Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

The gas cost him over twenty bucks. That pissed him off as well.

When he turned around, his added elevation gave him a view of two guys sitting real low in a jeep parked down the street.

Cops! Connie had fucked up; she had led them here! Or was she in on it?

The panic hit him as hard as if he'd been slugged. in the gut.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught some quick movement.

Some punk kid was headed for his van at a sprint. @e reached it, leaned in, and came out with Donle, s laptop computer. The fucking laptop! The Doc had warned him to never let it out of his sight. The database! The kid took off at a run. Donnie shouted after him. He chased after him, one eye on those Cops. if the cops got hold of that laptop it was all over.

The Doc would see to that.

"Trouble," J.C. Adams announced over the radio. Up until that moment, Boldt's full attention had been on the driver of the van, but now in his peripheral vision he caught sight of the juvenile crossing the street to the gas station and, a few seconds later, leaning into the open door of the van. When, on the end of that kid's arm, Boldt saw a laptop computer, he sat up so quickly he hit his head on the downturned visor. The Professor had found carpet impressions that suggested that one of the two men who had abducted Sharon Shaffer had been carrying a laptop computer. With Connie Chi's connection to Bloodlines, and Bloodlines' connection to Sharon Shaffer, this had to be more than coincidence. "Butch, Danny, you grab the kid. He's coming right at you," Boldt radioed immediately. "J.C., you've got the Saturn. John, you take the van driver on foot-I'll play backup. And listen up: I want everybody brought in, including that laptop. Okay. Go!"

As Boldt watched his team spring into action, Shoswitz came on the radio. "Lou?"

"How about a couple of radio cars, Lieutenant? We're losing this thing," he warned, as he saw their bust go south. Butch and Danny sprang out of the jeep, weapons drawn, and took off after the kid. Displaying lightning-quick reactions, the kid veered down a driveway and vanished. Procedure would have had one of them pursue on foot, the other in the jeep, but procedure didn't matter now. In the heat of the moment, they had both run after the kid, and the likelihood of catching him seemed slim. Boldt barked into the radio, "I need those backups now! Suspect proceeding on foot, northbound between 68th and 69th. If he gets into the park, we've lost him."

The dread of further failure choked his throat as he saw the red Saturn drive quickly out of the gas station, with none of his own cars following. Blocked by a recycling truck, J.C. Adams was forced to go around the block. Boldt punched the button on the radio mike to announce he would switch with Adams, but released it as he saw Lamoia going after the van driver on foot.

Misjudging the situation, Lamoia elected to take a shortcut cutting behind the nearest house. But when the driver of the van saw Butch and Danny, guns drawn, he pulled an abrupt aboutface, leaving Lamoia taking a shortcut to nowhere. This, in turn, made Boldt responsible for the van, which roared off, cutting in behind the slowly moving recycling truck and forcing Boldt to follow. Boldt was no fan of highspeed driving. He not only didn't care for it, he was no good at it, and he knew it. At the first intersection he braked for the stop sign, slowing considerably-out of habit. He should have been calling in his position and situation over the radio, but he needed both hands on the wheel. He was sweating; his scalp itched. He should have been all but ignoring stop signs, but his right foot kept betraying him and tapping the brakes.

The van remained in sight, but just barely. It was suddenly making big speed. it ran two lights and negotiated a series of quick turns. Boldt managed to keep it in sight, but at this rate he knew he wouldn't keep up for long. On a brief moment of straightaway, Boldt reached for the radio to call in his position. just as he grabbed hold of it, a skateboard shot out from between parked cars. Fast on its heels was a boy of about twelve. Boldt jerked the wheel sharply to the left and slammed on the brakes. The car swerved in a squealing of rubber. A pencil skidded across the dash and disappeared down the defrost. The driver-side sun visor slapped Boldt in the forehead and forced him to duck beneath it in order to see. The front right tire crushed the skateboard.

The bumper missed the boy by inches. Boldt kept his foot on the brakes. The van continued on up ahead, growing smaller. It turned right. Boldt checked the rearview mirror. The boy was okay. In his right hand he discovered the radio microphone, its coiled wire disconnected and dangling like a stretched spring-he had ripped it out of the radio housing. He had lost all communication with dispatch.

He took the same right, following the van's route. Three blocks ahead of him, he saw it turn north onto Aurora, State Highway 99. A four-lane road with occasional lights, the traffic was typically congested and unpredictable. Boldt slowed at the next red light, but ran it. Getting the hang of this. Maybe he would attract the attention of a traffic cruiser. He craned across the front seat and located the dash-mount flasher. He tossed it up onto the dash and threw the switch, facing the blue, pulsating light forward. He forced his place into the left lane and put his foot down. By switching lanes repeatedly, the van continued to pull away from him. Boldt was no match for such maneuvers. He lost sight of it as it followed a long, arching turn to the right. He stepped on it.

A police cruiser approached in the opposing lanes. Boldt rolled down his window and beat on the side of his car, signaling-he hoped-for backup. His eyes left his lane for only a second, but when he looked back, the traffic ahead of him had come to a complete stop.

He slammed on the brakes, the car in an immediate skid, the remaining distance shrinking impossibly fast. He then pumped the brakes as he'd been trained to do-a half dozen times in quick little jabs. He cut his speed in half. The unforgiving back bumper of a pickup truck loomed directly ahead. Thirty yards to go. Twenty. An adrenaline rush choked him. His hands tightened on the wheel. Miles … Liz … Bear Berenson saying, "This here is the Lou Boldt. More brakes. Still too fast.

Too close … Mentally, these last few seconds slowed perceptibly. He could feel the shrinking space between his vehicle and the pickup, he could somehow measure it precisely.

In desperation, he hit and held the brakes. The back tires cried out. The car fishtailed.

The pickup truck-this entire lane of trafficrolled forward as drivers anticipated a green light. This added one vehicle length of roadway between Boldt and the pickup. He skidded to a stop inches behind the pickup.

The van was sitting four cars up. He grabbed for his weapon.

Weapons were not his way, this kind of street cop work was not his work, but he saw little choice.

The driver of that van was connected to Sharon Shaffer's abduction.

The stopped traffic was nothing more than a red traffic light, not a traffic jam as he had first believed. In a moment the traffic would begin to roll again. In a moment Boldt would be doing sixty again chasing him. He checked his rearview mirror: That patrol car was nowhere to be seen. All alone.

He threw the car into PARK and approached the van in a squat from the passenger side in order to avoid the chance of being seen in the driver door mirror. He hurried between waiting cars, his back cramping. Too old for this shit. Someone behind him honked, pissed off, no doubt, that he had left his car. Oh great! he thought. Let's attract as much attention as possible.

The light changed to green. Engines revved, and traffic began moving again. He caught up to the van and, arm outstretched, took hold of the handle to the side door. He yanked, now pulled along by the van's progress. Locked! He lunged for the front door next, the van moving even faster. From behind him the volley of protesting horns continued.