by Lakota Grace
We roared past the RV trailer park and pecan orchards on I-17. The patrol car humped a little on the bridge sections as we crossed the Verde River hurtling toward Copper Canyon. The squad car’s speed hit a hundred when we passed under the Camp Verde overpass, but the Porsche still accelerated away.
Time slowed, but my focus was ice cold. This was no practice run. Our own lives, and others, depended on how well I drove.
“All units. In pursuit of a red Porsche going south on I-17, passing Camp Verde exit. Suspect drugs involved.” Shepherd’s voice was matter of fact as he broadcast our position.
The Porsche roared up the hill, sped by a white Cadillac and a pickup towing a horse trailer. A moment later we did the same.
The traffic grew heavier, as cars slowed for the grade. Copper Canyon loomed before us, that ten-mile length of straight up that the semi-drivers hated. Sometimes there'd be a conga line of five or six trucks struggling to maintain speed.
We flew past the slower traffic, siren blaring. Once, I had to slow once for some idiot on a cell phone who wouldn’t pull over. I changed the siren tone to a warble, stayed a foot off his bumper. He looked back with a startled glance and quickly jerked to the right.
The delay cost precious seconds, and the Porsche edged ahead. Were we going to lose him? Then one semi ahead of us pulled out to pass another, creating a rolling roadblock. Traffic slowed to a 40 mph crawl waiting for the truck to gain momentum to pass completely. I pulled directly behind the Porsche, following slowly off his vehicle frame.
We had him!
The Porsche swerved into the breakdown lane, and passed the trucks on the right, two tires canted off the pavement. With a quick jerk of the wheel, I followed, concentrating on nothing but the vehicle in front of me.
The patrol car danced through the narrow opening between the semis and the rock wall, kicking up a rock that clunked against the oil pan. Brush scraped against the side of the car, the metal shrieking in protest.
“Easy, Peg,” Shepherd cautioned.
Adrenalin flooded my system as the squad car bounded back into the paved lane ahead of the trucks. The traffic thinned, stopping to the side of the road. We gained on the Porsche.
“Good time to do a PIT maneuver,” Shepherd said.
A PIT, the Pursuit Intervention Technique whereby the pursued car was deliberately put into a spin. I swung left and pulled parallel to the Porsche, matching its speed. Inside the car, the man clenched the wheel with driving gloves, his red face determined. Then that vision faded. I pulled back until my right front tire was positioned behind the driver's side rear tire.
The low-centered Porsche would be a challenge to spin. I'd have one chance, no time for hesitation. I took a breath, then yanked the patrol car sharply right, slewing into the Porsche, pushing it into a spin. I hit the brakes. The car in front of us spun in a half-circle skid, coming to rest at the side of the road, facing us.
“He’s a good driver,” Shepherd admitted reluctantly. “Came out of that spin like a pro.”
The two cars faced nose to nose. My breathing slowed as I waited. I started to click off my seatbelt to apprehend the man.
Shepherd touched my arm. “Wait.” He rolled down the window and directed our public address system at the car facing us.
“Out of the car and on the ground. Now!”
The man stuck his head out the window and screamed curses at us.
Then he backed up twenty yards, spewing gravel. He slammed the Porsche into first and zoomed past us. He ricocheted off my driver’s side fender and sped down the hill.
I swung the patrol car in a tight U-turn to pursue him. Both of us now drove the wrong way on the divided freeway lane, speeding rapidly downhill.
Oncoming traffic swerved desperately toward the side of the road, but one big RV, determined to keep speed, plowed forward, passing the line of cars that had stopped. The Porsche driver did not deviate, but drove straight toward the bulky vehicle in a weird game of chicken. I caught my breath. Was he going to deliberately ram the vehicle, making it a suicide by auto?
At the last moment, the Porsche driver swerved sharply right onto a crossover lane toward the other section of the freeway. I followed, skidding a bit as I reentered the downhill lane toward Camp Verde, ramming back up to speed.
A runaway truck lane appeared between the divided lanes of the freeway, an uphill grade of choppy road designed to halt semi-trucks whose brakes had failed. I maneuvered to the right of the Porsche, hoping to nudge the car into its snare of deep gravel. Instead, the driver hit a burst of speed and zipped past it.
The Porsche roared past the General Crook exit and accelerated once again. I matched him, the squad car cruising at an easy hundred-ten. The Camp Verde overpass loomed ahead. Its freeway exit ramp sloped upwards to meet the Highway-260 cross-traffic.
There, a stream of traffic halted at the red-lighted intersection, while straight ahead of us on the freeway flashing red and blue lights stretched across the road, signaling a blockade was in place.
The driver faced a decision point. He'd slow to take Camp Verde exit. Or he’d try to ram the blockade. My bet was on the exit.
Shepherd had the same thought. He thumbed the mic. “Magnum spikes requested, northbound Camp Verde exit.”
The Porsche driver veered onto the exit. He downshifted as he neared the traffic congestion, his gears screaming and tires smoking. A patrolman darted into traffic and with an underhanded toss, slung the spike strips in front of the Porsche.
The car swerved left and I thought he'd miss the spikes. Then there was a muffled thump and the car jerked. Another strip was tossed in front of the slowing car.
“That'll stop him,” I said.
“Maybe not.”
Crippled as the car was, the man still pushed forward, passing on the outside of the stalled traffic. He ran on flats, then on rims alone. Sparks shot from all four rims.
From the left, traffic from Highway-260 was still moving over the freeway, with exit traffic stopped perpendicular at the red light.
Porsche man's vision was blocked. He couldn’t see what was coming as he crept past the stopped traffic on the far side of the exit road.
But the situation was sickeningly clear to me.
A construction rig passed over the freeway, its semi bed heavy with a full load of concrete highway dividers. Rather than slowing, the truck accelerated through the cross-street green light. Perhaps he hoped to make it through before the light changed.
Normally we gave such vehicles a pass because it was almost impossible for the awkward trucks to brake with the immense weight of the cement load behind them.
For a moment, I thought the Porsche would make it through the intersection ahead of the truck. But he’d taken one too many chances. The truck plowed into the side of the car, spinning the Porsche around. The car paralleled close to the truck and stalled.
The truck driver slammed on panicked brakes. Slowly the truck tilted as the weight of the cement dividers shifted. Chains holding the load exploded apart. Then the full weight of its cargo slid down on the Porsche with a muffled thump.
The Porsche exploded in flames, and a fireball seared the skies.
The truck driver pulled himself through the passenger side door of the truck and rolled away from the crash. Bystanders pulled him to safety as the truck engine caught fire, its pyre of flames adding to the chaos.
Fire engine sirens screamed. The emergency crews reached the intersection and unloaded hoses. Streams of water sizzled and exploded as they hit the twisted metal, sending black clouds of oily smoke roiling upward. In spite of their efforts, the car’s driver never had a chance, trapped by the cement dividers.
I sat in the front seat of the patrol car, numb and shaking. “Why didn't he stop, Shepherd? Why didn't he just stop?” Tears blurred my eyes.
“High on something. Panicked. It happens.” Shepherd shook his head. “You did what you had to do, Peg.”
We opened the doors and got out. My
legs were wobbly and I leaned against the side of the Sheriff's new car for a moment. I wiped at a smear of red paint on the crushed fender.
We joined a knot of patrol officers by the side of the road.
One touched my shoulder. “Nice job. Textbook pursuit.”
Another patrolman shook Shepherd's hand. “Got the bastard. You going to let Serena know?”
“Serena?” I asked, not comprehending.
“Serena Battle.” The cop gestured toward the wreckage. “That's the guy what turned her brother into a vegetable
Chapter 28
The next morning I woke before dawn with a Charley horse in my calf. I jumped out of bed, hopping in agony until the cramp released. Did I need more magnesium in my diet? With a jolt, the day before came back to me. I was flooded with the memory of the car chase and the shock of the man’s death.
When the throbbing subsided in my screaming muscles, I went for a run with Reckless up in the hills above Mingus. The dog bayed his pleasure at the morning, running ahead a quarter mile, then circling back to check on me. I ran harder, hoping to dispel the images flashing through my mind. Added was the guilt that I’d somehow been responsible for the accident.
At the top of the mining pit, I took a breather and looked down over the valley and across the next ridge. At this elevation, the mountain rocks were cool to the touch, but by mid-day, they’d be hot enough to scorch my fingers. The red rocks of Sedona gleamed in the rising sun across the valley, and the San Francisco Peaks, still snow-capped, edged the horizon line.
I didn't know if I was more upset with Shepherd for his obsession with the Porsche driver or with me for my part in the pursuit that led to the man's death. Either way, there was no going back, only forward.
The pup and I made a big loop past Gold King Mine and the Audrey mining shaft headframe. A Plexiglas shield covered a mineshaft over 1900 feet deep. Part of me wanted to descend into that blackness to blot out my own troubled thoughts.
Reckless and I cut across through Beale and Dias streets below Mingus, breathing easy now on the home stretch. The dog automatically turned right, toward the apartment I had been renting, now a snaggle-toothed silhouette open to the blue sky. I whistled him back.
I had one final dark thought. That could have been my mangled body underneath those cement pylons. Did I really want to stay in this cop business? The accident yesterday took more of a toll than I realized.
I reached HT's house and filled an outside water dish for Reckless. He lapped the water with enthusiasm and whipped that coonhound tail around to show his gratitude. I leaned over, hands on my knees to stretch out my back, and then did leg stretches against the porch steps to forestall another Charley horse, since this one had gone to pasture.
When I went into the kitchen, the sound of Isabel's shower drummed a tattoo on the ceiling of the thin-walled house. Another reason to move. Living in the loft, I heard the whole household, and I am sure they heard me as well. Including my big-footed dog. No wonder Isabel was anxious for us to leave!
I hadn't heard from Myra Banks yet on the Zoning commission ruling, and I couldn't stay at HT's much longer. Isabel was giving me pointed looks. I'd check in with Myra later this morning. When did attorneys get to the office? She probably kept bankers hours.
After breakfast, I uniformed up and hiked the hill to the station, not sure what the day would bring.
Ben waved at me as I walked in. Shepherd and I were surrogate parents to the young Navajo-Italian genius. When his folks died in an auto crash he'd been sent to live with his uncle, Armor Brancussi. But Armor had no idea how to handle Ben's wild mood swings. The kid often ended up cadging dinner from Isabel, or engaging Shepherd in long philosophical arguments. Sometimes we talked, too.
He shoved a thick batch of paper under my nose. “Aced the exam,” he said proudly. “Ready for internship this fall. Plant those grapes! Lift that fertilizer.” He did a celebratory dance around the foyer.
“Heard you had an awesome time yesterday,” Ben said. “Chased that criminal up and down Copper Canyon. Must have been really something. Wish I'd seen that crash.”
A shiver went down my back. “No, you don't, Ben.”
Shepherd shot him a look and shook his head.
Ben looked from one of us to the other. “Well anyway, Peg, glad you're back in one piece. Just wanted to stop by and...” His sentence trailed off as he gave me another look and disappeared out the door.
“Trip to make this morning,” Shepherd said. “We’re heading out to Serena Battle's place.”
Shepherd had picked up the patrol SUV from the repair shop, and I drove the switchbacks from Mingus to the valley floor. The heavy reassuring transmission and solid handling of the SUV settled me after the wild ride yesterday.
“How'd the sheriff take the damage to his new patrol car?” I asked.
“Not happy. I may get demoted.”
“Why?”
“I was the senior officer in charge. My call, to pursue the vehicle.”
I shifted the SUV into low for the final hairpin. “Did you set that Porsche driver up? Did you know he’d be there?” My tone came out harsher than intended.
“No, I didn’t…not, exactly.” My partner sighed deeply. “He usually made a drug run about that time of afternoon down to Phoenix. I was just going to warn him off, let him still know I was around. Didn't figure he'd run.”
There was a moment of uneasy silence.
“Peg, it was an accident, brought on by that man's speeding. You didn't cause it, and you need to let it go. Put it to rest.”
“Easy to say.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Easy to say.”
And that was the end of it. I drove across the valley with only the occasional police radio traffic for company as we headed to the Battles’ farm.
Hank was in the yard raking when the high-clearance SUV bounced down the rutted hill to the farm. Rows of heirloom tomato vines peered over six-foot rounds of hog wire fencing. Next to them was a fragrant plot of basil and another of blooming lavender. A truck garden like this took hard physical labor by both Serena and her brother.
Shepherd opened his door and hailed Hank. The man jerked up with an uneasy look in his eyes. He rammed his pink felt hat down over his ears and jogged towards his trailer in the crazy uneven gait that his accident had caused.
“Want to come with me to the house?” Shepherd asked.
My face grew rigid. “This one's your show.”
Shepherd mounted the porch steps and knocked on the door. Serena opened it and Shepherd went inside. The telling didn't take long. Soon Shepherd reappeared on the porch. He gave Serena a long hug, patted her back and descended the steps to the SUV.
Did the chase and subsequent death solve anything? Hank was still disabled. That wouldn’t change, ever. Perhaps the news brought Serena some closure. I could hold onto that, anyway.
The woman took one step toward Hank's trailer, hesitated. Then she turned and disappeared into the house.
“Serena says hi,” Shepherd said, buckling his seat belt. “Hank's getting worse. She may have to institutionalize him.”
He sighed. “We did what we could.”
“Did what we could,” I echoed hollowly. “One more criminal off the street.” But somehow it didn’t make me feel any better.
A half-hour later, we were back at the station. I opened the door to find my grandfather and his friend Armor deep in conversation.
“Hi Peg,” HT said.” You just missed Isabel. She brought this plate of brownies. Want some?”
Comfort food. I snagged a piece and a napkin to hold it.
Armor reached a big paw across the table. “Want to congratulate you, Peg. Making this valley safe for law-abiding people. Tell us about it.”
People were happy that I’d been the cause of a man’s death? I looked at the two men who were eager to share the victory lap with me. I struggled to give them what they asked for.
“It wasn't much. Initiated pur
suit when a man ran a routine traffic stop. Up and down the mountain once. You know how it ended.” My voice sounded dull, even to me.
Shepherd gave me a sympathetic look. “Don't be so modest. This guy took off, Peg right on his tail going a hundred and ten miles an hour, did this textbook PIT maneuver, spun that Porsche a 360...”
His voice was enthusiastic and his hands made swooping motions to describe the action. His audience listened appreciatively as he spun the tale.
While the three shared the story, I excused myself and went to the bathroom, the bile rising in my throat. Maybe with time I could accept congratulations for what happened. Not yet.
To my relief, when I returned to the lunchroom, talk had shifted from the accident to car talk. I made my excuses and left the three comparing carburetors and spark plug brands for HT's old pickup.
I decided to pay a visit to Myra Banks. Perhaps the trip would provide a distraction from yesterday’s events.
Chapter 29
Myra Banks operated her law business out of a small storefront on Main Street in Cottonwood. The original owner had designed each office as a small house representative of one he had lived in. Myra's was a New England saltbox painted in southwest colors of turquoise and mauve. It fitted her, somehow.
She was on the phone when I entered and she beckoned me to sit. Her voice was clipped and strident. “Just tell him that he needs to pay his attorney's bills or get new legal representation.” She slammed the phone down, muttering. “If that son of a bitch can afford a ‘round-the-world cruise, he can afford to pay me.”
I smiled. Nice to see someone else on the receiving end of her sharp tongue. “Anybody I know, Myra?”
Her mouth snapped shut. “Never mind. Attorney-client privilege. Nothing to do with you.”
She shifted to client-procurement mode. “And what can I do for you , Peg Quincy? Ready to sue the sheriff's department for harassment yet?”
“Not a chance. But I know who to use if I ever decide to.” I smiled back at her.
