The darkness seems to push into the car a little faster with each tick higher the speedometer climbs. Like we're rushing into darkness, and the darkness is eager to hold us.
Here's the scariest thing about riding shotgun with a cop: how rarely they drive with both hands on the wheel. And how often they drive with no hands on the wheel. There's a radio they can talk on. There's also the mobile data terminal – a computer hanging right in the center of the dash – where info on current rollouts and officer activity constantly comes up... along with the occasional off-color joke or call for after-shift beers. Cops can also input license plate numbers, names, tons of stuff in the MDT. In response they get info that may determine whether they treat you like a soccer mom or a Colombian drug lord on your traffic stop.
The thing with using the MDT, though: it means you're typing. And reading a screen. Which means beat cops often have one hand on the keyboard, one hand holding their radio or phone, one eye on the MDT, and one on the street. If you've been paying attention and counting, you know that this leaves a startling lack of hands for the wheel.
That's what knees are for.
So my dad is rolling down Chinden, one hundred miles p.h. and counting, his eyes flicking back and forth from the MDT to the road, honking occasionally when someone doesn't move aside fast enough, typing in a quick request for info, following that request with another verbal request to dispatch.
I felt like wetting myself.
We get there fast, though. The place we are headed is three miles away, and it takes about two minutes to get there. Maybe less.
When we get there, he slows. You rush to a scene, you take it slow when you get there. Because rushing gets you dead.
Dad's a careful cop. A good cop.
And for some reason, I think we're going to need him to be both.
Night has fallen.
Full dark.
The hairs on my arm stand up. I can almost hear a voice in my mind.
Something's about to happen.
Something very bad.
3
DAD TURNS ON HIS SPOTLIGHT as he drives, flashing it in long sweeping lines that blanket a few storefronts in brightness. But as bright as the light is, it's just a single spear against an army of black. This part of town isn't the nicest. It isn't the worst, but it's nowhere I'd come without an armed escort.
I look at the window as though it might have rolled itself down in the past few minutes. Left me vulnerable to whatever's waiting out there in the dark.
The window is up. Nothing beyond. I see my own reflection, a vague outline that's barely more than a shadow.
Dad grunts. Found something.
The car slows, stops. He doesn't turn off the engine. "Stay in the car," he says.
"Not a problem," I say. I know to stay in the car, and I'm a little irritated he thinks he has to say it. I've been a cop's kid my whole life. I know not to shove my nose anywhere unwanted.
We've stopped next to an alley: a darker river in a dark ocean. Two storefronts butt up almost on top of each other, but there's a ten foot space between them. Enough to qualify as an alley, but not enough to drive the car between them.
Dad moves into the alley. Careful. Slow. Safe. He presses the radio clipped to his shirt and says something. No idea if it's "I'm here," "All's well," or "Holy crap send everyone."
He's far enough into the alley that I can barely see him in the dark. He's a shadow, almost a ghost in the nothing of the night.
For some reason, when he goes I feel scared. Not normal fear, not the fear of anyone when their dad goes into something that could be dangerous. This is beyond that. It's like I'm disappearing into the fear. Like every step he takes into that alley – every step he takes away from me – is a step I'm taking toward my own death. Like he's my only anchor in the night, and without him I'll just spin away into nothing.
I can barely see him now. But I can make out enough to see him bend over, then straighten so fast I expect him to launch out of his shoes. Then he bends over again.
A long moment. He's completely unmoving, and I start to wonder if something could have happened to him. Is there any weapon that could freeze a man like that? Is he hurt? Did he have a heart attack?
Then he moves. Fast. Runs back to the car. I expect him to go to his door and grab some police tape or his notes or some other supply he needs. He does none of those things.
He runs to my side. Yanks open the door. Then yanks me out.
"Come on," he says. "Fast."
Faster than I can breathe he's pulled me into the alley. Into darkness.
Into a nightmare.
4
WHEN HE LEFT BEFORE I felt like my reality was slipping away. Now it slams back. Hard. So hard it hurts.
His grip on my arm. His breathing. The sour smell of his sweat, of mine.
The fear that I see across his face, in his eyes.
"What?" I say. "What's going –?"
"Quiet," he says. Not angry, but the word is almost a snarl. Not a tone he's ever used with me before.
Still pulling me. Yanking me along. Deeper into the alley, into that dark river of madness.
And now I see what's there. What he found.
It's Knight.
"Oh, God." For a second I don't know if it's him or me who said the words. A whispered prayer in that dark river, two words begging for help from someone too far away to hear. "Oh, God," the words come again. Me. It's me speaking.
Knight is laying there, still and silent in the middle of another river. This one dark as well, but it's the dark red of a life bled to nothing. His eyes stare straight up. For a second I have the insane feeling they're looking at me. Accusing me.
No. Just up. Just at the sky. Just at nothing.
Knight is dead.
I never liked him much. But not liking someone much isn't the same as wanting them dead, and seeing his body like this....
"Why...?"
I can't finish the thought.
Why did this happen?
Why would you bring me here?
Why is he staring like that?
Dad looks at me, then points. Knight's hand.
I look. I see. I don't believe.
But now I know why Dad dragged me from the car.
5
ONE OF KNIGHT'S HANDS is outstretched. Touching the wall of the alley, a thin line of blood on the alley wall. It spells a word. Just one, hastily drawn with a final letter that trails to nothing and ends just along his cold finger.
"What.... What's that?" I say.
Dad's radio chirps. "Is she here?"
The voice is different than the dispatcher I heard before. Or any I've heard at all, ever. There are only four or five city dispatchers that I know of, and they're all women. This voice is low, scratchy. Definitely a guy. And for some reason his voice makes something uncoil in my stomach. Something so cold it burns me.
This, I realize, is my first brush with terror. Not just in a dream, but in real life. Not just in an imagined Then, but in a living Now.
"Yeah." Dad doesn't take his eyes off the body. I have to look away or I'll start screaming. Probably won't stop. The thing in my stomach turns over again. "Who are you?"
"Does it matter?"
Dad's voice, jamming its way through gritted teeth: "Yeah. It does."
"Soon," says the voice. "Soon." A long moment, a forever moment when the thing in my body bites and scorches and I try not to look at Knight and I fail.
Eyes open.
Finger dipped in blood.
And....
"Dad." I point.
Knight's other hand is closed. But not so big it can completely hide what it holds. Something pink, something I recognize. Dad gave it to me a year ago. A joke gift, but I loved it and have used it every day since then.
"I know," he says.
The Hello Kitty wallet is mine. No doubt, it even has the black corner where I set it too close to the stove once before making some Ramen soup.
"What's t
hat doing here?" I say. My voice starts to rise, and I know I'm getting hysterical. Can't help it. The thing in my stomach coils its way up my spine. I'm shivering. Teeth chattering around my words. "What's it doing here, Dad, what're we doing here what's going on?"
Dad's radio chirps. The voice comes out. "We're going to play a game."
"I don't play games with strangers." Dad answers so fast it's like he was waiting for this, like he knew the words were coming and what they would be. Everything has sped up, everything is suddenly out of control.
I feel like I'm back in my dream.
"I don't care." The voice snaps out, twice as hard and fast as Dad's did. Then it grows cheerful. And it's not forced: whoever this is sounds genuinely happy. "There is evidence all around the crime scene. Not just what you see. Not just your name and your daughter's wallet. There are hair samples, there are bits of your skin under Knight's nails." He pauses, delivering a deathstroke. "The cops – the real cops, the detectives – will even find a fingerprint or two. Yours. Enough to send you both to jail forever. Which is fitting, don't you think?"
Dad is trembling. His hand shaking so badly he can barely activate his radio. "I don't know what.... Why are you doing this?"
Silence. So long it's unbearable. Dad reaches for me. I shrug him off. Comfort is impossible, and I don't want to be touched.
If he touches me it's real. It can't be real so don't let him touch me I won't let him touch me he can't touch me this can't be real can't be real can't BE REAL.
A faraway part of me knows I'm drowning in this moment. Could lose myself.
This is what it feels like when your life ends. When it all changes.
"If you don't already know, if you can't already see the answers," says the voice – the Voice, "you will." I can hear his smirk. His ugly joy in this moment. "You will, I promise you. But for now you should get in your car, both of you. And roll out. Because backup is coming. And if they find this with you here you'll go to jail and there's no way you'll ever see the light of day again." Another long pause, another set of perversely grinning words: "Are you in your car, kiddies? Time to roll. The game's started, whether you want to play or not. The only question isn't whether you play, but whether you'll win or lose."
Dad grabs me.
We get in the car and Dad starts it up.
We drive.
Dad's radio squawks. Laughter comes out of it. That monster in my stomach laughs in time.
The game has begun.
6
"DAD?" I SAY. MY VOICE is small. "What's happening?"
"I don't know." His voice, the first thing I hear in the morning and the last thing I hear at night, sounds thin and strained. Not strong, but the voice of a ghost. I half expect him to disappear from the car.
The radio squawks. "Twenty fifty-five."
"Go, twenty fifty-five." Dad answers like it's an official call, but it's not. It's him. It's the Voice.
"I've left clues for you, and clues for the police. They'll be searching for you."
"Who am I searching for?"
The Voice laughs. That strange, dangerous laugh. "Me, of course."
Dad glances at me. He turns a corner so fast the right wheel bumps over the curb. My teeth bounce together.
"You want to be found?"
"Don't we all, Latham?"
"What do I do?"
"The evidence at the scene of Officer Knight's death is enough to send you to jail."
"Not Mel. She's a minor." Dad doesn't sound like he's making a statement. More like he's praying. Almost begging.
"You know minors can be treated as adults if they're old enough. If the crime is malicious enough." The radio turns off. I can imagine the man behind the Voice licking his lips. "We're talking about very bad things here, Latham."
"You know my name. What's yours."
"Why don't you call me Jack?"
"Is that your name?"
"Put your daughter on."
"No way."
"Put her on, or I kill someone else."
"No way, I –"
Another voice comes on the radio. Terrified. Screaming. "Please! PLEASE DON'T DO IT PLEASE JUST LET ME GO –"
Silence. Then, a whisper. "Put your daughter on. Please. I won't ask again."
My dad looks at me. Asking with his eyes: Can you?
I want to tell him, No. Of course I can't.
But that scream. Someone's life hangs on what I do.
I take the mic.
"Hell –" My voice catches. I have to swallow and try again. Dad takes another turn too fast. Honks angrily at a pedestrian who's not crossing the street quickly enough and almost becomes a hood ornament.
Part of me wonders where we are. I can't keep track of all that's going on. I'm disappearing in panic.
"Hello?" I say. "Who is this?" I feel like an idiot saying that, like Dad has just handed me the phone on a nice summer day. But it's all I can think to say.
"Hello, Mel," says the Voice – Jack. "So nice to speak to you."
"Why are you doing this?"
Another lame question from me, and again, I can hear that grin. Jack is expressive. If I could see this guy in front of me I doubt I'd have a better handle on what his face is doing. "If you have to ask, you're not ready for the answer. Neither of you."
"What do you want from us?"
"Ahhhhh...." Now Jack sounds like he's just tucked into Thanksgiving dinner. Contentment mixed with something like a compliment. "That's the right place to start. That's the right question. And in return I have one of my own: when you dream, what do you dream of, Mel?"
"Don't answer that," Dad whispers. "We can't let this guy into our heads."
A new chill grabs me, grips me and won't let go. "Was it you? Was it you that called this morning?"
Silence. Then, "What do you dream of, Mel? You dream of the day your father saved his friends, don't you? The day he almost died. The day someone almost took you away from each other."
"Yes." The word comes out before I can stop it. I know I shouldn't get in a mind game with Jack.
But then, you're already in one. The only question is what move you'll make. Even silence plays a part, so maybe this is the right way to go.
"Yes," I say again, and force myself to sound stronger than I feel. "Yes, I dream of that. So what?"
"So that's how this game starts."
"What do you mean?"
"You're on Fifth and Center," says Jack. I look at the cross street we're passing. He's right. A quick look to my dad shows he's as startled as I am.
Who is this guy?
"I know you don't know this, since we're on channel thirteen," he says. And for the first time I notice that we're not on the normal dispatch channel – there's been no competing chatter, just us and Jack and dead air. Dad must have switched in the alley. Must have been told to switch. "But I've been monitoring the other channels," Jack continues. "Your brothers in blue have found the recently departed Knight, Officer Latham. They haven't put you at the scene. Yet. But they will." A moment, like he's thinking. But I know he's not. He's got this planned. Everything is happening just like he wants. "Passing Seventh and Center now."
Another glance, another confirmation. This guy is tracking us. He knows where we are just as perfectly as if he's in the car with us.
"You're about five minutes from your first real move," says Jack. "I'll give you an extra minute to figure out where you should go. That's six minutes, total. In six minutes you'll be there. Or in six minutes and one second I call the others, the ones at the scene, and explain to them what you did. And they come for both of you. And they'll find you, because I'll tell them where you are."
Dad snatches the radio back from me. "Why are you doing this, you sonofa –"
"I wouldn't waste time, Latham. Five minutes and fifty seconds."
Jack cuts off.
Dad looks at me.
If I look anything like he does, then we're both looking very scared.
7
&n
bsp; "WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED to do?" Dad says into the mic.
Dead silence is the only answer.
"Hello?" he tries again. Gets more nothing. Flings the radio down so hard it bounces off the center console. I expect it to split in two but somehow it stays in one piece. Which is good – I suspect we'll need it later.
"What do we do?" I ask. Dad doesn't seem to hear me for a second. It makes me feel like we've already lost whatever game we're supposed to be playing. "Dad!" Now my voice whips out, grabs his attention and yanks it over to me. "What do we do?"
He blinks and shakes his head like he's trying to come out of a dream. "I... We should get you out of this."
I look at his MDT computer. There's a clock in the corner. 6:14 p.m. As I watch it flips to 6:15. "No time. Someone's going to die, Dad. We've got to move."
"You don't know that. We don't know that." But he sounds like he doesn't believe himself.
Neither do I.
"We do know it. He's got a serious hate on for us, Dad."
He looks at me again, longer than is safe. I worry he's going to crash us and that'll be the end of the game. Worry washes over his face, drawing deep lines in his forehead and at the corners of his lips. "I'm sorry. Whatever this is, I'm sorry, baby."
"Forget it. Where are we going?"
"I don't –" Then he stops. He pulls a U-turn so hard that my head bounces into the side window. My world spins in opposition to the car and I feel like puking. "The shooting."
"What?"
I know what he's going to say before he says it. Like it's destiny. Or that horrible feeling of foreordination from my dreams, that that strange sense of being outside myself.
"The scene. The shootout." He glances at his MDT and I know he's checking the clock in the corner. "He said we start with your dream. And that's the shootout. It went down in the garment district." Another look at the clock. "We can get there."
I hear the words he doesn't say. The words he can't say, because to say them would be to make them a lie.
The Ridealong Page 4
