“It’s an awfully dark copy,” she said. “I can’t hardly see anything.”
“Try,” the second cop told her. “He’s in his late thirties and is driving a Lexus SUV, not unlike one that’s in your parking lot.”
Yuri felt a tingling sensation in the nape of his neck, but kept his stride steady. If, by some miracle, he got outside before she recognized him, he’d just keep walking, right by his own car as if it no longer existed. But then what?
“I have to take this over to the light,” Julie said. “Sure you guys don’t want some coffee?”
“Just look at the picture, Julie,” the man who’d handed it to her said. His voice struck a sour note, a sure sign of vocal cords strung tight with tension.
“Fine. Jeeze, don’t get so testy. Who is this guy, anyway?”
Yuri estimated another twenty paces to the door, and made it a point not to glance in her direction anymore. The last thing he needed would be to draw her attention to his leaving.
“Check the picture, please,” the man repeated, his tone increasingly discordant.
Foolish boy, Yuri thought. Tremulous or not, all that young flesh offering herself, yet this cop would rather chase down a poor, innocent Russian on the run.
A gang of newcomers pushed in through the front door, stamping their feet to get the slush off. They removed their baseball caps, popular wear in America even at twenty below in the middle of a blizzard, then whacked them on their thighs to knock an inch of accumulated snow off the visors. Any self-respecting Russian would have been wearing a fur hat with ear flaps. How the hell these people won the cold war still amazed him.
He kept up the silent prattle so as not to panic and break into a sprint.
Ten paces to go.
These latest arrivals brushed by him, laughing loudly as they bantered back and forth.
“So I got new winter tires. The old ones were as bald as you.”
“‘New’ won’t do any good on that pipsqueak you call a truck.”
“It’s four-wheel drive.”
“It’s a rickshaw with a motor. China knows zip about making cars for American winters.”
By now they’d formed a wall between Yuri and the cops.
Out the door he went, into the frosty air, past his Lexus, and entered a white curtain of exhaust fumes that floated upward from a double row of parked trucks. Most of these were eighteen-wheelers, all had diesel engines, and the motors rattled at idle, no one having dared shut them off in the cold.
He climbed up to peek into the cab of one and saw a floor shift as big as his thigh with more wires on it than a bionic leg. He couldn’t drive a rig like this off the lot let alone outrun Starsky and Hutch back there.
He jumped back down on the ground and headed toward a field at the rear of the restaurant where the lesser vehicles were parked--pickup-trucks, some with snow plows mounted on the front, and, like their mightier counterparts, motors running.
Twenty seconds later he pulled onto the road in a red Ramcharger.
Buy Japanese, steal American. Besides, he liked red.
Except when he saw it flash with blue to indicate cops in pursuit.
As he gunned the motor and accelerated in the direction of Highway 81, a glance in the rearview mirror revealed that the darkness behind him had erupted into a strobe of red and blue.
Julie must have recognized his picture.
But he made it to the down-ramp and headed north on the freeway with no sign of anyone on his tail. The way ahead lay clear of snow, having already been plowed, so he had good traction. He floored the accelerator and reached a cruising speed of ninety miles per hour.
Still no cop car behind him.
The turn-off to Seneca Pharmaceuticals flashed by, the building now a darkened hulk. Poor Carol McIsaac. Just couldn’t compete. Not with pharmaceutical knock-offs coming out of Asia at a tenth the price. The facility had shut down. It hadn’t mattered to Yuri at the time. He’d no further need for her. She’d just been a portal to other secrets.
He shuddered at the memory of being in bed with her. But as the artist he was in such matters, he’d made the woman feel beautiful, and relieved her loneliness for awhile.
Another glance verified that he still had no police behind him.
Maybe they’d assumed he would flee south.
Or no one had seen him drive off the lot. If so, Starsky and Hutch had probably surrounded the washrooms, then called in for reinforcements, and the Ramcharger’s owner, still drinking coffee, remained oblivious to the fact he wouldn’t be plowing driveways today.
Yuri allowed himself a big grin at that one.
Whatever was going on back there, he needed another twenty minutes.
He nursed the speedometer up to ninety-eight.
Wind buffeted hard against the curve of the plow blade, and the vehicle weaved like something alive. His knuckles gleamed white in the darkness from gripping the steering wheel.
A quarter of an hour later, a roadside sign warned that in five miles, he’d be leaving America. It reminded him of ancient maps where cartographers marked the edge of the world. Beyond Here There be Monsters.
He crested a rise and saw the lights of the suspension bridge arched over the US channel of the mighty St. Lawrence River. Even in the predawn darkness, he could make out the white pans of ice lining the shores and the black ribbon of surging water that refused to freeze.
He slowed for the automated toll gate, fed it four George Washingtons, then sped on through, the wind picking up as the central span led him more than three hundred feet into the air.
From here the landscape reminded him of ink spills on a white blotter, the pattern of open channels interlaced with a thousand islands. Or as the locals called it, smugglers paradise. From guns and horses during the American Revolution, to bootleg whisky during prohibition, to cigarettes transported by Native Americans who figured they invented tobacco and owned the land in the first place so why pay taxes, the practice had continued for centuries.
Tonight the contraband would be one Russian.
Yuri descended the far side of the bridge, landed on a large piece of real estate called Hill Island, and picked up speed.
More signs warned that he’d soon be leaving America.
Or maybe not.
Ahead, over the next hill, a pulsing, red and blue glow lit up the gloom.
Starsky and Hutch might have been slow off the mark, but they’d at least called ahead to arrange a reception for him at the customs station. Their brothers in arms would be guarding a ninety-foot stone bridge that spanned The International Rift, a narrow channel at the true edge of good ol’ USA.
Yuri’s plan involved an older, surer route.
He braked, found the entrance to the small private road he’d been looking for, and turned in. A foot of unplowed snow immediately slowed his progress, but he barreled on, slithering in a series of S’s. Eyeing what appeared to be a floor-mounted control for the plow, he saw a small lever and gave it a tug.
Down came the blade, sending an arch of snow and sparks into the ditch as he roared through a mile-long stand of ancient red pines.
Minutes later, the familiar row of cottages came into view. Some had their outside lights on and cars parked in front.
The one he sought sat dark and deserted.
Still spewing off a trail of fire and ice, he pulled into the snow-covered driveway, jumped out of the truck, and ran for the back door. He could hear the faint wail of police sirens approaching from the south. Starsky and Hutch? Whoever it was, they’d spot his tracks where he’d turned off.
The first gray of dawn made it easy to see the lock as he tried his key.
It turned easily.
Inside he snapped on the light, shed his winter coat, and, tugging off his boots as he went, hopped to the closet where they’d kept the sports equipment. Tossing aside all the ski clothing, the old-fashioned tape recorder, plus the piles of tapes, he found his dry suit. A single-pieced diving outfit--the wate
rproof kind that James Bond slips over a tuxedo when he wants to crash a cocktail party after having swum ashore from a mini-sub--it would protect Yuri from icy water and keep his winter clothing dry as he crashed a foreign country.
He pulled it on over his regular pants and shirt, the neoprene as loose fitting as a jump suit. But the skin-tight cuffs squeezed his ankles, wrists, and neck to form a barrier that would keep the water out. When he zipped it up and bent over to yank on a pair of scuba boots, the trapped air inflated him like the Pillsbury dough boy. He hooked a finger inside the rubber seal around his neck and released a whoosh of twenty-four-hour-old body odor.
He wrinkled his nose at the stink. No matter. In half an hour he’d be Dr. Ryan Smith, Canadian general practitioner, lounging in a hot tub at the Brock Hotel, his usual local refuge north of the border.
He pulled on a rubber hood and gloves, then wrapped his land boots in the winter coat for easier carrying. All set, he let himself out the front door.
A hundred yards away lay the International Rift, fast flowing and barely fifty feet across. On its far side, Canada.
Normally there’d be a shoveled path down to the water’s edge, but nobody had made the trip recently. He found himself wading through four feet of virgin snow. It was like trying to run in a bad dream.
The sound of sirens grew louder.
They must be close to where he’d turned off the highway. His use of the plow had gained him a few minutes, but would also make it doubly easy for their car to follow.
He struggled to move faster, tying the sleeves of his bundle in a knot as he went and repeatedly glancing over his shoulder. The dawn light had increased to a fuzzy, charcoal mist, and toward the southeast, a pulsing red-blue haze silhouetted the black tangle of distant tree branches. They were less than a mile away.
He poured on the effort, but the snow, wet and heavy, had the consistency of paste. Each time he lifted his legs, the exertion sapped his strength and his chest heaved in the frosty air. Whenever he looked behind him, the sphere of red and blue haze had expanded, like the arrival of an extraterrestrial craft in a Spielberg movie.
The land began to slope down as he got nearer the water. Yuri dived forward and rolled the rest of the way to a small drop off, then slid feet first over the edge, crashing through a thin margin of surface ice into waist-deep water.
Immediately the current tugged at him, but, still clutching his bundle, he kept his footing.
The channel had been deepened to allow private motor boats to pass in summer, so he’d soon be over his head. And he had to reach the other side before being swept downstream toward the bridge with the border guards. Otherwise he’d not only be in shooting range, but the current slowed there, allowing the ice to form all the way across, and he could be sucked under it.
He took a breath and glanced over his shoulder one final time.
The flashing lights and headlamps of the patrol car careened up the road in a berserk charge.
He kicked off from the shore and entered the open water holding his bundle above his head with one arm, swimming with the other.
It would be only minutes until they spotted him. While even Starsky and Hutch might think twice before risking their pensions by pursuing him across the halfway mark, bullets weren’t so respectful of international boundaries. Especially if the cops could claim they shot him on their side before he’d crossed over the line.
Thanks to the dry suit, Yuri felt no cold in his body. In fact his struggle through the snow had him soaked with sweat. But his feet and hands curled into spasms as the frigid water seeped through the boots and gloves. Where it touched his face, the skin burned like fire.
He’d reached the midpoint when he heard the slamming of doors and shouts between two men.
“I see his tracks.”
“He’s in the rift.”
“Grab a flashlight.”
Yuri kicked harder.
For every foot of progress across the channel, he swept two downstream.
His breathing grew louder.
The steep banks on either side amplified the sound.
“I hear him!” one of the cops said.
A white beam coned through the mist above Yuri’s head.
He kicked double time, well across the midpoint now, and peered toward shore, trying to see the small dock where he would land.
The first shot boomed so loud he thought it had gone off beside his ear. A tiny splash broke the surface twenty yards ahead of him.
“Stop, or the next shot will be in the back of your skull.” It was the same cop, but his voice had cracked a pitch higher, just like back in the restaurant.
“Give up!” his partner added.
“I’m on the Canadian side!” Yuri replied.
With the next detonation, Yuri felt the bullet slice through his upraised arm.
He screamed.
His carefully rolled jacket with the dry boots wrapped inside it flew from his hand. He made a grab for them before they sank, but there was another detonation, and a searing burn ripped across the back of his shoulders.
Icy water poured into his suit through the bullet holes, and the shock of it took away what little breath he had. To his surprise he could still move the arm that had been hit. The bullet must have missed the bone.
He gasped in a breath and dove under the surface.
Absolute blackness engulfed him, but he kicked and stroked in the direction of the far shore, fear trumping pain.
The muffled sounds of more detonations followed him, accompanied by whirring noises that zipped by him on his left. He’d already been carried a few feet down stream from where they were shooting.
He continued to stroke and kick toward shore, his lungs on fire for want of air. The suit took on more water and encumbered his movement. Pitch black in every direction, it became impossible to see, and his head ached with the cold.
He’d have to surface, even though that would give them a new bead on him.
He started up, when a blow like a two-by-four crashed down on his forehead and light exploded behind his eyes.
I’ve been shot, he thought, right in the brain.
Except he could still think.
Even move his arms and legs, albeit with difficulty.
He felt up into the darkness with his hands. A long, thick board ran overtop his head.
He’d come up under part of the crib for the dock.
Quickly he guided himself past it and broke surface on the downstream side, exhaling with a loud roar and gulping fresh air. The overhang of planks on the deck inches above his head provided some cover, and he slithered the rest of the way toward shore, keeping the cribs between him and incoming bullets. Teeth chattering, shoulders and right arm throbbing, the rest of him shaking from cold and shock, he needed help fast. He’d no idea how much blood he had lost, or what internal damage the bullets had done.
Lights began to come on in some of the cottages on the far side. Alarmed faces wide-eyed with fear appeared in the windows.
Witnesses, he thought.
There’d be no more bullets. Starsky and Hutch wouldn’t dare.
He pulled himself up on land.
“Just hold it right there, mister!” one of the cops shouted from up stream.
John Wayne, Yuri thought, woozy headed. That’s a John Wayne line. From The Searchers. Or Stage Coach. Or a dozen of his movies. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be gunned down by a cop who speaks John Wayne. The idea exhilarated him.
“I said hold it right there!” the cop repeated, breathless and not sounding at all like the Duke now that he was struggling through the deep snow in an effort to reach a point opposite Yuri. More important, he’d holstered his gun.
The partner was on a cell phone, probably calling the Canadian cops.
Yuri staggered to his feet, slightly disappointed at being denied his showdown with the ultimate American cowboy, and nearly collapsed with dizziness.
“Hey, stay where you are!” the first cop yelled.
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Yeah, right.
He stumbled toward a snowbound path that sloped up into the trees. All he could think was that it led to safety.
Yet he could barely lift his legs to take one step after another. Nevertheless he plodded on, shakily lifting one foot, lurching forward, steadying his balance, then straining to raise his other foot high enough for the next step. Sometimes he pitched face-first onto the snow, his arms up to his elbows in it, and he had to thrash around to get his footing again. Off to his right, toward the border crossing, but on the Canadian side, more sirens caterwauled to life, their high whine shredding the dawn’s stillness.
The Mounties were on their way. Where he stood was part of yet another large island, and they had him trapped.
Still he pressed ahead, one leg up, then the other, as if running hurdles in slow motion.
It began to hurt every time he took a breath. He wondered if the bullet he’d thought had creased his shoulders might have passed deeper and hit his chest cavity.
Once more he slipped, again plunging face downward and driving icy flakes into his nostrils.
Choking and writhing, unable to extricate his arms, he lifted his head, only to see the approaching red-blue pulse of Canadian police cars. “Anechka,” he whispered, evoking her name for strength, and somehow got to his knees. The ashen world around him tilted into a spin. He reeled sideways, tried to steady himself, and flopped onto his back. “Little Kyra,” he said, speaking louder, and attempted to get up again. His limbs made feeble swimming movements, digging him in deeper, until he lay in the disheveled image of a blood-streaked snow angel
Above him, higher up the bank among dark groves of trees, a motor roared to life, a shaft of white light shot out of the shadows, and a long black shape lunged from the bush.
The skidoo slithered toward him, then came to a stop a foot from his head, gasoline fumes spewing from its noisily idling motor.
“You’re late,” the helmeted driver said, voice muffled and face invisible under a black visor. He leaned over, grabbed Yuri’s collar with hands the size of bear paws, and hefted him into a sitting position. “Can you ride?”
The blue and red flashers were less than two hundred yards away.
The Darkness Drops Page 22
