Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

At the upper lot, he lost sight of Nichols. He ran across the asphalt and paused, teetering, at the top of the next set of stone stairs.

“There!” Lyle, above him, pointed. “He’s behind the blue SUV.”

Russ leaped down the stairs, knees screaming, and broke for the SUV. He was maybe ten yards away, closing fast, when a late-model Crown Vic, anonymous in government green, reversed out of the space behind a blue Explorer. It lurched forward, straight toward Russ. Then Nichols slammed on the brakes. Russ could see the man’s face though the tinted windshield, see his lips moving, and had a heart-stopping second to think: Pull my gun? Or jump?

Nichols twisted in his seat. The Crown Vic exploded into reverse, screeching backward through the lot, bumping over one of the low rock curbs. It spun in a tire-squealing half circle and surged up the entry ramp the wrong way.

“Get in the car!” Russ yelled to Lyle. “Get in the car!” He turned, back up the stairs, across the upper lot and staggered up the second set of stairs in time to see Nichols’s car disappearing down the drive. He hadn’t gone through the portico, thank God, which by now had filled up with bellhops and parking attendants and wide-eyed guests. Lyle’s cruiser pulled forward into a tight U-turn. He rolled past Russ, pointing to where Nichols had gone. Russ nodded. Lyle punched his lights and siren and accelerated after Nichols. Russ yanked the door of his own unit open, hurled himself into the seat, and was rolling in the opposite direction before he had finished buckling in.

As soon as he was safely away from the crowd, he stomped on the gas. He tugged the mic off its clip. “Fifteen-thirty, this is fifteen-fifty-seven.”

“Got you.”

“See him?”

“Just dust. We coming out at the same place?”

“Yeah. The loop joins up about a mile above Sacandaga Road.”

“Will he head for town? Or south on Route 9?”

“Depends on what he’s carrying in that case.” It was damn small for an overnight bag, but there was plenty of room for a couple automatics and any number of magazines. “You get that car sent to Tally McNabb’s?”

“Kevin’s on his way.”

“Good.” At least she wouldn’t be surprised, alone, by Nichols wanting to “talk.” He heard a faint siren. “I’m coming up on the Y.” He took his foot off the gas. The last thing he wanted to do was broadside Lyle. The road was clear. He accelerated forward. “I’m through.”

“I see you.”

Russ glanced up at the rearview mirror. There was Lyle’s unit, lights whirling, sun sparking off the hood and grille. He shifted his focus ahead: narrow private road twisting through dense pine and hemlock forest. “No sign of him ahead.”

“Jesum. That guy drives like he’s at Watkins Glen.”

And he was headed toward an intersection that had already seen one fatal accident this summer. Russ hoped to hell Nichols was a better driver than Ellen Bain had been. The two squad cars flew down the remaining stretch of mountain road, Lyle a prudent six or seven lengths behind Russ. Approaching the roads’ T-stop, Russ took his foot off the gas again. He keyed the mic. “I’ll take east toward town. You head south toward 9.”

“Roger that.”

Russ slowed, slowed some more, and made damn sure no other vehicles were coming along the Sacandaga Road. He swung left, past the enormous carved and painted Algonquin Waters sign. Behind him, he could see Lyle’s cruiser pull into the road and head in the opposite direction. Before him, the road rose over a treeless peak. Russ sped up, crested, saw the fields and pastures spreading out below, green and gold and brown, like a ragged quilt stitched with stony brooks and sagging barbwire fences… and there, halfway to the horizon, a Crown Vic.

Russ tromped on the gas as he reached for the mic again. “Fifteen-thirty, this is fifteen-fifty-seven.”

“Go.”

“I got him.”

“I’m coming around.”

Russ signed off and immediately keyed the mic again. “Dispatch, this is fifteen-fifty-seven.”

“Go, fifteen-fifty-seven.”

“Be advised both units are in pursuit of late-model Ford Crown Vic, U.S. government plates 346-638, headed east on the Sacandaga Road.”

“Roger that, fifteen-fifty-seven. Do you require assistance?”

“Alert the state police. He may be headed for the Northway via Schuylerville Road.” Or he could take Route 57 into town. That was Russ’s fear. Seventy miles an hour along country roads was dangerous enough-speeding through Main Street on a Saturday afternoon during tourist season was a guaranteed disaster. “Harlene, make sure they know our guy is an MP. Resisting, evading, speeding. Possibly armed. Fifteen-fifty-seven out.” He punched the accelerator. The big-block Interceptor engine roared and the cruiser surged forward, pressing Russ into his seat, blurring the fences and fields outside, turning the steady thrum-thrum-thrum of his tires into a high-pitched yowl. He drove over another rise, the road curving farther to the east, and he saw Nichols smoking past the Stuyvesant Inn and out of sight again. His gaze flicked to the speedometer. Eighty-five. Jesus. His hands were steady, but his heart pounded, the adrenaline rush pricking under his arms and sparking up his spine.

He had time to think, This was a lot more fun with Clare in the car, and then he reacquired Nichols, popping over a hillock and disappearing again. Illinois driver’s license. He remembered that from Nichols’s billfold. He figured that meant crowded urban streets or country roads so straight and flat they made billiard tables look bumpy by comparison. Here in Washington County, you couldn’t find a level stretch of road running more than a quarter mile.

He hit the same hill he had seen Nichols going over, up and then down, down, into another rolling valley, and there was Nichols, Christ on a crutch, overtaking a tractor and combine so fast it looked like the farmer behind the wheel was going backward.

Nichols shifted into the other lane and blew past the tractor. Ahead of him, an ancient Plymouth wagon crested the opposite hill and descended straight into his path.

“Shit,” Russ said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Nichols jerked to the right, skidding half off the narrow blacktop, spraying dirt and grass before catching the road and straightening the Crown Vic out again.

Despite Russ’s lights and siren, the Plymouth still hadn’t pulled off the road. It continued to barrel toward the tractor, even as Nichols kicked his car into gear and began the climb up out of the valley. Russ was getting closer to the rear of the combine every second. “Get off of the road, you idiot,” he said to the Plymouth. He took his foot off the gas and feathered the brakes, slowing, slowing, watching helplessly as Nichols hurtled over the far rise and was gone again.

The Plymouth finally got the message and wobbled to the edge of the road, leaving just enough space for Russ to squeeze between it and the tractor without transferring the JOHN DEERE lettering onto his cruiser. The driver, who looked about ninety years old, eyed him disapprovingly as he inched by. As soon as he cleared the tractor’s grille, he hit the gas. His speedometer crept up. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. He remembered the stop sign at the T-intersection just as he crowned the hill.

He swore again. Hit the brakes, skidded down the road toward the stop. No sign of oncoming cars, thank God. Of course, no sign of Nichols, either. Russ had a half second to make his decision. West to the mountains? Or north toward town? He thought about Nichols at the resort. Scoping out his escape route as he was going up to his room. An old army maxim every grunt knew: Know how you’re getting out before you get in.