Chapter 8: Calculating the Risk

Miller sat at the small, laminate table inside the sparsely furnished motel room in Havenwood. The room felt temporary, perfectly anonymous, exactly what he needed. The light plastic sheen of the tabletop reflected the faint glow from the television screen. He had left the volume down, only using the flicker of the screen to break the heavy silence of the night. He unfolded the wrinkled local newspaper he had picked up earlier that evening. The headline screamed about the ‘Miracle Rescue,’ describing the dramatic helicopter extraction of the injured man from the mountains. Miller, of course, had followed the initial reports closely, but he needed the detailed follow-up, the kind that authorities usually buried in small print. He smoothed the creases on the paper, letting his eyes fall on the familiar name: Karl Neumann.

The article provided several paragraphs detailing the technical aspects of the rescue, including the precise coordinates and the quick response time of the air ambulance crew. It mentioned the severity of the accident—a fractured femur, several broken ribs, and significant internal bruising—confirming the immediate danger Neumann had been in. Had Miller hesitated even an hour, Neumann would have likely succumbed to shock and exposure, a thought that still created a cold knot in Miller’s stomach. The story then moved into the more general territory of official inquiry. This was the part that truly concerned him.

He saw the mention that authorities were explicitly seeking the “Good Samaritan” for additional questioning. The initial report Miller had given at the mobile command center, though brief and carefully constructed, had been enough to facilitate the rescue. Now, the official accident report apparently had ambiguities. The way the scene was described, the placement of the makeshift shelter, the specific first aid techniques used—all of it pointed to a level of competence they did not expect from a casual hiker. They needed clarification on the sequence of events, especially the condition of the man when he was first found. Miller knew the police procedure well enough to recognize that “clarification” meant establishing a narrative they could formally close, but he also knew that further questioning risked peeling back the carefully constructed layers of his anonymity.

He read the quoted statement from Sarah Jenkins. She was identified as a local investigative journalist known for her persistence with county corruption stories. Jenkins was determined to pursue the vague circumstances surrounding the rescue. The quote itself was direct and challenging toward the authorities. Jenkins felt the police were downplaying the expertise of the rescuer. She was quoted saying, “The official explanation lacks coherence. This wasn't some chance encounter. The level of stabilization described suggests professional training, perhaps former military or medical experience. It demands a closer look than the Sheriff's department seems willing to give.” Miller felt a prickle of annoyance because Jenkins had accurately summarized his actions. His decades of discipline showed too clearly in the clean compression bandage he had applied.

The article continued, outlining Jenkins’ public appeal. She directly asked the rescuer to contact her personally. She argued it was the only way to control the narrative before official misinformation became accepted fact. Jenkins suggested that the authorities would inevitably spin the story to suit their own convenience, ignoring the true efforts involved. Miller understood her rationale perfectly. The police wanted minimum complication and a maximum positive public image. If his true identity or connection to Neumann ever surfaced, it would shatter both of those goals. He read her contact information, a direct line to the Havenwood Ledger office, published right under her byline.

Miller leaned back in the chair, letting the paper rest on his lap. He considered his options, playing out the scenarios in his mind. The police were trying to tighten a loose end, which meant increased investigation and risk. He had destroyed the Kennkarte, but the fact remained that he had found Neumann. If the official inquiry intensified, they might start looking into the background of the one person who interacted with Neumann before the rescue—the “George M. Keller” who had rented this room. His meticulously crafted history was thin, and an aggressive detective like Sergeant Vance would tear it apart.

Cooperating with the journalist, Sarah Jenkins, represented a calculated risk. It meant voluntarily reengaging with the periphery of the situation, something his survival instinct screamed against. However, if Jenkins published a long, compelling human-interest piece about the anonymous, selfless rescuer, focusing only on the technical details of the first aid and the dramatic rescue itself, it would satisfy the public’s curiosity. It might even provide the authorities with enough of a distraction to close their file without digging deeper into Miller’s background or the specifics of Neumann's foreign persona, the part of the story Miller needed to keep buried.

He weighed the dangers. Direct police involvement meant sworn statements, fingerprinting, and deeper identity checks—a guaranteed path to exposure. Dealing with a journalist meant managing a perception, controlling the flow of information without the binding pressure of the law. Jenkins wanted a good story; the police wanted compliance and documentation. Miller knew which battle he had a better chance of winning. He decided that controlling the story through a cooperative journalist was preferable to what the police would inevitably do to locate him. The risk was acceptable, maybe even necessary, to draw a clean line under the incident.

Miller checked the time on his wristwatch. It was 11:30 PM. The newspaper office would either be closed or operating with a skeleton crew. He needed to contact Jenkins now, while the urgency of the story was fresh. Yet, he couldn’t risk connecting a call from his motel room. Even in the mid-1980s, large motel chains sometimes kept records of long-distance calls. He needed a payphone, untraceable and disconnected from his temporary identity.

He stood up, retrieving his wallet and car keys from the dresser. He put the newspaper under his arm. He found an old baseball cap in his duffel bag and pulled it low over his eyes. Walking quickly through the empty corridor of the motel, he noticed the small office was dark. He slipped out to the parking area.

He drove slowly out of the motel lot, resisting the urge to hurry. He needed to find a location that was secure and distant. Payphones were becoming less common, but he remembered seeing one outside an old gas station on the perimeter of Havenwood, several blocks from the main highway.

Ten minutes later, he pulled his battered Ford station wagon into the dimly lit corner of a strip mall parking lot, far away from the gas station proper. The phone booth was isolated, clinging to the edge of the asphalt. He put on a pair of thin leather gloves before stepping out of the car. He needed to protect his last remaining piece of evidence: his current anonymity.

He walked over to the booth. The glass panels were grimy, and the interior light flickered, casting nervous shadows. He pulled a quarter from his pocket, inserting it into the slot. He dialed the number for the Havenwood Ledger office, the one listed in the paper. A tired voice answered on the second ring, identifying the newspaper's night line.

“I need to speak to Sarah Jenkins,” Miller kept his voice low, deliberately gravelly.

“She’s not on shift right now, sir. What’s this regarding?” The voice sounded bored.

“Personal. Tell her the Good Samaritan called.” Miller paused, knowing he needed a code, something specific to the information he had withheld from the police. “Tell her ‘the Alpine Hut sent a message.’ That’s all.”

“The… Alpine Hut? Sir, I’m not sure what—”

Miller didn’t let him finish. “Just pass the message. It’s important she gets it immediately.” He hung up the phone before the night operator could ask any more questions. The message was cryptic enough to be ignored by anyone else, but specific enough to catch the attention of Jenkins if she was indeed as sharp as her article suggested. The reference to the "Alpine Hut" was Miller's internal designation for the makeshift shelter he had built and provided to Neumann, a detail he had deliberately omitted from his police statement. Only the rescuer would know about the shelter that had protected the injured man before the helicopter arrived.

Miller returned to the car, pulling out onto the road. He drove a few blocks, finding a quiet residential street to park on. He waited. He knew the night operator would either dismiss the call or reluctantly pass it on. If Jenkins received the message, she would need time to react and establish contact.

He didn't have to wait long. Twenty minutes passed, marked by the slow sweep of the windshield wipers the residual moisture on the glass. The air in the car was cold. The payphone in the distance began to ring. It continued for several cycles, a sharp, insistent sound in the quiet night.

Miller knew it was Jenkins. He waited another full minute, letting her commitment deepen. Only then did he return to the booth. He picked up the receiver and heard the immediate, guarded voice of the journalist.

“This is Sarah Jenkins.” Her tone was sharp, alert, cutting through the static.

“You got my message,” Miller said, keeping his voice carefully neutral, devoid of any emotional inflection.

“‘The Alpine Hut sent a message.’ Yes. That’s an odd way to put it. Who is this?”

“The person you’re looking for,” Miller confirmed.

“The Good Samaritan. I assumed. You know the police want to talk to you.”

“I do. That's why I'm talking to you instead,” Miller said. He needed to establish trust quickly, proving he was the contact while also setting the boundaries. “You want the story. I want the police off my back. We both want certain facts established, and others left alone. We can help each other.”

“I’m listening,” she responded instantly. The hint of professionalism in her voice had been replaced by the focused intensity of a reporter sensing a scoop.

Miller didn’t indulge in small talk. “I need a guarantee. Anonymity first. No names, no identifying details, nothing that leads back to my current location or identity.”

“I can do that for the interview, but if your account blows holes in the police report, they will eventually find you.”

“Not if your article satisfies the public appetite quickly enough,” Miller countered, pressing the point about controlling the narrative. “I was a simple hiker. Found an injured man. Applied basic first aid. I want the focus to be solely on the technical details of the rescue, the selflessness, the whole human-interest angle, exactly as you put it.”

“You sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“Survival teaches you a few things,” Miller said, letting the vagueness hang in the air. He needed to arrange the meeting quickly before the connection was compromised or his nerve faltered. “I won’t do this over the phone. We meet once. I give you the account. It's clean, concise, and it’s the only one you get.”

“Where and when?” Jenkins asked, not hesitating.

Miller had prepared for this moment, choosing a location that offered maximum security against accidental discovery or police surveillance. “There’s a place called the Crossroads Diner on the far side of town, near the old Route 17 junction. It’s out of the way. Anonymous.”

“Late night crowd there, mostly truckers. When?”

“One hour. 1:00 AM. A corner booth. I’ll make contact.”

Miller paused, making the final details clear. “Come alone. Do not tell anyone where you are going. Not your editor, and certainly not the police. If you do, I will walk away, and you will never hear from me again. You get the exclusive, but only if you play by those rules.”

“One AM, Crossroads Diner. Understood.” Jenkins hung up abruptly, confirming the seriousness of the arrangement. Miller replaced the receiver, feeling the sudden cold of the external air after the intense conversation. He had taken the first step toward confrontation, abandoning the safety of complete evasion.

He drove back toward Havenwood, but rather than returning to the motel, he drove to a quiet bank of woods near the town's perimeter, where he had left his suitcase on a prior scouting trip. He retrieved a simple, dark pullover and a comfortable pair of dark trousers. He changed quickly in the backseat of the car. He needed to look nondescript, completely forgettable, not like a tourist or a professional.

In the glove compartment, he kept a small, worn leather pouch. He counted out enough cash for a single cup of coffee, maybe two, in case the interview dragged. He tucked the small amount into his trousers and left the rest of his money and all identification, even the fake "George M. Keller" driver’s license, locked in the center console. If the police were waiting inside the diner, he wanted to present as a man with nothing to lose and nothing to hide, just a late-night patron.

The Crossroads Diner was exactly as Miller remembered it: a low-slung structure, surrounded by a massive, mostly empty asphalt parking lot. It sat far from the main business area, serving almost exclusively the long-haul traffic that used the nearby interstate exchange.

He parked his car four blocks away on a side street in a cluster of darkened industrial warehouses. He didn't want his vehicle anywhere near the diner where it might attract attention or be checked against a list of local rental cars. The walk was cool and silent.

Miller approached the diner on foot, crossing the final stretch of parking lot with the deliberate, unhurried pace of someone who belonged there, a trucker grabbing a bite before an early start.

He pushed open the heavy glass door. The interior was a haze of artificial light, the smell of stale fryer grease, and strong coffee. Only a handful of patrons remained; two truckers slouched in adjacent booths near the front, their exhaustion evident, and an old man reading a paperback at the counter. The waitress sat on a stool behind the counter, flipping through a magazine. The ambient noise was low, dominated by the hum of the refrigerator unit and the quiet static of the radio.

Miller did a quick, comprehensive scan without turning his head. No uniforms, no obvious plainclothes operatives, no cars parked suspiciously close. The lighting was poor, which provided cover. He walked steadily past the counter, giving a slight nod to the waitress.

He saw her immediately. Sarah Jenkins was seated in a dimly lit booth right in the back corner of the diner, exactly where he would have chosen to sit for a clandestine meeting. She hadn’t ordered anything yet, just sat waiting patiently. She was younger than he expected from her fierce writing, dressed not for a newsroom, but in sensible clothes suitable for late-night stakeouts. She wore a simple jacket, and a notebook lay open on the table in front of her. She looked poised, prepared for the unexpected, yet completely alone.

Miller walked toward the booth. He slid onto the worn vinyl seat opposite her. He placed his hands flat on the table.

“Ms. Jenkins,” Miller said, his voice flat.

She looked up at him, her eyes shadowed in the corner light. She didn't offer a greeting, only a sharp, immediate assessment.

“You’re late,” she stated.