Donald Harstad - The Big Thaw

Oh, God. Gabriel, you asshole, I thought. Using these people for this, and the kids, to boot.

"Look, son…"

"I'm not your son! You have no force over me!"

"No, you're younger than any kid I'll ever have," I said. "The point is this. There are about twenty armed officers around you. If we open fire, you will be shredded like hamburger. You understand that?"

"We aren't in your jurisdiction."

"You are completely within my jurisdiction. Period. No question."

A voice came out of the rear, somewhat older. Well, at least a little deeper. "You ain't got thirty cops in this whole county! Liar! He's lying, Timmy."

"Adams, you want to show them some ID?"

Very slowly, Adams's hand came into my field of view. I could see the black nylon ID case opened up, and it was apparent that the passenger could see the ID.

"Tell them what you're doing here, what you do," I said.

"I'm the commander of the FBI Tactical Response Team that has you surrounded. The team that took out your tires in one second. From rooftops, from between the buildings, from behind the cars." He said it very slowly and clearly.

Silence from the stretch van.

"We want you to think about this," I said. "We'll come back later and talk. If you want to talk to us, come out with your hands in the air where we can see them, and stand in the middle of the street. We'll meet you halfway. Got that?"

The kid nodded.

"Okay. We're going to go now. I trust you. I hope you trust me."

"We won't be far," said Adams.

I thought there was a small movement in the rear of the van, and froze. Nothing.

"Don't even think about it," I said. Bravado city. I fervently hoped it was just somebody adjusting his position for some innocuous little reason.

We backed away, well into the street, where we turned and walked quickly back behind the fire truck.

As soon as we rounded the corner, I grabbed for my coat. "Fuck!" I was just so glad to be back.

"Yeah!" said Adams. "You know, you're lucky you weren't shot when you hit that hood."

"Shit, I didn't know what else to do. I've never seen anybody freeze up like that."

"Fear. Pure, stark fear. I've seen it, but it took me a second to catch on to it this time."

"That fuckin' Gabriel ought to be shot for recruiting that kid."

"You got that right."

We walked the hundred feet past the pavilion, and took the elevator to Hester's office. We dutifully made our report.

"Just a kid, huh?" Volont was pacing. "All kids?"

"I don't think so," I said. I looked at Adams.

"I don't think so, either. I think he might have been coached by somebody."

"I'll tell you one thing, though." I spoke with conviction. "Gabriel ain't in the van."

"I completely agree," said Adams. "No sign of leadership. No sign of aggression. No sign of confidence. He's not in there."

I could tell by the look in Volont's eye that, if Adams hadn't agreed, he wouldn't have believed me. I just hate that. I was there. I'm as bright as anybody. But I'm not FBI.

"I can't believe," said George, "the way you hit that hood. Definitely not in the manual."

"Hey, I didn't volunteer for this one. Believe me."

If Adams and I were right, we had Gabriel either on the boat or in the bank. Fifty-fifty chance, I suppose, but I'd been picturing him on the boat all this time. I tried to remember, and thought it was something he'd said…

"Anybody… didn't Gabriel say something that led us to believe he was on the boat rather than in the bank?"

"He said he'd 'tell the crew to hand out the jackets' when he implied that they would sink the boat," said Hester. "At least, that's the way I took it."

"Me too," said George.

Apparently, everybody agreed. "Maybe we could call the boat and ask to speak with him?" Why not?

"We tried the boat while you were talking to the van people," said Hester.

"The land lines disconnected when she was cut adrift. They'd do that," said James.

Hmm. "Well, then, let's call the bank again. Ask to speak to him."

"Let me," said Art. "I'm good at that. Anybody got any name I could use to get 'em to talk to me?"

"How about Roger Bushnell?" Sally blushed as everybody stared at her. "Should work."

"How so?" asked George.

"The first uniformed cop that drove up to the stretch van ran the plate. It's just what they do. Comes back to a Roger Bushnell" – she looked at her notes – "of Eden, Wisconsin. Plate expired three years ago. No other vehicles registered to him. Should be, if he registered cars anymore. I'll bet he doesn't because he doesn't believe in the vehicle laws." It all came out in a burst.

"Where," asked Volont, "did you find her, and why were you so lucky?"

Excellent question.

Art dialed the bank. He was on the speaker phone. It rang twice, and the gruff voice answered with "Hello."

"Hey," said Art, in a slightly deeper voice, flatter in tone than normal. "It's Roger. You hear from Gabriel yet?"

"No. Roger who?"

"Bushnell." He pronounced in without inflection or emphasis on a particular syllable. I would have said, "Bush NELL." He was apparently right.

"Okay, Roger. What's the password? You better give me the password."

He had him there. Art, though, really was good at this. Rather than make some lame excuse, or sound like a cop caught in the act, he just said, very loudly, and slightly away from the mouthpiece, "Look out! Cops!" and pressed the disconnect. He grinned, also pleased with his performance.

We were impressed. He'd not blown his cover, and left them worried and concerned, most likely. Good deal. And the icing on the cake was that we now could place Gabriel on the boat.

Unfortunately, knowing and arresting were two different things. I mean, it was surely a simple problem. Basically, all we had to do was figure how to get to a boat 100 feet from a dock. Well, maybe just a bit more complex. We had to figure how to do it with a stretch van filled with armed men between us and the boat. With people on the boat who would certainly, in the spirit of Sally's "pirates," repel boarders. Not to mention possibly sink it, or blow it up.

"Just what kind of fuel does she burn, Mr. James?" asked Volont.

"Diesel. No real fire hazard."

"Gabe tends to like explosives," I said. "If memory serves."

"Not under his own butt." Volont seemed sure. I wondered.

"If he starts her sinking," said Captain Olinger, "I'd suggest running cable, hook them to a couple of large wreckers, and pull her to shore."

We explained the method he'd used to blow off the cleats.

"No problem. There are structural members that would be accessible, and would bear the load. Do you want me to start rounding up the materials?"

We did. He got right on it.

Moments later, the phone rang. It was Gabriel. It was for me, at least at first.

"Deputy, did you enjoy your little chat with my people?" Confirmed he wasn't in the van, I thought. Well, given the fact that he would lie whenever necessary, maybe a 90 percent chance.

"The one is just a kid," I said. "Way too young for this shit."

"You're never too young, Deputy. Go to Fort Bragg and check IDs sometime."

"This one's been brainwashed."

"Welcome to the real world. But I digress. I want you to know I've talked with them, and I've given instructions to shoot on sight if anybody even tries to approach their position again."

"Don't you think 'predicament' would be a better choice than 'position'? These guys make Custer look safe," I said.

"Modern weapons… no. Never mind. But I wouldn't try them. They have a long reach." He sounded kind of mysterious. Rocket launcher? We knew he'd stolen a bunch a few years back. Good God, if they were to just step out of the van and fire a couple of LAWS rockets at the General Beauregard…