Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

“How’s it looking, Unit Seventeen?” Frady’s broadcast voice issued from the dashboard speaker, using Mark’s assigned number to simulate on-duty patrol.

“Looks like asphalt’s a little-”

“All units, Ten-Thirty-two!” Frady barked. “Armed robbery suspect heading west on Tree Street.”

“Unit Seventeen in pursuit,” Mark said into his mike, gunning the engine and accelerating. “Tree Street” was the name of the straightaway where the students practiced accelerating, braking, and dodging obstacles. The route had a series of four exits, each at a different angle and all named after various species of trees.

As Mark pushed the cruiser to sixty, he fully expected Frady to throw the 90-degree left turn at him, which was the most difficult. He braced for the fake name of “Dogwood Avenue” to come over the radio.

“Suspect in a maroon SUV, armed and dangerous,” Frady said, spitting the words like staccato bullets.

“This is Unit Seventeen. I’m Ten-Eighty with suspect in sight,” Mark replied, talking fast but steadily. Even though the situation was make-believe, he couldn’t help the surge of adrenaline coursing through him. Part of the drill was to maintain control with only one hand on the wheel, the other busy manipulating the mike.

Mark glanced to the side where Frady stood by the radio unit, the students gathered around as if part of some frat prank.

He zoomed past Dogwood. Goddamned Frady. Trying to show me up. He’ll probably throw Birch at me just to keep me off balance.

“Suspect turning onto Cedar!” Frady said.

The fuck?

Mark slammed on the brakes, and despite triggering the anti-lock mechanism, the rubber bit at the pavement with a squeal of resistance. Cedar was two streets back, the first left turn.

“Suspect still in sight, Unit Seventeen?” Frady asked, artificially maintaining urgency.

Instead of replying, Mark dropped the mike, yanked the wheel wildly to the left, and cut a donut. I’ll show that asswipe.

As he leaned into the turn, fighting inertia, his body pulsed with a rush of warmth. The glow was exhilarating and heightened his senses. The tires wailed in a symphonic scream, the surrounding fence glinted like sunlight dappling the surface of uneasy water, and the vehicle was like a sled riding soft snow beneath him. He could even smell the stale cigarette smoke from some prior student’s law-breaking indulgence.

He rolled out of the circle, startled by his own mastery of the move. He’d not even broken the painted boundaries of Tree Street. By the time the wheels quit complaining, he was already up to forty and headed for Cedar, which was now on the right.

“Goddamned, Morgan,” Frady said, breaking protocol. “What in the hell are you doing?”

Mark felt the grin fixed on his face like a skeleton staring stupidly at its own epitaph. He yanked the mike into his fist by its cord and thumbed it on. “I’m Ten-Eighty on Tree Street,” Mark said, wondering if the students could see him through the tinted windshield.

Mark realized he’d already botched the assignment, because he’d forgotten to engage the bar lights and siren. Not that the criminal cared, and it wasn’t like Mark needed to warn vehicles in a deserted parking lot.

He communed with the roar of the engine, 250 horses galloping toward hell. As he thrust the accelerator to the floor, he was dimly aware of the unexpected pleasure of power. In high school, while the jocks were picking up chicks in muscle cars and hot rods, he’d driven a rusty Toyota, reading Forbes instead of Car and Driver. Now, here he was, hunched over the wheel and wanting more juice.

He got it.

And it felt good.

“Break off pursuit, Unit Seventeen,” Frady ordered.

Instead of slowing, Mark whipped the cruiser to seventy and veered between the painted lines that designated Cedar Street. The “street” was only forty yards long, ending in a fence, and beyond it was a strip of lawn and landscaping that buffered the college from the highway.

Now where’s that suspect?

Where are you hiding?

Officer Morgan has a surprise for you.

Armed and dangerous. That was an excuse to shoot him, right?

Mark tossed the mike away, barely aware of Frady’s frantic jabbering on the radio.

Mark reached below the seat to where the Glock was strapped above his ankle. Sure, the college didn’t allow concealed weapons, but how did they expect Mark to keep the streets safe if only the crooks had guns? What was he supposed to do, write a warning ticket?

The baggy pants that had disguised the bulk of the weapon were a barrier, and Mark nearly let go of the wheel in his haste to free the pistol.

“Break off, Morgan!” Frady shouted, one last attempt to restore order.

“Fuck off, Frady Cat,” Morgan shouted to the sky.

The fence was dead ahead, approaching fast, and Mark glanced around, surprised. The suspect was nowhere in sight.

You’re not getting away that easy.

The cruiser plowed into the fence, jerking Mark forward. He bounced against the seatbelt and the passenger’s-side air bag exploded. The chain links stretched taut with a brittle skreee. Then Mark was through, peeling the fence loose from its posts as metal grabbed at the cruiser’s flanks. He bounced over the uneven terrain and plowed through a stand of flowering shrubs. By then, he was sufficiently slowed to merge with the midday traffic.

The other cars miraculously made way, even slowing to the speed limit so Mark could easily move through them. Going with the flow, Mark was able to free the Glock and lay it on the seat beside him.

He checked the side and rearview mirrors, then peered through the windshield.

Somewhere there was a maroon SUV that had made the mistake of stepping out of line while Officer Mark Morgan was on duty. It would be a mistake the crook would live to regret. Or maybe not live. Whatever.

He was humming, glowing, flushed with heat as he clicked off the chattering CB radio.

It felt good to be a cop.

Dominic Scagnelli didn’t like the way this was going.

That wasn’t unusual.

He hadn’t liked the goddamned Drug Enforcement Agency. He hated the FBI. And this new gig as a fixer for Danny-Boy Burchfield was about the bottom of the fucking barrel.

The bitch of it was, this new job paid better than any of them. At least on the numbers reported to the Internal Revenue Service. But the IRS could roll up those check stubs and cram them up their puckered little buttholes, for all he cared.

They were all part of the same machine, the upper end of the trough. And people like him were paid to stand guard while the hogs fed.

Simple as that.

And in a way, he was getting his share of the swill, too.

Scagnelli reached into his pocket to touch the metal tin of “breath mints.” You’ve got to hand it to that two-faced bastard, Wallace Forsyth. He really knows where to score some good shit.

Scagnelli glanced out the car window. He was parked in a handicapped space near the rear exit to the neurosciences building. He wasn’t sure when Dr. Alexis Morgan would make her daily trek to her car, but it was close to lunchtime and that was as good a bet as any.

He drifted into that semi-alert state of surveillance and was startled when someone knocked on the driver’s-side window.

Holy fucking guacamole on a crispy corn fritter.

He glanced over to see a young woman, college-aged, wearing a bright orange vest and holding a little booklet. He was getting soft. What if that had been a punk with a gun?

He rolled down the window. She was cute, but he didn’t like cute. He smiled anyway. “Good morning, miss. Nice day, huh?”

She glanced around as if noticing it was daylight for the first time. “You’re in a handicapped spot, sir.”