Red Herring

by Archer Mayor

  The car swerved again and he straightened it out. Shit. He twirled the knob off the station he’d been on and searched for another. More news. One dead, five wounded. Ike seen fleeing the scene, gun in hand. But he hadn’t hit the one he’d aimed for. What a pisser. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel, except for either the sight had been off a bit, or the rifle a little sloppy. He wasn’t the greatest shot in the world. He knew that much. And assault rifles were what they were—not made for target shooting. Still.

  He had really liked the idea of whacking that cop’s main squeeze. Ike had to give his mom that much—she’d hit a home run there, making people suffer by killing their loved ones. That was genius.

  He shook his head, not for the first time. Too bad.

  He looked up sharply, attracted first by the siren, and only then saw the blue lights in his mirror.

  “Fuck,” he said to himself.

  He kept on driving. In the old days, he would’ve pulled over and tried bullshitting the guy, but not today. His picture was probably taped to every cruiser dashboard in New England.

  What to do?

  The cop didn’t know who was ahead of him. Ike was pretty sure about that. He’d stolen one car in Montpelier, just before the shooting, and this one some time later, south of Burlington. No way anyone could have connected the two. It must have been his swerving earlier, when he’d been fussing with the radio.

  Not that it mattered. Word was out on him, and he was betting that every cop out there was hoping to get lucky. Even Ike had figured out that it was only a matter of time.

  He placed his hands more firmly on the wheel and stomped on the accelerator.

  What the hell.

  Briefly, he saw the cruiser fall back. I’ll be damned, he thought, and concentrated on the curve ahead. He was on Route 7, below Rutland and heading south, and knew the road would start narrowing soon. He placed his car right over the center line, so he could pass any cars ahead, right or left, with equal ease.

  “Come on, baby,” he murmured to the engine.

  Behind him, the cruiser closed the gap just a little, applying pressure without putting itself at risk. The sound of the siren was becoming annoying.

  They passed several cars, went over a few hills, and then came to a straight stretch where the road not only finally narrowed, but was marked at its far end by a group of twinkling blue lights, arrayed in a row.

  Roadblock.

  Instinctively, Ike’s foot came off the gas pedal a little.

  Now what?

  It was still too far away for details, but the cars looked pretty solidly arranged. There was a gap, though, near the middle . . .

  Ike reapplied his speed, not noticing how the cruiser behind once more dropped back a bit.

  He aimed at the weak spot and pushed the engine for all it was worth, enjoying seeing the roadblock looming up as if he were in a plane, approaching a landing.

  Only too late did he notice the strip of spikes laid across the narrow opening purposefully left for him. He blew by the roadblock, seeing no one to either side—only empty police cars—felt the double thud beneath his tires. He braced himself for a sudden loss of control, not knowing that the spikes were actually hollow, and bled tires instead of blowing them up as in the movies. As a result, he just felt his steering go mushy, and the car begin to struggle to maintain speed.

  He looked in the mirror and saw the roadblock come alive with activity. Ahead, more cars appeared out of nowhere, all flashing those damned blue lights.

  “Damn,” he said, and pulled over.

  For a moment, he studied his hands still gripping the steering wheel. He wasn’t truly considering his options. He pretty much knew what they were. More likely, he was just looking at what he could see of himself, thinking briefly of all the things those hands had done.

  One last time.

  Then he reached for the .45 beside him and placed its barrel into his mouth.

  Willy Kunkle knew enough of Joe’s habits to simply let himself in. Most cops had double locks on their doors and guns hidden in every cranny. Not Joe. The man was a dinosaur, galumphing around like he’d live forever, despite all the hell breaking loose around him.

  Willy shook his head as he stepped into the warm living room. Not me, he thought. Anyone comes into my place uninvited, he gets to leave limping. If he’s lucky.

  He heard a noise from the back, toward the woodworking shop. This was Joe’s meditation room, filled with ancient equipment that had once belonged to his father. Table saws, drills, lathes, hundreds of tools. Willy had no clue what most of them were. But the Old Man could spend hours in there, puttering.

  Especially now.

  He opened the door to the shop quietly and leaned against the jamb, watching his boss dry-fitting two sides of a cherry wood box together, making sure they were perfect before he applied any glue.

  “Hey,” Willy said gently.

  Joe looked up and gave him a tired half smile. “Hey, yourself.”

  “How’re you holding up?”

  Joe slowly replaced the two pieces of wood onto his workbench. “Not sure I am.”

  Willy left his station by the door and crossed over to a guest stool Joe had available for visitors. A lot of conversations had taken place in this retreat from the world, and at one time or another, every member of his team had been here.

  “It’s not the same,” Willy began, “but I remember what it felt like when my ex-wife was killed. Kind of like a grenade going off nearby. Stunning.”

  Both men had been in combat, although at different times and in different places. The allusion was apt.

  Joe nodded, remembering. “Yeah. Kind of. ’Cept that wore off.”

  “You heard what our new governor-elect did?”

  Joe looked at him. He knew of the election result, but nothing more. “What?”

  “She got the Legislature to recognize Lyn as a hero or some damn thing. I didn’t really read it, but it sounded nice, and it put Lyn in a nice light. She was a good lady.”

  Joe was back to studying his hands in his lap. “That she was.”

  Willy glanced around the shop, taking in its orderly and focused aura. “What’re you going to do?” he asked.

  Joe sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “You must have about six years of leave built up.”

  Joe nodded without response.

  “Of course,” Willy mused, “getting back to work might be the best thing to do.”

  Joe didn’t react.

  Willy studied his bowed head. He had never seen his unacknowledged mentor so low, and had never felt so utterly useless.

  “You are coming back, aren’t you?” he asked, a sense of dread rising in his chest.

  Joe looked up gradually, until his eyes were fixed on Willy’s. “I don’t know.”

  Joe’s gaze shifted to a window on the far wall, overlooking the small backyard.

  Willy got the message. He rose from his seat and returned to the door. He paused on the threshold and commented, “I know this isn’t the time or the place, but I can’t not tell you. Sam’s pregnant.”

  Joe faced him at that and smiled. He rose and crossed the room, moving slowly like an old man. When he drew near, Willy saw that there were tears in his eyes.

  Joe stopped before him, nodded a couple of times, and then touched Willy’s cheek with his fingertips.

  “I love you guys,” he said, and turned away.