He might as well have fired a starter pistol. With barely a pause, there was a screaming of burning rubber, an acrid, dense plume swirled into the air, and Roger Novelle took off like a mechanized jackrabbit, with Jordan in close pursuit.
Jordan switched the radio back to the transmit frequency. "Dispatch, one-twenty. I'm in pursuit of Vermont 128F4, heading south on South Main at approximately"— he paused to get his bearings—"Oak Grove. Requesting backup."
The response was immediate but calming. "Ten-four, one-twenty Will do. Please keep advised."
By this point, Jordan had hit his siren, fearful one of the kids who lived along the street, many with little or no supervision, might come running out to watch the entertainment. After that, he focused only on the taillights before him as they dipped and swerved, Novelle's car picking up speed.
Ahead, there was a Y-junction, the left hand dipping to a steep drop toward Route 142 and the town of Vernon beyond, the right hand heading slightly up and into a curve, eventually leading to the high school and the south end of Canal Street, one of Brattleboro's commercial strips. Jordan tensed himself for the lurch he knew would come from the first choice, convinced Novelle would do as he would have and head for the dark, open road. Instead, he had to pull quickly on the wheel as Novelle did just the opposite and cut right, causing them both to skid into the curve in a slippery spray of loose gravel.
Breathing fast from the surprise, Jordan struggled to key the mike again. "One-twenty. We're heading for Fairground Road."
"Ten-four. Units are responding down Canal to intercept."
As Fairground Road began flattening out and broadening to both sides, first by the town garage and then in anticipation of the vast high school parking lot, Jordan found himself caught in a moral quandary: The correct procedural thing was to continue what he was doing now, keep pressure on the pursuit and let the others box the guy in, but the young man in him was demanding otherwise. If he could do this right, Henry Jordan might end the chase and get the collar on his own—here and now.
He hit the accelerator as the road took its general sweep to the right, pulled up alongside the Chevy, and began sheepdogging it into the dirt parking lot, aiming for the line of trees in the distance.
But Novelle would have none of it. To Jordan's terror, he abruptly cut left and collided with the cruiser's right fender, making Jordan veer off to go bounding and skidding across the road.
Gasping, Jordan fought the wheel, regained control, and now fueled with rage, pointed straight at the other car, catching it just behind the left rear door.
But either Novelle was a better driver or the Chevy more sure on the road, because the impact of this second collision was minimal. After a small fishtail, Novelle was back in front as before, with the young cop now feeling humiliation mixing with his anger.
They were coming to where Fairground intersects with Canal Street at a traffic light. It was technically a T-bone, since opposite Fairground was the entrance of the Price Chopper parking lot; but given the chase so far, Jordan wasn't laying bets on Novelle's choice of routes.
Sure enough, Novelle again defied logic and cut right, onto Canal, ignoring both the interstate entry ramps to the left and the highway leading to the town of Guilford beyond them. He was driving straight toward downtown Brattleboro and into the oncoming blue lights of two patrol cars.
"He's heading right at you," Jordan shouted needlessly into the mike, making the corner with one hand on the steering wheel and bouncing off the far curb. He was blessing his luck that there was no other traffic.
Novelle had no trouble with the other two cruisers. He merely went straight at them, picking up speed, trusting to both their drivers' lack of suicidal tendencies and their fear of damaging their cars to make them get out of his way.
Which they did. Like a sharp knife running through paper, Novelle sliced cleanly between them, with Jordan still on his tail.
Now the radio was jammed with chatter, and Jordan didn't bother competing. He kept both hands on the wheel and dedicated himself solely to bringing his quarry to a halt, regardless of the cost.
Canal at this point was broad, empty, and downhill, following the geographical influence of the Whetstone Brook, which over the centuries had carved a meandering but significant ravine along the town's east-west axis. Both Novelle and Jordan took advantage of all this to hit sixty-five miles an hour past the hospital and down the gentle S-curve to the flat stretch paralleling the brook farther down.
At that point, Jordan again pulled up next to the Chevrolet and attempted to push it off the thoroughfare, this time toward several parked cars. Novelle countered by hitting the brakes suddenly, letting the cruiser slip before him, and then cutting right and accelerating, hitting Jordan broadside and causing his car to spin into a three-sixty as Novelle squealed away.
Now spewing his own twin plumes of burned rubber, Jordan swung cursing back into alignment and resumed chase, his attention sharpened by the two additional cruisers who were coming up from behind. Like a runner with only the finish line in his sight, Jordan fixated on the Chevy's rear bumper.
At the end of the flat stretch, Canal veered right, following the top of the embankment, while Elm Street went straight across a steeply angled bridge and the Whetstone Brook below, heading for Frost Street at the bottom of the ravine. It was the bridge Novelle chose to take without slowing, leaving the ground at the top of the hill and coming down half on the road and half on the sidewalk, causing a shower of sparks to rooster tail behind his car, accompanied by bits and pieces of muffler that pinged off Jordan's windshield as he followed suit.
"Henry, what's your twenty?"
Jordan became aware the dispatcher had tried to raise him several times, finally resorting to his first name.
"I'm in the fucking air," he muttered through clenched teeth, watching the Chevrolet slide expertly at the bottom of the hill into a nicely executed left-hand turn onto Frost Street, now away from downtown. "And I'm getting tired of this shit."
Frost was quiet and residential, following the brook toward West Brattleboro and changing its name to Williams Street beyond Union. Usually a leisurely drive filled with views of steep verdant hillsides and precariously perched old homes overhanging the ravine, this time it was fast, dark, noisy, and scary as hell. Despite the cool air whipping in through the open windows, Jordan was drenched in sweat by the time they roared by Brannen Street in a blur, and was all but ready to concede defeat, eat his pride, and let the others finish this for him.
Until he saw Novelle almost lose control just shy of the tiny bridge after West Street. In that split second, Jordan saw his chance. He stamped on the accelerator, braced himself for the impact, and hit Novelle's right rear fender head-on.
The effect was like riding a merry-go-round on rocket fuel. Jordan heard more than he saw—a cacophony of tearing metal, screeching tires, and the dull thuds of large objects coming violently to rest. He felt weightless at times, totally disoriented, and as if he were watching the world go by in short photographic snippets, each one having no relation to the next. At the end of it all, much to his surprise, he was left in darkness and silence, aside from the soothing gurgle of running water.
By instinct, he reached across and undid his seat belt, realizing only then that he was up to his waist in the brook, which was flowing through one window and out his own.
Shaking his head, smiling from the relief at simply having survived, he opened the door with unexpected ease and swung his feet out onto the stream floor, still feeling as if he were dreaming. Then, yielding to much the same impulse, he cupped his hands in the water before him and splashed it over his hot, sweaty face.
He took in a deep breath, blinked a couple of times to adjust to the darkness, and found himself staring straight at Roger Novelle.
Novelle was hanging halfway out his car's shattered windshield, his face bloody and torn, one arm looking absurdly twisted. But he was alive. And in his good hand, he held a gun.
The two men watched one another for a long couple of seconds. Overhead, the tree branches reflected the blue and white lights of the two cruisers that ground to a halt on the road above. Over the water's rush and the hum in his head, Jordan could barely hear the familiar chatter from the distant two-way radios.
Then a huge, bright flash exploded from the end of Novelle's gun, and Jordan felt the impact of a sledgehammer smash him in midchest.
Chapter 6
"Hi, Tony. What the hell happened?"
Police Chief Tony Brandt rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. Despite the late hour, he was neatly turned out as usual, looking like a slightly bemused college professor on leave from some midwestern ivory tower. A lifelong cop, he'd never managed to affect any of the typical cop trappings, from his manner to his taste in clothes.
"Real mess, Joe. High-speed chase, police shooting, one man dead. Shades of Dodge City."
"The dead man one of yours?" Joe asked, feeling a sudden dread.
Tony waved his hand dismissively. "Henry Jordan caught a round in the vest. He's being kept for observation with a really good-looking bruise. If the shooter had aimed higher—or used a Teflon bullet—we'd be looking at a whole different story."
"Who was the shooter?"
Brandt looked at him curiously. "That's why I called you down here. Sam dropped by this afternoon and asked us to bring the guy in so you could have a chat with him. Apparently, Gail found him hanging out in Laurie Davis's apartment—Roger Novelle?"
Gunther's brow furrowed. He'd tried contacting Gail several times tonight to ask her about that encounter. All he'd gotten was her answering machine, and when he'd driven by her house, none of the lights had been on.
"You call her about this?"
Brandt shook his head. "Didn't have a reason to. After Novelle took his potshot at Jordan, two other officers opened up and killed him. I didn't see what Gail could do for us, not right now, in the middle of the night. The state police will be running the investigation, and I don't doubt they'll want to have a chat—with her and you both, for that matter, given your relationship—but I don't think it's too complicated in any case. We found heroin in Novelle's car, and we've tracked down the user who was buying from him when Jordan surprised them."
Gunther nodded at the sound of the magic word. "Heroin again," he murmured. "Well, I guess that guarantees the cat getting out of the bag."
Tony Brandt gave his ex-chief of detectives a questioning look.
"The headlines will tell you," Gunther partly explained. "The governor's going to try to milk this for all it's worth."
* * *
Gail's house was still dark when Joe pulled up opposite it a second time. Of course, at three in the morning, he wasn't expecting otherwise. He'd called again from the hospital, hadn't bothered leaving a message, and this time was determined to be less delicately self-effacing.
He left his car, crossed the driveway to the kitchen door, igniting the battery of motion detection lights Gail had had installed following her attack, and applied his two keys to the locks she carefully set every night.
He felt odd entering the house, and not just because of the circumstances. He'd once lived here with her, although he'd never felt truly at home. It had been bought with her money and decorated according to her taste, but his lack of comfort had stemmed more from the incentive than from the decor. She had needed him to be nearby, to watch her back emotionally and physically as she struggled to rebuild. He'd been happy to help, of course, had considered it a privilege and a natural extension of his love for her, but he'd also known it wouldn't last, and that despite her protests to the contrary, she'd eventually become firm-footed enough to start longing for her independence of old. His moving out had actually come as somewhat of a relief to both of them.
Still, it felt funny to be "back home," where, as with a long-delayed visit to a grandparent's house, familiar smells and sights commingled and got confused with foreign ones. The pull between feeling like an intruder and standing on safe ground was palpable, and Joe proceeded quickly through the darkness upstairs to Gail's bedroom hoping to end the awkwardness as fast as possible. But he also couldn't lie to himself—by now, he'd become alarmed by her silence.
He paused on the threshold of her room, the moon through the skylight revealing a shape in her bed.
"Gail?"
He half held his breath to better hear some sound from her, watching intently, until the merest hint of a movement finally gave him relief. Only then did he step inside and cross over to the bed.
"Gail. It's Joe."
He sat by her side and gently laid his hand against her head, noticing as he did so the prescription bottle and glass of water on the nightstand.
"Gail," he said, his voice still soft. "Wake up."
With his other hand, he reached behind the phone and hooked a finger around the cord, pulling it free from where it dangled unattached to its nearby outlet. That explained why she hadn't been answering his calls; only the downstairs machine had been picking up.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Come on, sweetheart. It's Joe."
Finally, she stirred, moaning briefly.
He took advantage of that to roll her onto her back, sweeping her hair clear of her face as he did.
"Wake up, Gail."
Her eyes fluttered and opened slightly.
"Joe?" Her voice was groggy and clotted with induced sleep.
"Yeah. It's me. Everything's okay. I had to see if you were all right."
She blinked several times, clearly trying to understand what was going on.
"Everything's okay?"
"I hope so," he told her, kissing her cheek again. "I heard you had a tough time yesterday afternoon at Laurie's place. I'm sorry I wasn't there."
The eyes closed again, hoping to shut out the memory. "He was horrible."
"You don't have to worry about him. We got him. What happened, anyway?"
She had all but surfaced by now, her breathing more rapid, her responses close to normal. He could still sense the effects of the sleeping pills, but his mind was at ease that she'd obviously only taken enough to knock herself out for a while.
She rubbed a hand across her face. "Nothing really. I mean, nothing you could point at. I just had a bad flashback is all. The guy . . . something about him. He was creepy and insinuated what he wanted to have happen, but it was his smell more than anything that brought me back. He never touched me, but I almost felt it had happened all over again. I felt . . . violated. And scared. Humiliated."
She suddenly raised both her arms and encircled Joe's neck, pulling him down to her and sobbing into his chest. "I thought it was behind me. Even when I was with him, I thought maybe I still had it under control. But then all afternoon I got pulled lower and lower."
He let her cry for a while, rubbing her shoulder, his face half buried in her hair and her pillow, breathing her in.
Eventually, she quieted enough that he could straighten slightly and look at her. "I've been worried about you. Called a few times, drove by earlier. Couldn't figure out where you'd gone. Sam said you came by."
"It's not just that, Joe. It's Laurie, too. I can't get what she went through out of my mind. I feel responsible. Of all people, I should have known to watch out for her. I know how things are out there."
Joe was shaking his head. "Gail, you can't do that. We all have our own lives to lead. We can care for each other and try to help when the going gets tough—you did that when you suggested Laurie come up here in the first place. But she came with her own baggage. You're not responsible for that. Don't forget why you made that initial offer. Her life was a mess back home."
"It doesn't help, Joe. I've told myself all that."
"Where are her parents? Right now"
Gail looked at him, startled. "I . . . in Connecticut."
"They're not here? They didn't come up?"
"They will," she said weakly. "They're making plans. They know she's safe . . . that I'
m here with her."
He let his long silence speak for him.
"I've got to put things right," she finally murmured.
"You're not seeing her as a victim only, are you?" he asked eventually
"What do you mean?"
"That the Lauries of the world, no matter their backgrounds, do have some responsibility for how they end up."
"I know that," she said, her voice tensing.
"It's not just good and evil," he continued, ignoring the warning. "Most dealers are users, and most users end up as thieves, prostitutes, mules, you name it. It's a mixed-up mess, but it's a mess most of them acknowledge right up to the end. That's why some of them actually beat it and get better—because deep down they know they can. They're the only ones accountable."
She was angry at the condescension she heard in his words—the platitudes that allowed him the distance he needed to function in his job. But she also knew what he was attempting, and so merely placed her hand against his mouth and said, "Stop."
He straightened, caught off guard, and studied her closely.
"I don't care about all that," she explained. "I don't care how people rationalize their way clear. I saw how that works when I was raped and reduced to an unidentified victim in the paper. I see part of me in Laurie, Joe, in ways you'll never understand, and I won't put up with it any more now than I did back then."
Gunther was vaguely confused by parts of what she was saying. He thought about asking her what her plans were, knowing how capable she was of setting almost anything in motion.
But he also finally recognized the anger in her eyes, and with it an extra element he thought might be pure bewilderment. There was a shift going on here he'd never before seen in this woman he thought he knew so well.
He stroked her shoulder instead of responding, and simply informed her, "This probably isn't the right time, but I mentioned that the guy you met in Laurie's room had been caught. He was actually killed in a shoot-out with the PD. I didn't want you to hear that on the news."
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