Уильям Питер Макгиверн: Murder on the Turnpike

The Ford bucked spasmodically as Bogan shifted gears, and in that momentary halt O’Leary flung the upper part of his body into the back seat of the car. He wrapped his arms around Sheila’s knees and let his weight go limp; and when the car surged forward again, his legs dragged along the ground, and then he was free, slamming painfully against the wet concrete with Sheila’s light weight held desperately in his arms.

O’Leary came to his knees and held her tightly against him for an instant, isolating her from the roar of cars, the flash of gunfire. She was crying hysterically, saying his name over and over, but there was no recognition in her eyes or face. The terror would not leave her for a long time, but she was clinging to someone who would be with her until it did.

O’Leary left her with detectives who had poured from the convoy sedans and ran back to his own patrol car. The Ford had crashed past the loll booth and was racing down the half-mile stretch of highway that led to the bay bridge. But there was no escape now; three blue-and-white patrol cars were speeding after it, maneuvering for position with merciless precision. There were no other cars on the road; Bogan roared down a deserted tunnel, with patrol cars closing in behind him.

O’Leary shot past the toll booth after the pursuing police cars, holding his microphone to his lips. “He’s all alone,” he said. “The girl’s out of the car, she’s safe.” His report sounded in the patrols ahead of him and at headquarters in Riverhead.

Captain Royce said, “Don’t get careless now; don’t take any chances. He’s not going anywhere.” And he issued an order to the bridge police to open their span.

The bridge barriers slid automatically into place, and the powerful cables at the four corners of the bridge began to turn on their drums, lifting the span slowly into the air. “Take him when he stops,” Royce said.

Bogan saw water sparkling ahead of him, spreading away like a broad, calm meadow at dusk, with a soft wind stirring the leaves of grass so that they flashed with the last glancing rays of evening light. It was very lovely; quiet and peaceful. But he couldn’t stop crying. The tears streamed from his mild eyes and ran coldly down his cheeks. He needed someone to comfort him; someone he wasn’t afraid of.

The patrol cars were racing up behind him, he saw; stalking him like great, dangerous animals.

Brilliant red lights flashed in his eyes, and he saw a barrier, and beyond that a heavy chain swinging across the highway. And beyond that nothing but the wide, peaceful meadow that looked like water in the curious confusion of nighttime lights and shadows. He heard the crash of his car against the barrier and then the wrenching, snapping sound of the chain giving, and then he was free at last, soaring toward the dark, mild meadow, as effortlessly as a bird, or a child’s paper airplane.

Dan O’Leary swung his car about and snapped off his siren and beacon lights. He sat for half a moment with his arms crossed on the steering wheel, his forehead resting on the backs of his hands. It was all over; the Ford had plunged into Washington Bay, and after the noise of the crash and a plume of white spray, there was nothing left but the spreading ripples on the surface of the black, silent water.

O’Leary said a prayer that Sheila was safe. Then he started back to Interchange 1, where she was waiting for him. He drove at less than the legal maximum speed, steadily and precisely, his big hands firm on the wheel, his eyes alert on the road ahead of him. There was no need to hurry this last half mile to Interchange 1, he thought gratefully; the important part of him was already there.