The Ridealong

by Michaelbrent Collings

  "This is bad, Mel." Dad looks at me. "Someone's framed us. And when Liam... when that happened... I was going to call it in. Just call it in and screw the evidence at the other scene. But...." He hitches in a shuddering breath. "I told you that shell on the roof was an M4, remember?"

  I nod. Proud of myself for managing that. The wad at the back of my throat has turned sour. I feel like puking. "Military," I say.

  "Yeah. Also police issue. We have a lot of guys packing them in the backs of their cruisers."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying that was a cop car that followed us here. Police issue weaponry killed someone in cold blood during what's looking more and more like a setup. I'm saying that we can't trust anyone."

  He lets that hang in the air between us, a statement pregnant with meaning. With threat.

  "We have to figure this out," he says. "Because until we know what's going on we don't know who to go to for help. And the only thing we have to go on is that card in Liam's wallet."

  "What does the card even mean?"

  "I'd bet it's our next stop. Our next move in this sick little game. Jack wants us going to this place. He's been watching us every step of the way, Mel. He was there. Pushing us to find the brass the shooter left when he killed the 'banger a month ago. Pushing us into place to see Liam." He pauses. "He wants us going to certain places in a certain order, Mel."

  "Then shouldn't we avoid those places?"

  Dad nods. "Probably. But we don't have much choice at the moment."

  And I know he's right.

  9

  DAD REACHES FOR THE MDT, and as soon as he does I realize that it's flashing. Onscreen: a yellow box with bright red letters. He touches the screen and a new dialogue box appears.

  "Dammit," he says.

  I lean in to see what he's dammit-ing about. On a night like this it must be something pretty serious. At this point anything less than a nuclear attack is going to seem unimportant by comparison.

  This is definitely a nuke. A series of numbers and letters I don't understand, but then a sentence that's easy enough to figure out: "Ofcr Latham No. 2055 Car 42 POI homcd. Dtr Melissa Latham age 17 POI homcd. Last sn w Ofcr Latham. Apprch w caution."

  Officer Latham. Badge and car number. Person of interest in a homicide. Me, too.

  They're looking for us.

  Dad looks away from the MDT. His lips pursed. Then he pulls to the side of the road.

  "What are we –?" Before I finish the sentence, I already know.

  The car. Cruisers have GPS devices in them. Devices that allow officers to get around in the event they're dispatched to an unfamiliar location. Devices that allow the cars to be tracked.

  We're sitting ducks.

  As soon as I think that, a bright light flashes. White spears that bounce off the rear- and side-view mirrors, then back into my eyes. Not as bad as the spotlight from the alley, but nearly.

  Then blue and red.

  "Pull to the right and stop the car," says a voice over a PA.

  Dad mutters something under his breath that would have gotten me a serious talking to if I had been the one to say it. Then I fly backward in my seat as he floors it.

  He takes a corner almost instantly, and the light disappears from my eyes as we leave the cruiser behind. Then it swings back into view. My eyes fill with angry tears.

  This isn't my fault!

  What did I do to deserve this?

  Shut up, stupid!

  I feel like the candy in a piñata as Dad whips the wheel side to side, barely missing cars and taking corners way too fast. I feel the wheels on my side leave the pavement once, and I scream.

  He's got his lights on now, his siren wailing. Using one hand to steer, the other flipping lights and sirens to different patterns so people hear and see better and get out of the way get out of the way get out of the way!

  The car behind us loses ground. Then it's joined by a second cruiser and both of them surge forward like they have more strength when together.

  And worse, I hear a sound that's familiar and chilling: thwop-thwop-thwop. It cuts through the banshee screech of the sirens, through the angry squeal of the tires.

  A chopper.

  A light that makes the previous spotlight look like a candle in a cavern brightens the area all around our car. I went up in a police chopper once and saw the SX-16 Nightsun light at work. It can shine hundreds of feet and light up something brighter than the summer sun at noon. The pilot – a cute guy named Officer Alyk – told me he'd never lost someone once he caught them with the beam.

  I believed him.

  My stomach sinks through the seat below me. We've been spotted from land and sky. We're going to be caught. And I have no doubt that Jack told the truth when he said there was enough evidence at the scene of Knight's murder to put both my father and me away forever.

  "Dad," I say.

  "I know," he says back. Two words that say a lot. I know about the helicopter. I know we're in trouble. I know we have to get away. I don't know how.

  Then he spins the steering wheel. The car wraps itself around a corner and I feel the wheels on my side leave the asphalt again. My stomach lurches away from the seat cushions and tries to explode out of my throat. I gag back vomit – barfing won't help Dad right now.

  The turn morphs into a power slide, and our car glances off a car parked on the opposite side of the street before managing to straighten out and move forward again. Straight into the path of an oncoming truck.

  Dad whips the wheel to the side. The truck's horn blares. We scrape past so close that the mirror on my side gets clipped right off by the truck's right panel.

  Then I hear another honk. The sound of glass and metal. I look back.

  The two cars following us tried to reproduce our turn. Slammed into each other, then into the truck. I pray no one was going fast enough to be hurt. As if in answer, the truck door opens and I see a cowboy-type lurch out. He starts flinging hands around in obvious rage at the idiot police.

  We're past the land pursuit.

  But the area all around us is still lit to sun-brightness. We're still in danger. The chopper still following.

  And I suddenly see where to go.

  "Turn," I say.

  "What?" Dad says. He looks frazzled by what just happened.

  "Turn here!" I scream.

  He does. And I hope I'm making the right move.

  10

  "GOOD. GOOD MOVE. GOOD thinking, baby," Dad says an instant later. He hits the turn faster than is really safe, but it's more dangerous to go slow. The officers behind us, the ones in the chopper above – they'll all be calling for backup. All hoping to get cars ahead of us.

  We can't let that happen. Not until we make our move.

  Dad pushes the cruiser to its top speed as soon as he hits the freeway. Only a few miles, and if this were daytime we'd be stopped dead in traffic and the chase would be over. But it's night. Rush hour has mostly died down, and we whip in and out of cars, the usual mix of people pulling over, those who wait until we're almost sliding up their tailpipes before finally pulling over, and hopeless drivers who seem to have no clue what they're supposed to do when they see the flashing lights.

  I keep looking over my shoulder. Waiting to see lights behind us. No one can stop us from ahead – at least not while we stay on the freeway. There's a concrete median, waist-high, that would keep anyone from coming the opposite direction and whipping over to take up the chase again.

  But I also figure that if this goes on too long they'll just enter on an onramp ahead of us and shut the whole freeway down. No getting away then.

  Dad coaxes a few more miles per hour out of the car.

  I think I see blue lights behind us.

  "Dad."

  "Yeah. I know. I see it."

  We make it to the tunnel. The light that's been following us cuts off abruptly, and as soon as it does Dad whips the wheel to the right.

  I had hoped we could get to this
tunnel, then turn onto an off ramp that branches directly out of the tunnel like some weird capillary from a concrete artery. The street the off ramp feeds to leads to the airport, and the police helicopter can't follow us there. Restricted airspace. We'll be safe. Or at least safer.

  But with the black-and-white behind us, that plan isn't as good. The chopper won't matter if we've still got a tail.

  So what's Dad doing, stopping here?

  He reaches below the dash and yanks the lever that pops the hood. Jumps out his side of the car and is almost flattened by a passing big rig. It honks its airhorn.

  Dad flings the hood open.

  Then he stands in the center of the tunnel. Right in the middle of oncoming traffic.

  And the car coming his way does not stop. Doesn't even slow down.

  11

  FOR A MOMENT I'M BACK in the dream. Back in my father's body, watching death come his way. Not able to do anything, to act or even to move. Just fully aware of his fear, his terror, his everything.

  The car – a little red thing that looks like it's never been washed – swerves at the last second. A middle finger rams out the side window. Almost hits Dad in the side of the head.

  Dad cringes, but stays in the middle of the lane.

  The blue lights on the horizon are brighter. Getting closer. Can't see the car yet, but soon. At the other end of the tunnel, the spotlight of the chopper is waiting to eat us alive.

  The next car that comes along – a yellow car that's probably older than me – actually stops for Dad's upraised palm. The owner leans out. "Is everything okay, officer?" It's a bearded guy with what looks like real concern on his face.

  Dad doesn't bat an eye. He gestures at me. "I've got a passenger who I need to get to the hospital and my car just stopped. I need you to take us."

  Beardo's eyes flick my direction. And I guess I don't look sick enough for a hospital, because he loses the concern. He leans back, away from me, away from Dad.

  "Uhhh, I don't think...."

  Dad doesn't let him finish the sentence. He moves around to the backseat and opens the door. Gestures me in. I move as fast as I can, not bothering to look sick since our driver doesn't believe I am anyway.

  Dad pushes in after me.

  "Look," he says. "I need you to take us all of a mile. Then drop us off. You do it and I leave you alone. You don't and I arrest your ass. Get me?"

  Beardo nods slowly. He puts the car in gear. "Where to?"

  "Next offramp."

  Dad guides the guy down the road. The blue and red streaks get brighter, but don't fully catch up. Probably stopped at the cruiser, wondering where we are.

  We turn off at the ramp that leads to the airport. Beardo keeps looking at me and Dad with open worry in his eyes. "It's okay," I say. He smiles like he wishes he could believe that.

  "Turn here," says Dad.

  A side street. Dark looking. The guy freezes. "No. I mean... please don’t...."

  "Just do it." Dad suddenly sounds dangerous. A stranger. I look at him. He's got a dark cast to his face, a look I've never seen. I wonder if he'll hurt Beardo if he doesn't follow directions.

  Beardo looks like he's wondering the same thing. A fight erupts on his face. No telling if he wins or loses against himself, but he turns the wheel. Turns onto the sidestreet.

  "Good. Pull over here."

  Beardo does. "Are you going to hurt me?"

  "No." That's all Dad says, and that's weird, too. I would have expected him to reassure the guy, to tell him he was never in danger. Maybe even make a joke. But all the driver gets is that single word, that one clipped syllable.

  I look at Dad again. Wonder how far he's willing to go to protect himself – and me – from jail.

  Himself? Who knows.

  Me? I suspect he'll go as far as it takes.

  The chopper is no longer circling us. I can still hear it in the distance, but I can't see it. Too many buildings and bridges and interchanges between it and us.

  Dad gets out. I slide out after him. Beardo looks at us, terror on his face. His eyes rove wildly. He looks like he might stroke out in a minute.

  "Get going," says Dad.

  "I...."

  "Go!"

  Our driver burns rubber. Gone.

  "What now?" Dad says, and I know he's not really speaking to me, not really looking for an answer. There might not even be an answer.

  We're on foot. Alone. Pursued.

  And now, without a doubt, wanted for murder.

  12

  DAD TURNS A DIAL ON his radio. Listens to the chatter and turns it up so I can hear it as well.

  I breathe a bit easier when I hear it – which means I go from "going to die of panic" to just "going to have a major heart attack." Sounds like the officers are still in the tunnel. The chopper looking around, the pilots frustrated that so much airspace is denied them.

  That, though, is a bad sign: they know we could be in this area. And that means it's only a matter of time before this region is crawling with patrols.

  I don't know the area very well. The only time I was here was when Dad and I went on a vacation to Florida. Disneyworld. And then we just took the Flyaway shuttle, driving down in a bus that drove us to the airport so we didn't have to pay outrageous parking fees in any of the garages or carparks near the –

  I freeze. "Dad, wasn't the Moo Cow place near here?"

  He nods. "Yeah. Yeah it was."

  We begin walking. I can tell Dad wants to run, but this being the city there are still enough people awake, a few even out on the street, that a cop running along with a teen girl trailing after might look a bit strange. So... a fast walk.

  Very fast. It probably still looks weird.

  We get to the Moo Cow place faster than I expect. I don't know what it's called, but we saw it from the Flyaway shuttle. I remembered it as being right after we left the tunnel on the freeway, and it was an easy place to remember: a carpark with a giant cow straddling the entrance and a sign above its butt saying "Our Parking Prices Are UDDERly Ridiculous." Dad and I laughed about the Moo Cow place all the way to Disneyworld.

  And Dad knows what I was thinking when I asked about it now. Knows that we're about to add to our rap sheets.

  In addition to being wanted for murder, we're about to become car thieves.

  The giant cow looms ahead after a few more blocks of speed walking. Sign still on its butt, and I guess it's effective advertising – I sure remembered it.

  I wonder what we're going to do, but Dad just saunters onto the lot. An attendant greets us. He's got a red vest on over a dirty shirt that says "Shove it, eat it, punch it," and then the name of some band in faded letters. The tag on his vest says "Danley," which strikes me as weird.

  Danley nods. "Can we help you officer?"

  "Just showing a friend around my beat," says Dad. "You mind if we do a check of the lot?"

  Danley doesn't bat an eye. "Mi casa su casa, bro," he says. Waves us in. "Just don't breathe on the Ferrari in the third row. The guy who owns it has eyes everywhere." He winks to show he doesn't give a crap if we beat said Ferrari with the expandable baton Dad's packing on his belt.

  Dad winks back. Even gives him a punch on the arm. Just havin' fun. Nothin' to see here. Definitely no persons of interest in a murder case! Mi casa su casa, bro!

  We walk into the carpark. Danley disappears into a little white structure that looks like nothing so much as an outhouse parked between the cow's legs.

  Dad barely waits for him to disappear before turning down one of the aisles. He pulls his flashlight and starts looking into cars.

  "We looking for one in particular?" I say.

  "Yeah. One with keys."

  I feel like hitting myself. Stupid question.

  Dad walks quickly. I try to help out, but I have no light. The car interiors are too dark for me to see.

  "Bingo." Dad opens a car. It's a Nissan, dark grey. The inside smells like cigarette smoke, but I don't think we can afford to be pic
ky.

  It's close to Danley's outhouse. If he comes out – even glances through the tiny window in the side – we're done.

  Dad moves fast. So do I. Inside in a blink. Dad turns the key. The engine revs up. After sitting in the cruiser all day it sounds weak, just a ghost of what an engine should be.

  Still, it moves the tires. Dad pulls out of the short-term parking space. Moves away from the outhouse. "How we gonna get out?" I say.

  He pushes on. "Most of these places have an exit in the back."

  Sure enough – two more turns and we're in front of a yellow and black striped gate. It's lowered.

  "We bashing through?"

  Dad shakes his head. Produces a keycard. "Where'd you get –?" I begin. Then remember: Dad punching Danley's shoulder. Not mi casa su casa. Rather mi gate card su gate card. Still, I'm shocked. "Where did you learn to pickpocket?"

  He grins. Swipes the card over a reader. The gate lifts. "You think I've been processing criminals this long without learning anything?"

  For some reason my dad's previously unknown ability to break the law makes him suddenly cooler.

  We pull out of the carpark.

  On our way to Pier Point.

  13

  I ASK DAD IF HE KNOWS where we're going. He does. Says Pier Point is a fish market down by the pier. He's bought shrimp and even a lobster tail or two there for some of the more important barbecues over the years – when close friends got promoted, married, things like that.

  He grimaces when he says that, and I can tell what he's thinking: Pier Point is a place where cops shop. Another tie to the boys in blue. This is looking worse and worse – for us and for the department.

  I wonder what this is all about, and how far it goes. That there are bad cops involved isn't in doubt. You don't open fire on a pair of people in an alley with no warning unless you intend to kill them. And that's not exactly in the department handbooks.

  But is it one bad apple? Two? Is the whole tree spoiled?