Interstate 95

Mindy was silent for most of the trip to Myrtle Beach, and Jenny was not much more talkative. The reporter could not help but wonder what was going on in the other woman's mind, and she also worried about what they might run into in the sunny beach town. A nagging feeling kept creeping to the fore; a feeling that the outcome of her story might be one of ultimate disaster.

With no immediate flight available, the two women opted to drive. But, calculating how long the drive would take as opposed to flight and layover time, they found that driving was not a bad option. They could, given light traffic, make it to Florida in about the same amount of time.

"You like your work with the FBI?" Jenny asked.

Mindy sighed.

"Sorry. Bad subject," Jenny remarked. "I got it."

"No. I was just trying to think of where to start. You know what I mean?"

"I know."

"Like I told you before, I'm actually a writer." She smiled wryly. "Well, maybe I should amend that. I want to be a writer. I've had a few things published, but nothing worth mentioning."

"You write fiction?"

"No, I try to write true accounts. News articles, short 'real life' pieces, things like that. In fact, that's really how I got involved with all of this. I read on the national wire computer about this guy who offered money-big money-to anybody who would be willing to run from him while he hunts them down. Sounded a little strange, to say the least. Nonetheless, I was intrigued."