Taking the Highway

by M. H. Mead

  “Plenty of spaces,” Andre said. “I’m sure there’s one for Lieutenant Cariatti’s vehicle. He’s right behind me. Should be here any minute.”

  “No parking,” the patrolman repeated. “At all.”

  Andre kept both hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead. “Watch your foot.” He laid on the accelerator, moved past the outraged patrolman, and found a spot at the end of the row. If it were his own car, it would be at risk for a tow, but Danny’s would be safe. The patrolman would posture and yell, but in the end, he’d let the Jeep stay.

  Andre got out and looked for Officer Friendly, but the patrolman was tied up with another vehicle that had also tried to enter the lot. He waved both arms until Danny nosed the Octave in and parked alongside.

  Andre returned the Jeep key, then worked his way out of the ill-fitting kincloth jacket and tried to return that, too. Danny smoothed down the lapels of his newer, shinier, coat. “Keep it. That’s my old one.”

  “You said it was your lucky one.”

  Danny shrugged. “Kept me alive a lot of years.”

  Andre put it back on and moved his shoulders, trying to make the jacket look like it might possibly fit. Maybe he could think of it as a disguise. He wouldn’t pass as a fourth in something this hideous, and not even a cop would dress this badly. As stupid as the kincloth looked, he had to admit he felt safer with it on. It wouldn’t stop a bullet at point-blank range, and would part easily for a knife or a shiv, but it might take the energy out of something small shot from far away. It was better than nothing.

  Andre looked past Danny to Nikhil. “Did you call Topher?”

  Nikhil nodded. “I did what you guys told me. I kept him on as long as I could. It was about two sentences before he cut me off.”

  “Visual?” he asked Danny.

  “He’s here. Standing next to a sign that said ‘service entrance.’“

  Andre swiveled his head to look at the vastness that was the museum complex. “Has to be a dozen of those.”

  Danny pointed at a single-story building surrounded by topiaries and oversized pots of yellow mums. “Yes, but I know Lovett Hall when I see it.”

  Of course. No place better to show off the beauty of Detroit than at the city’s most elegant reception hall. Andre had been inside it exactly once, at a holiday party for his father’s company. He remembered starched linens and tuxedoed waiters. Glittering crystal everywhere from the ceiling lights to the candle holders. The business leaders, mayors, and governors would love it, and it would look great on video. He shook his head. “There is no way we’re getting into that party.”

  “No, but neither is Topher.”

  Andre nudged Nikhil. “Blip him.”

  Nikhil took out his datapad. “And say what?”

  “Tell him you’re here and you need to talk to him.”

  Nikhil tapped keys. Waited. He looked at the screen and sucked in his breath.

  Andre grabbed the pad out of his hand and read it.

  [DON’T FOLLOW ME. YOU ARE SO USELESS.]

  Andre typed. [YOU NEED WHAT I HAVE. I CAN GET YOU INTO THE PARTY.]

  [HA. MADISON Z ALREADY KNOWS I’M HERE.]

  “Shit,” Andre said.

  “What?” Danny and Nikhil asked at the same time.

  Andre turned the pad around so they could read it. “We need to get to Topher before he gets into bed with Madison Zuchek.”

  The quickest way to Lovett Hall was directly through the tangle of classic cars on the museum complex’s front lawn. As they made their way through the maze, Andre risked a glance at the brick and white clock tower. Five-fifty. Would he get Topher in time? Even with Topher, could he make the trade before six? He forced rising panic down into his gut. Eyes forward, head on straight. He had a job to do. A single task. Worrying about what Talic would do later was useless.

  As they reached Lovett Hall, Andre instinctively shied away from the windows. It was dim in there, brighter out here, and he didn’t want to be seen. His face was probably already on more security cameras than he could imagine. No need to make it worse.

  Danny and Nikhil hovered with him behind a three-meter topiary. “How do you want to play this?” Danny asked.

  “If Topher sees me, he’ll rabbit.”

  Danny jerked a thumb at Nikhil. “What about him?”

  “I can do it,” Nikhil said. “I can do it, Uncle Andre. I’ll distract Topher while you grab him.”

  Andre looked at Danny. “So, I’m thinking you’re going with Nikhil.”

  Danny nodded. “The service entrance is on the right side of the building. You break left and we’ll give you a head start to get around back.”

  Andre grabbed Danny’s arm. “Don’t—” He swallowed, tried again. “Topher’s life is Oliver’s.”

  “All I’m going to do is keep in him in one spot. You flank him from the other side and he’s ours. We arrest Price-Powell, you arrest Talic, Oliver will be fine.”

  Andre nodded. He tugged the hideous jacket into place and pointed to Lovett Hall. “Saddle up, cowgirls. Let’s ride.”

  Andre looked around the topiary, but the security guards for the party were already inside. He strolled to the building, head up, looking for hidden cameras, but nowadays, anything could be a camera. He hoped that any cameras here were not monitored, instead simply set up to record evidence to be used later in case of a problem. If he got to Topher in time and convinced him to go quietly, there would be no problems.

  Rounding the corner put him in a narrow corridor between a windowless side of the building and a brick wall taller than he was. Someone stood in the darkness, sniffling and grunting. Not a cop. Not security. The guy looked like he was caught on something. “Hello?” Andre stage whispered.

  “Andre?”

  “Oliver!” Andre rushed toward his brother.

  Oliver looked like a man coming off a three-day bender. His tie and hair were askew, his eyes wild and frantic. His left wrist was circled with a bright-orange zipcuff. The other end was fastened to an electrical box bolted to the side of the building. He tugged harder. “Get me off this thing.”

  Andre patted the pockets of his borrowed jacket until he came up with the cuff cutters. He freed his brother with a single snip. “What happened?”

  “Talic! You can’t reason with him at all. He’s a block of ice. Why would he—”

  “He doesn’t want you!” Andre said sharply, the realization hitting him like a gut punch. If Oliver—and therefore Nikhil—had become unnecessary, then Talic had found better prey. Andre grabbed Oliver and gave him a shove, pushing him behind his back. “Stay close. Go.” He rushed around the side of the building, holding out a hand to put the brakes on Oliver at the corner. He peeked around it before going forward.

  The area behind Lovett Hall was a manicured garden, empty of people. Greens and reds and yellows blurred by as they rushed through it to the building’s other side. At this corner, Andre dropped to his knees before poking his head around the wall.

  Too late. He was too damned late.

  It was over in a blink, and yet the seconds stretched themselves into a series of strobe-light snapshots. Topher standing with his hands in the air. Talic using a catering van for cover. Danny trying to throw Topher to the ground. The whine and pop from the gun. Nikhil yelling. Topher running. Danny clutching his shoulder and going down. Talic swearing. Topher gone. Blood. Danny’s blood.

  Before Andre could even get to his feet, Talic had rushed forward to grab his next victim. Andre rounded the corner and skidded to a halt when he saw Talic’s large-barreled gun pointing at Nikhil. Talic waved it in Nikhil’s face before grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. “Now,” he whispered to Nikhil. “Walk backward very slowly.” Nikhil did as he was told.

  “No, Talic!” Oliver said. “Don’t do this.”

  Talic jerked his head. “Until you bring me Topher, this kid is mine.” He looked down at Danny. “Fuck, why’d you take a bullet for that punk?” His eyes snapped toward
Andre, his expression that of a lifeguard whose rescue ring has been thrown back.

  Danny didn’t answer. Or maybe he did, but the thrum of the officer-down alarm washed through Andre’s head like waves over a sandcastle. He lowered the volume, then lowered again, shaking his head.

  Talic and Nikhil vanished around the side of the building.

  Andre dashed to Danny’s side. His shoulder was a bloody mess. The kincloth had slowed the bullet some, but that caliber at that range probably broke his shoulder and did who knew what damage. He grabbed Danny with both hands and tried to push the sides of the wound together. Was that right? Or would he only push the bullet in deeper?”

  Danny batted him away. “Unless you’re going to lay down on this pavement and bleed with me, you’re going to go get that fuckwit.”

  Andre stood and gripped Oliver’s lapels. “Make sure this man gets help. Do you hear me? Pull every string you have. I don’t care if I owe you for the rest of my life.”

  “I won’t leave his side. For God’s sake, go.”

  Andre released his brother and dashed to the front of the building, looking left and right. By now, Talic would already have Nikhil in a car. So where was it?

  The shriek of tires drew his attention and he watched Talic’s green Mustang leap the curb and hum toward the exit. He ran toward it in the vain hope that he could catch it in time. There were other cars leaving too, but he measured the distance in his mind and knew he’d never get there before the other cars made a hole for Talic.

  He had no car of his own. Danny’s Jeep, parked in the VIP lot, was a sprawling greensward away, the key with Danny back at Lovett Hall. Andre’s thoughts jumbled with the police chatter in his head and the still-resounding thrum of the officer down signal as he took one step forward, then turned back toward Lovett Hall, then spun and moved forward again, like a wheel that couldn’t get traction. Damn it! Thinking did no good here, but neither, it seemed, did action. How was he even going to follow Talic, much less get around him?

  Then he saw his salvation, sitting proudly under an awning, with nothing between him and it but a little bit of lawn and a token security guard.

  THE SECURITY GUARD ASSIGNED to the Challenger looked about Nikhil’s age. He was dressed in period costume—tight jeans and an oversized shirt and weirdly short jacket. His blow-dried hair flopped into his face. He stood head and shoulders above Andre, but even behind the hair, his eyes widened at the sight of the gun.

  “I don’t have time to explain,” Andre said. “This car is mine and I’m taking it.” He held up the key with his left hand.

  “I don’t think so.” The guard reached into his jacket. Andre set himself and watched hands. But the younger man only pulled out a very modern-looking datapad. “Panic button on. This entire area is in lockdown. Even if you could take the car, you’d never get past the gate.”

  Andre batted the pad away with one quick move. Another step forward and he had the Yavorit tucked under the security guard’s chin. “That’s for the cameras,” he said. “You did everything you could to stop me.”

  “Everything,” the kid squeaked. “I tried to stop you, man.”

  “I’m about to elbow you in the gut. Make it look good, okay?” He gave the security guard a harder punch than was strictly necessary, and the kid went down and stayed down. Andre pushed the button on the fob to unlock the door. He shot into the driver’s seat and inserted the key, twisting it to fire up the engine, starting in his seat when it exploded. He’d forgotten how loud the Challenger was.

  It was even louder when he spun the wheel, tromped the accelerator to the floorboards, and roared off the dais. He didn’t turn sharply enough at first—the steering wheel took a lot of effort—and then he overcompensated and clipped the edge of the tent before straightening himself and heading toward the exit. The ridges in the steering wheel fit his fingers perfectly and helped him keep the solid grasp he needed. He held on, terrified and exhilarated at the same time. The vast expanse of hood bulged at the sides like the muscles on a runner’s thighs and he peered over it looking for pedestrians to avoid. If the gate was shut, he’d have to cut across the flat plain of lawn, through the walking paths. After hours, there weren’t many people between him and the street, but those who remained seemed confused by the sight of a gas-powered car actually moving, and either ambled aside or stood rooted to the spot, mouths open. An older couple tried to approach the car, and he had to jink the wheel to avoid them, laying on an angry blast of horn.

  An insistent ping echoed into the car, but no voice told him what was wrong or what he needed to do. A sharp corner reminded him. Seatbelt. He steered with one hand while grasping for the restraint with the other. He fumbled for the latch and finally got it secured across his shoulder and hips. A few more turns and he made it through the display area, speeding out onto Oakwood Boulevard.

  Now it was just him and the other cars. He saw brake lights flare in the traffic ahead of him and glimpsed a flash of a green Mustang darting across yellow lines. He barreled up the left-turn lane, diving into the oncoming lanes twice to go around other cars. The surge of the accelerator traveled up his body as he hit the gas.

  Through his implant, he could still hear the furor back at Greenfield Village sorting itself out. He ignored everything until he heard that Lieutenant Cariatti, injured in a single-shooter incident, was now being transported by ambulance while the area was secured. Then came the report of a red Dodge causing havoc on Oakwood, but the report hadn’t even identified the car as a gasoline model and had him going in the opposite direction. There was nothing on a green Mustang and wouldn’t be unless Talic deliberately called attention to himself, which, of course, he would not.

  Worse, the confusion tying up circuits would work to Talic’s advantage. No matter where he went or how fast he drove there, the priority would be protecting the government and business bigwigs at the economic summit party. No one would care about a cop who left the party early as long as the VIPs were safe and happy.

  Andre pressed his thumbs and fingers onto the underside of the steering wheel, wondering what he thought he was doing. He was in an antique car, barely street legal, that he had no right to drive. He couldn’t even claim half ownership. He wondered if Oliver would be angrier that his little brother was driving the Challenger or that he’d taken it away from the show.

  Andre swerved to avoid clipping the bumper of an Octave, unnerved by the lack of warning. He was too used to proximity sensors alerting him to hazards like that. He couldn’t afford to get a single scratch on the Challenger. Yes, it could be fixed. Dents could be hammered out, scratches buffed, engines rebuilt. Whatever the insurance company wouldn’t handle, they could fix themselves. But it would never be the same. Dad’s handprints were all over it—his work, his time, his vision of automobile perfection. One infinitesimal scratch and Dad’s vision was gone forever. One dent and he might as well scrap the Challenger for parts.

  He slammed on the brakes to skid into a turn and slammed just as hard on that thought. No matter what, he had to think about Nikhil. He had to set aside his doubt that he would catch Talic in a fifty-year-old car, or his worries about what would happen when he did.

  He came to the Southfield Highway and took his foot off the gas pedal. Had Talic gone here or—there. Still southeast on Oakwood. But the left-turn lane had vanished. Andre leaned on the horn, grateful that the next light was with him. Flashing the headlights and using the horn, he blasted up the dashed white line between the rows of cars with centimeters to spare on either side. The old-style rear display—nothing more than a mirror pointed toward the back window—showed a scene like a swath cut in a cornfield, cars scattered to either side behind him.

  Talic’s car moved right as it descended beneath the overpass. He was getting on the highway. East on 94. Talic had to know something Andre didn’t, or had some kind of plan.

  The green car vanished from view. Andre signaled to the right and moved without looking for a space. The on
-ramp began beneath the dark bridges of 94 and ascended in a rising loop that pressed Andre against the driver’s side door and made him wonder, queasily, how well the Challenger’s restraint system worked. They’d had crashbag technology at the turn of the century, but it was still in its infancy. There was no airweb here, only a three-point harness and a single airbag.

  Rotating alarm lights flared on both sides of the on-ramp as Overdrive picked up the non-equipped Challenger entering the highway. Police would be notified. Fines would be levied. Patrol cars would chase him down.

  In the meantime, Andre was a ghost the system could not track or control.

  As he merged into the rushing flow of the highway, it didn’t seem any different from a self-controlled surface road. No telltale flicker of Overdrive lights, no softly modulated voice quietly reminding him that his car was now part of the system. But it wasn’t. He wasn’t.

  He gripped the wheel, feeling the rush of cars on every side. He’d had little trouble controlling the Challenger on surface streets. But the highway? Computer-assisted cars drifted in and out of lanes, any one of them able to cut him off or even ram him because the computers monitoring the system couldn’t see him. The proximity sensors should prevent crashes, but it took two to make it work with any kind of effectiveness. At these speeds, he could be right on top of another car before its sensors could see him. He’d be playing bumper cars in no time.

  His only hope was to open up space around the Challenger. He had to see hazards in time to avoid them. He stomped the gas and caught startled looks with his peripheral vision. He wondered what the people on the road with him thought when they heard the roar of the Challenger’s engine and smelled the reeking exhaust he was leaving behind. The happy nostalgia of seeing a classic car meant nothing if the car was about to plow into you.

  The green car moved out of sight, still in the fast lane, but a few seconds of chase brought it into view again. Talic was just cruising now, perhaps not realizing he was being followed. Andre felt a laugh welling up. He felt so damn conspicuous in this bright red car with its acre of hood and rocket engine.