Джон Макдональд - The End of the Night

On this particular summer Carl had learned that books could be made even more enjoyable if devoured far from the foolish clatter of mankind, and so on every day when the weather was favorable, he would load books, his private journal, his peanut butter sandwiches and his Thermos of milk into the basket on the front of his bike and pump his way up into the hills.

On Monday morning, the twenty-seventh day of July, Carl pedaled up the long slopes of highway, panting audibly by the time he came to his turnoff, a sandy road that was wide and clear for a hundred yards before it faded away to an impassable track. As he rested, before hiding his bike in the brush, he noted that a car had turned around with some difficulty and gone back out, leaving the only set of fresh tracks since the last rain. He also saw a jumble of footprints. Picnickers or neckers, he thought. It was correct to assume their activities were trivial, whatever they were.

He hid his bike and, clasping his packaged possessions, went down the short, steep slope from the road to a fast, wide, noisy brook, crossed by stepping from stone to stone, and climbed the long hill beyond the brook until, winded once more, he came to his favorite place, level, grassy, shaded by old trees. From there he could see for miles but it was a view undefiled by man, consisting of only the gentle contours of the uncontaminated hills.

He spent the long summer day in reading, writing and peaceful contemplation. When he was finally warned by the angle of the sun, he gathered up his things, took a look at his private landscape, and trudged back down to the creek. His view was obscured by the brush that grew on the hillside. Sometimes he angled to avoid especially steep places. Consequently he came out at the creek at least thirty yards downstream from where he had crossed in the morning.

As he crossed the creek he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, not far away. He turned and saw, sprawled against the small round boulders at the water’s edge, the silent, lovely symmetry of a woman’s legs, a soiled white skirt wrenched upward to mid-thigh, a quiet curve of back in close-fitting green, a hand stubbed cruelly against a boulder, wedged there by her weight. The face was hidden, but the water, moving with chill insistence around a small pebbled curve, tugged with endless persistence at a floating strand of blond hair.

He stared, then burst up the abrupt bank in front of him, running wildly toward the hidden bicycle. But as he ran he began to realize that his reactions were not suitable to a Villon, a Mencken, a Christopher Fry. Detachment was the epic quality of his whole galaxy of heroes. And so he stopped and turned and went slowly back to the woman and knelt there for a moment, studying her closely. He then reclimbed the bank and began to saunter toward home. After he had reached the highway, he remembered his bicycle. Once he had retrieved the bicycle, the empty basket reminded him of his books. By retracing his steps he found them beside the creek.

He was able to coast a good part of the way to Laughlintown. He went directly to the police station and strolled in.

“I should like to report something,” he said haughtily to a bored shirtsleeved man working at a scarred desk, typing a report with two fingers.

The officer looked at him with growing distaste. “Report what, kid?”

“Perhaps twenty minutes ago I found the body of a woman up in the hills. She’s either dead or seriously injured. She’s blond, barefoot, possibly in her twenties, wearing a white skirt and a green blouse. From tracks on a sand road near where she’s lying, I’d say she’s been there since last night.”

After a few moments of astonishment, the officer jumped to his feet and said, “Tell me exactly where you saw this woman, kid!”

“We could be there before I could possibly explain to you how to get there. So why don’t you get a doctor and an ambulance and more officers if you need them, and I’ll ride in the lead vehicle and show you the way.”

“If this is some kind of a gag...”

Carl said icily, “If I enjoyed jokes, I’d think up better ones than this.”

It went well because it was handled by experts, and because the plan was flexible, imaginative and airtight. And there had been advance warning from so high a place that it was taken seriously.

The instructions from the control centers were monitored and recorded, and so this particular pickup was sufficiently well documented to become a classic — written up in the mass magazines, and used as a case study in the police schools.

When a pickup is badly handled, it becomes a bloody, dramatic, unorganized thing. Where it is done properly, it can happen so quietly that people ten feet away are unaware of it.

This pickup presented a unique problem. A high-speed, high-density, limited-access highway is no place for heroics with sirens. A car can’t be forced over onto the shoulder without the risk of a gigantic pile-up. A chase could result in heavy casualties among the innocents on vacation. And so it was decided that it had to be a stalk, a stalk so discreet that the prey would be lulled into a place where they could be taken quietly. It could be assumed that if it was fumbled, their desperation could result in explosive violence. And it was assumed the vehicle was a rolling arsenal. There can be no room for optimism in such an operation.

At 5:22 the target car entered the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Station 22 at Morgantown. The attendant phoned the nearest control center immediately and reported the license number. It checked out as a car reported stolen in the Pittsburgh area Sunday night. As any law enforcement agency will confirm, plate numbers and descriptions of stolen cars are constantly circulated, but they are next to useless in apprehending car thieves. The volume is just too great. A very few patrol officers with excellent memories make a hobby of constantly checking for stolen vehicles as a way of combating the boredom of patrol, but generally speaking, if a stolen car is operated in a legal manner by a person who does not excite suspicion, apprehension is exceedingly rare. Routine checks of operators’ licenses, arrest due to traffic violations, and abandonment of the vehicle are the usual channels through which recovery is made.

In this instance the check of the license against the latest theft list was an additional confirmation of the identity of the vehicle.

As soon as word was received that the vehicle was on the pike, an all-points alarm was sent, and the nearest vehicles were diverted to the priority target. During the twenty miles and twenty minutes it took the target vehicle to reach the Valley Forge area, the pattern of the stalk had been established. An unmarked vehicle containing two officers had caught up at high speed, slowed, and drifted close enough to confirm the identification, and had then dropped inconspicuously back into position four hundred yards behind the Mercury. A standard patrol car followed approximately a mile behind the unmarked car. As quickly as possible other patrol cars were stationed at the exists ahead, one at each exit, each one in contact with the unmarked car tailing the target vehicle.

The procedure to be followed should the target vehicle attempt to leave the turnpike had been established. It would move over to the exit lane. The unmarked car would increase speed so as to exit immediately behind it. The patrol car a mile back would be alerted and would increase speed also, so as to exit as close as possible without creating alarm. The patrol car waiting outside the gates would be alerted. As soon as the target car had committed itself to one particular exit, the waiting car would move across the front of it and block it. The attendant would drop to the floor of the booth. The unmarked car would block any attempt to back away. The rear car would plug traffic at the exit ramp to keep the public away from the party.