Chapter 9 - The Zanesville Intercept
-9-
The morning air grew sharper as the Ford Transit van bounced along a gravel backroad twenty miles outside of Zanesville. The sun was fully up now, casting long, golden shadows across the rolling Ohio farmland. Frost clung to the dead cornstalks in the fields, sparkling like broken glass in the morning light.
Leah sat in the passenger seat, nursing her newborn son with a quiet, fierce concentration. Every mile they put between themselves and Columbus felt like pulling a dagger another inch out of an open wound.
“We’re running low on fuel,” Mae noted, glancing at the dashboard indicator where the gas gauge needle hovered stubbornly near the red line. “And even if we wanted to keep going in this rolling billboard, every toll booth on I-70 has automated license plate readers tied directly to the state police database.”
“We’re turning here,” Leah pointed to a rusted wooden sign half-hidden by overgrown sumac bushes: CRESTVIEW ACRES - PRIVATE PROPERTY.
Mae wrenched the wheel, turning the heavy van down a long, tree-lined gravel drive that wound past an abandoned apple orchard. At the end of the lane sat a weather-beaten red barn with a sagging roof and a weathered farmhouse whose windows were dark and shuttered.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” Mae asked, cutting the engine as they rolled to a stop behind the barn out of sight from the main road.
“It belonged to my grandfather,” Leah said, gently burping the baby over her shoulder before buttoning her coat. “He passed away five years ago, and Nathan convinced me to sign the estate transfer papers over to his corporate holding firm two years ago. As far as the public record is concerned, this property belongs to Carver Holdings now. Which means nobody comes here.”
They climbed out of the van, the crisp morning air biting into Leah’s bare feet—she was still wearing only her hospital socks and a pair of oversized work boots Mae had found in the back of the laundry truck.
Walking around to the back of the barn, Leah let out a quiet breath of relief. Sitting half-hidden beneath a blue tarp was an old 1998 Ford F-150 pickup truck with faded green paint and a rusted tailgate.
“Is there a key?” Mae asked, checking the driver’s side door.
Leah walked over to the wooden tractor shed beside the barn, reached up behind the weathered door frame, and pulled down a small magnetic box. Inside sat a spare ignition key covered in a thin layer of dust.
“My grandfather never trusted banks, and he never trusted modern locks,” Leah smiled faintly for the first time in twenty-four hours.
They transferred the baby, the canvas bag, and a few blankets into the cab of the pickup truck. The engine sputtered and coughed twice before turning over with a reassuring, deep-throated roar that echoed across the empty farmyard.
Just as Mae put the truck into gear, a sharp, metallic ping echoed from the dashboard.
Leah froze. Her cell phone was dead, but the truck’s old radio receiver had a built-in emergency broadcast scanner frequency that crackled to life with static.
“All units, be on the lookout for a stolen commercial linen van, white Ford Transit, traveling east on Route 40. Suspect is a female, twenty-eight, wearing a hospital gown and dark coat, accompanied by a newborn infant. Considered armed—repeat, exercise caution, associated with a high-profile psychiatric patient flight from Briar Glen Maternity Pavilion.”
Mae slammed her foot on the brake, staring at Leah with wide eyes. “They’ve already found the van.”
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“They traced the delivery route,” Leah said, her jaw tightening. “They know we’re heading east toward the Pennsylvania border.”
“Then we ditch Route 40,” Mae said, shifting the old truck into four-wheel drive. “We take the logging roads through the Guernsey County hills. They won't have air support over the canopy.”
