The Homecoming

by Carsten Stroud

  “Echo Five says he’s doing one-seventy easy—how much blacktop will this take?”

  Reed visualized the next twenty to thirty miles of interstate that ran west from here—rolling hills, big slow curves, the sun going down, shining right in his eyes—three interchanges—the Holland Creek overpass at four miles—then a long, empty stretch of about fifteen miles—the Side Road 440 ramp—two miles later the Super Gee Truck Stop and Gas Bar—four acres wide and lit up with arc lamps, semitrailers coming and going—had to get that blocked—and, thirty-eight miles from exactly here, a huge toll plaza that crossed all four lanes at the Pinchbeck Cut. And the toll plaza had spike rails that could be raised to shred the tires of any vehicle that tried to run it. What would happen right after that to any car moving at a hundred and eighty miles an hour was going to be deeply memorable.

  Reed did the math—at one-eighty the car would cover three miles in sixty seconds—thirty-eight miles in—Jesus, he thought, the next thirteen minutes are going to be really interesting—

  “I’m gonna need all the snow gates dropped on every ramp between here and the Pinchbeck Cut—”

  “Already done—”

  “And get on to Rowdy at the Super Gee—get on the CB band, warn the truckers still in the chute, and tell Rowdy nobody leaves that lot until we have this guy in cuffs—”

  And then a shattering engine blast as the Viper cleared the dip, low and fast, a panther-like bulge to its flanks, eating up the road, front end inches from the ground.

  He got a brief glimpse of two white faces through the windshield—two white males, one with a beard—the car flashed past with a Doppler wail—and the Viper was gone baby gone.

  “Jimmy, I’m moving—”

  “Roger that—”

  Reed flicked the sound down to a low rumble—from now on this was between the black Viper and his Ford Interceptor—he heard Marty Coors saying something about County Sheriff units getting into blocking positions—the chatter seemed to fade away and he was accelerating down the on-ramp, tires smoking, the engine winding up with a throaty roar, a weight driving him back into the seat, his body getting heavier and heavier, his arms rigid on the wheel, his right foot jamming the pedal down.

  This must be what it’s like to ride the rocket down in Cape Kennedy. What a rush.

  The car skittered a bit as it thumped over the rumble strip, straightened up, and shot down the highway like a shoulder-fired missile—he glimpsed a red minivan in his side mirror—a pretty blond woman with an open mouth and big eyes as he flew out in front of her—up ahead the Viper was a black dot—he fixed his eyes on that black dot as he felt his car come on the cam.

  Christ, this thing could fly.

  The HUD—the heads-up display—was projecting his speed onto the lower edge of his windshield—bright red numbers—65—71—78—now the Viper wasn’t getting smaller quite as fast—Reed had his light bar on and the siren wailing—the road curved and the sun moved right into his face, a blinding glare. He flipped the visor down.

  The HUD numbers were rippling up—95—120—140—148—157—169—172—that crushing weight as the thrusters kicked in—the car felt like a cruise missile under his hands, hugging the terrain, slicing through the curves—he could feel the blacktop thrumming up through the wheel.

  Up ahead the Viper was weaving a narrow black ribbon through the traffic. Christ, one dumb move by a civilian and there’d be car parts and body bits for a quarter mile. Reed felt his anger building as he watched the Viper thread a closing gap between two converging cars—red brake lights flared as the drivers slammed on the binders—blue smoke boiling up from their tires.

  Son of a bitch, he said to himself, as the red numbers flickered on his windshield—170—173—179—he jigged around an SUV that had come to a full stop right in the middle of the highway—heard a cry and saw a man waving at him as he flashed past.

  The Viper was close now, maybe a hundred feet, and getting closer every second. The guy at the wheel had to be looking at what was filling up his rearview and thinking holy shit who is this guy?

  Reed picked out the sweet spot on the Viper’s lower left side where he was going to ram it with the bumper bars. One tap at this speed, and a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car turns into a spinning top. Yards … feet … inches … he saw the Viper’s tail squat down suddenly and the tires blur as the driver punched it harder, trying to get whatever the car had left. The Viper leapt ahead, like a spurred horse, and began to pull away again, fifty feet, sixty—shrinking.

  Man, thought Reed, putting the pedal to the floor and holding it there, you had to love American engineering.

  That Viper is a thing of beauty.

  Reed was in the zone now, and everything around him became a seamless river of color and sound flowing past, the radio chatter fading away, the howl of the engines growing faint, nothing in his head but the sound of his own breathing and the steady hammering of his heart.

  There were only two points in this universe: the bulging hood of his car and the fat black ass of the Viper—he fixed his eye on the Kansas plate—HARLEQUIN—in navy blue letters on a pale blue background, the Kansas State Wildcats logo—a license frame made of chrome chain links—LITTLE APPLE FINE CARS—the details burned into him as he came closer and closer.

  The world darkened for half a second and the sound of his own engine boomed back at him as he flashed under an overpass.

  Reed saw the black letters of the sign on the side of the bridge—SIDE ROAD 440—and he realized they had covered twenty miles. Two miles to the Super Gee Truck Stop. Eighteen more miles until they reached the Pinchbeck Cut toll plaza.

  At these speeds he had less than six minutes to take this car out. His eyes cut to the HUD numbers—183—187—192—195—the car felt light under him and there was a minor but worrying vibration in the steering wheel. He knew that at speeds like this a tiny twitch of the wheel, or something tumbling into the road, and he’d be airborne in a death spin that—

  “Charlie Six, got a bulletin for you—”

  Reed flipped the speaker volume up again.

  Marty Coors was on the line, his voice tight.

  “Go, boss—”

  “Kentucky boys say they’ve got a white male shot dead in the washroom of a Shell station in Sapphire Springs—they ID’d him as Robert Lawrence Quinn—Kentucky has closed-circuit video of two white males leaving the Shell station in Quinn’s black Viper—face recog made them as Dwayne Bobby Shagreen and Douglas Loyal Shagreen—used to be strikers for the Nightriders—White Power mutts—both wanted by multiple agencies for rape, felony assault, armed robbery—consider armed and dangerous—Reed no matter what don’t you close with these guys until we can get backup—”

  “I’m inches from his ass, boss!”

  “Back off a bit, Reed. I mean it.”

  “We got a window of five minutes before we hit the Pinchbeck toll—we gonna take them there?”

  “Word is we let them through—”

  “What? No goddam way.”

  “Yes, goddam way. Plaza is full of civilian staff, full of civilian traffic, propane tanks for the shed heaters. If that Viper goes airborne, hits people, hits propane, there’ll be hell to pay—”

  “Word from who, boss? That asshole governor?”

  “This transmission is being taped, trooper.”

  Reed got his temper reined in.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll back off a few feet. If I’m gonna stay on him, you gotta get me that chopper—you gotta clear the highway for fifty miles out—I’m gonna need eyes in the air—”

  A short wait, voices off.

  “Roger that—”

  Reed was now less than fifteen inches off the tail end of the Viper—it looked like the Viper had nothing left—topped out at 201 miles an hour—he could see the tower sign for the Super Gee coming up on his right side—lit up like a beacon—there was something spread out along the side of the road—a long low mass of ragged color—he was going too fast to mak
e out what it was—if Reed struck the Viper with his bumper bars at this speed it would be nothing less than an execution.

  Maybe these two assholes were looking for it. Suicide By Cop after one last wild—there was something coming out of the passenger-side window—a hand, gloved, something in the glove—a heavy black pistol—the muzzle tracking around towards his windshield—muzzle flare and blue smoke and a big heavy bullet struck his windshield, starring it, a bull’s-eye of cratered shards—

  “Gun! He’s got a gun—I’m taking fire—”

  Nick looked up as the female marshal picked up her radio. She spoke once, a staccato bark, a silence, another bark, and then she hooked the handset back, turning around as she did so. At the same time they could all hear the chopper winding up and pulling ahead fast—Nick could see the machine banking to the northwest, rotors spinning—

  “State needs the chopper, Nick—they’ve got a trooper in a pursuit car taking fire—”

  “Call sign?”

  Shaniqua looked puzzled.

  “Didn’t get it.”

  A burst of engine noise and the sudden wail of a siren—the State car passed them on the left, a slate gray blur accelerating away, and disappeared into the distance, strobe lights flaring red and blue, followed closely by the big black Suburban with the two FBI guys. In a moment, they were all alone on the thruway. Deitz was sitting up and taking an interest in his surroundings.

  “We lost the Feds too?” Nick asked. Shaniqua nodded, her flat gray eyes wide.

  “Yeah. Two guys in the car being chased, they’re wanted by the FBI.”

  “Please get the call sign of the State car taking fire.”

  Shaniqua blinked. She didn’t know that Nick had a brother-in-law running a chase car for State. She turned around, spoke into the handset, turned back.

  “Call sign is Charlie Six. A Sergeant Reed Walker. You know him?”

  “Yes. Is he hit?”

  Another blink, and another brief exchange on the handset. Nick listened, wishing he was there instead of here, wishing he had his own radio with him. He didn’t even have a gun right now. Against the rules to sit inside the prisoner box while wearing an issue sidearm. His Colt Python was up front with the marshals, in a lockbox on the floor.

  Shaniqua twisted around again—“Can’t make it out—sounds like he’s being shot at—the cross talk is—”

  “Put it on the fucking speaker, lady,” said Bradley Heath, a low Tennessee drawl in a voice as deep and smooth as a cello.

  Shaniqua huffed at his tone but she hit the SPEAKER tab and the van filled up with the electric crackle of police cross talk on the State channel. Nick recognized Reed’s voice, flat and steady, but tight as a plucked wire.

  “—not backing off Jimmy he’ll just keep—”

  “Repeat disengage Charlie Six disengage—”

  “Negative Jimmy he’ll just keep shooting—”

  A sharp cracking report, and under that a boom like thunder, and then another crack, all of it in the background of Reed’s transmission.

  “I’m slowing but so’s he—I just got two more rounds in the windshield—he’s leaning out the passenger window—this is nuts—I’m not just gonna lay back here and let him light me up—I’m gonna move in and take him out—”

  “Negative Charlie Six—”

  Reed again, calm, steady, but adrenalized.

  “I’m right by the Super Gee—the truckers are all standing there—they’re right on the side of the road—he could turn that piece on them any sec—oh jeez—brake lights brake lights—the guy’s jamming back on me—I’m on the binders—oh man here he comes—”

  Reed kept his mike on but stopped talking.

  They heard a rising siren wail and then a huge metallic clank, and then another—Reed swearing, teeth gritted, his voice a guttural snarl—and then the clatter and clanging of something tumbling along the highway—something big and made of iron—the earsplitting shriek of metal on road—Reed’s transmission cut off abruptly and the interior of the marshals’ van was suddenly jammed full with an intense and painful silence.

  After a long pause, Deitz decided now was a good time to make a helpful comment.

  “Hey, Nick,” he said, his tone jovial, “sounds like your boy just got his ticket punched—”

  Nick stepped up and crossed the space between them—Deitz was getting to his feet, his shackles rattling, his heavy fists coming up, moving into a boxing stance, a fighting guard, chin low—Nick bypassed all that Queensberry crap and drove his fist over Deitz’s guard and straight into the tiny furrowed space between Byron Deitz’s right and left eyebrows, feeling the nose cracking like a walnut, feeling the impact of his punch all the way up his arm and into his pectorals and deltoids and then down into his hips.

  Deitz crossed his eyes under Nick’s fist and his thick legs got all wobbly and his head slammed backwards into the wall of the marshals’ van, striking it with a clear bell-like bong. Deitz bounced back, his nose bubbling blood, but he was sliding now.

  Nick stepped back and let him fall.

  A high-pitched female voice was blaring at him and he turned to see Shaniqua twisted around and banging a fat fist on the prisoner mesh, Bradley Heath shouting at her, trying to catch her arm—

  “Hey, you can’t be pounding on my goddam prisoner—” But her voice was cut off and ridden down by the cello note of Bradley Heath’s awestruck, almost reverential Holy shit and everybody but Byron Deitz turned around to look back out at the road, where a sleek amber shape with brown eyes ringed in white was rising up in the air to meet the windshield.

  “Deer—a deer!” Nick heard Bradley Heath’s hoarse growl, as the van shuddered and dipped—Nick, reeling, clutched the stanchion at his left—Heath was stiff-legged on the brakes and the squishy tires were starting to fold … everything seemed to stop moving … Nick saw the way the muscles rippled under the deer’s pelt, saw the terror in its wide brown eye … a heartbeat … another—the buck hit the windshield square, two hundred and sixty pounds of tightly packed meat and muscle and bone slamming into a big flat wall of glass moving forward at sixty miles an hour. The effect was nothing less than spectacular.

  The windshield exploded in a shower of glass beads as the deer smashed through it. The carcass smacked Bradley Heath and Shaniqua Griffin square in the face and upper body, crushing them from the chest up, cracking their skulls like raw eggs and then—still moving at about fifty miles an hour—the entire mass of disintegrating gore and bone and viscera struck the steel prisoner mesh immediately behind them, bending it into a concave bowl and shearing off nearly every one of the rivets that held it in place.

  Most of the meatier bits got stuck in the mesh, but Nick, still on his feet, transfixed, caught the full force of the semi-liquid wall of brains and bodily fluids and bone splinters that hurtled through the screen, coating the entire inside of the prisoner box with blood and ruin.

  Nick felt the wave hit him full on—it was as hot as black coffee and stank of copper—blinded, he went backwards and down, banging his head on the floor, and lay there next to Byron Deitz’s unconscious body as the van, driverless, veered sharply to the right, left the road, went airborne as it hit the verge rail, descended ponderously again, and landed on the right front wheel, which blew up on impact.

  The van, making a grinding metallic groan like a freighter striking a reef, rolled majestically onto its right side, struck hard and bounced once, dropped back to earth, and then gouged a furrow through the pampas grass and red earth about fifteen feet wide and forty yards long, mainly with the upper right edge of the roof.

  At forty-one yards and a couple of inches the leading edge of what used to be a federal marshals’ van and was now a loose confederation of auto parts and assorted biological material struck a stand of lodgepole pine and slammed to a sudden halt—sixty to zero in one—rapidly ejecting an undifferentiated mass of deer and dead deputy parts that flew out the shattered windshield and spread itself all over the pines
and painted the pale gold pampas grass with a fan of scarlet and pink and purple chunks for a radius of fifty feet.

  Nick Kavanaugh lived through this, although he didn’t come around until the medevac chopper got him onto the roof of Lady Grace Hospital in downtown Niceville seventy-nine minutes later, and even then he was only awake enough to recognize the round pink and badly bearded face of Boonie Hackendorff, whose worried expression got more worried as he replied, in response to Nick’s faint whispered question, that no, Byron Deitz had not been killed in the crash and was, as of this point in time, nowhere to be found.

  “In the wind” were Boonie’s exact words.

  “And Reed? Is he okay?”

  Boonie Hackendorff’s face went pale around the edges. His eyes were wide and full of regret.

  “Reed’s alive. A lot of other folks, not so much.”

  These were cryptic words and the effort involved in trying to decode them carried Nick off into the following darkness.

  Thursday

  Mr. Harvill Endicott Comes to Niceville

  Business at the Quantum Park Marriott Hotel and Convention Center was brisk on this lovely Thursday morning, but the central foyer happened to be nearly empty. A few stragglers from a convention of mechanical engineers were holding up the long bar in the Old Dominion off to the left.

  When the tinted glass doors of the front entrance swished open and Edgar Luckinbaugh escorted a tall and bookish-looking older man in an English-cut blue suit across the polished oak slabs to the registration desk, Mark Hopewell had a lot of time to speculate upon the precise nature and character of the man before him, holding out an American Express card, his thin-lipped smile revealing a set of smoke-stained teeth.

  His accent, when he spoke, was neutral, neither southern nor northern, neither European nor North American. A mid-Atlantic man, thought Hopewell, who felt that the man’s presentation was neutral, neither imperious nor overly friendly, as is often the case with business travelers.