Donald Harstad: The Big Thaw

In a perfect world, we would simply have put out a call to block some roads. Unfortunately, all the available assets in N.E. Iowa were either home in bed, or up at Frieberg with us.

"He picked up a hitchhiker, right up here…"

What?

We would have wasted time getting to our own vehicles, especially going back through the crowd. We commandeered two state troopers and their cars, and Volont, George, Hester, and I headed up the bridge ramp toward the Frieberg officer.

"Well, yeah," he said. "I was standing here, doing traffic control, and this guy came walking up out of the fog… from over that way… and he just talked with me for a couple of minutes. Said he was supposed to meet somebody. I told him that I was stopping all traffic into town, but he said they'd be leaving…"

"And…" said Volont, tightly.

"Well, this old green Chevy came up out of the fog, and the door opened and the driver just yelled, 'Get in, Harv,' and he did. He said, 'Good-bye,' and they left." He looked at each of us, trying desperately to help. "They went that way…" he said, gesturing.

"What did this 'Harv' look like?" I asked.

I received a pretty good description of Harvey Grossman, Cletus Borglan's hired man.

For somebody whose best-laid plans were turning to shit in his hands, Volont was remarkably self-possessed. He directed the troopers to drive us up the hill to the spot where the Huey had landed, up out of the fog.

It was the fastest 10 mph I'd ever gone. I know the troopers were young, and highly trained drivers, and all that, but I for one couldn't see beyond the hood of our car.

When we got about halfway up the bluff, we emerged into blinding sunlight. It was just like climbing above the cloud layer in an airplane. It was so bright in comparison, it almost hurt.

We covered the remaining mile to the Huey's location at about 100 mph.

I'd expected, I guess, that the TAC team members assigned to the Huey would have stayed with her. Of course not. They'd quite properly arranged to be transported to the bank area, via State Patrol, because that was where they were needed. Well, needed then. I really wished they were here now.

I was wondering just where we were headed. So, too, was Hester.

"So, you think we just fly and look out the windows for a car?" She said this as we took notice of the enormous traffic jam in the single lane leading down toward Freiberg and the fog. All traffic was still being stopped.

Volont put down his cell phone. "They just pulled into Grossman's farm," he said.

"What?"

Volont looked surprised. "You didn't think we'd pulled our surveillance just because you caught a couple of agents, did you?"

Actually, I had. If he hadn't, that meant that he knew about the tractors in the field that night about as soon as I had. Among other things.

"Get in, Houseman," he said. "You hold the arrest warrant. I think you ought to serve it."

Volont, Hester, George, and I. That was it.

"You serious?" I asked, as I hauled myself into the dark green helicopter.

He was. He told the pilot to take us where instructed, and then to immediately return for some of the TAC team. He said that there was a "high probability" that we'd need assistance, so to bring them as fast as possible.

Right. Like that would be fast enough.

The pilot had a map of the county, and I indicated Grossman's farm. "The people we want are there, so far, and they're armed. Like he said, we gotta hurry…"

"Hang on, troops," he said, over the intercom. "We're gonna haul ass, here…"

The term fit. We went up, the nose came down slightly, and we were off. Fast. I leaned forward, and saw the airspeed indicator hovering around 110 knots. 120 mph. Cool. It was about fifteen road miles to Grossman's, maybe thirteen air miles. Six or seven minutes.

Volont's cell phone apparently didn't work in the chopper. He put it away with a scowl, and began to brief us in a loud voice.

"They plan to flee," he shouted, "in a private plane. It flew in late last night!"

I stared at him. Of course.

"Houseman just missed seeing the plane," he shouted. "But he did see them grooming a runway for it!"

Damn. Damn. Of all the possibilities, smoothing the lumps and ridges to make a runway just hadn't occurred to me. But now that he had said it, it was so damned obvious.

"Harvey Grossman's a pilot. He's apparently with Gabriel. We have to stop them before they leave! It gets too complicated if they take off!"

No kidding. But it had the advantage that they'd be out of my jurisdiction in a hurry. I kept my thoughts to myself.

"I have no idea where they might be headed!"

Sure he didn't.

"Here we are! Put us over by the big shed…"

I looked out, and saw the Grossmans' house about two miles away. As we swooped in, and I hung on for dear life, I saw an old green Chevy near the house, but no plane. Gone? Already?

Then I saw the nose of a propeller-driven small plane, blue and white, as we went by the open machine shed and settled to the ground.

We left the Huey as fast as we could, slipping in the damp snow, and I swear that helicopter was starting to lift off before I was out the door. The downwash was enormous, and we were pelted with chunks of snow, bits of mud and straw, and tiny lumps of cow manure. Then it was gone, and I found myself running toward the cover of a tractor with a scoop bucket attached to the front. I slid to a stop behind the comforting disk of the big rear wheel. I stopped, snuggled up against the tire. The shed with the aircraft was just about straight ahead of me, with a barn to my left, and the house on a little rise to my right. None of them more than 100 feet away.

The sound of my running, and of the departing helicopter, had stopped at the same time, and it became very quiet in the yard. The only thing I could hear was my own breathing. I cautiously looked to my left, and saw George crouched behind a corner of the barn about fifty feet from me, with Volont behind a couple of rusted old 55 gallon drums between George and the airplane. I looked to my right, and saw Hester was on one knee behind a woodpile. About thirty feet from my position. So far, so good. I did notice, though, than none of us had anything but a handgun. Not good.

"Carl!" I saw George frantically gesturing toward the inside of the shed containing the airplane. "On the ground, to the left…"

I cautiously peered around the edge of the tractor tire, expecting to see a man with a gun. Or a bazooka. Or a tank emerging…

Instead, I saw nothing in the dark recesses except the plane. The sunlight on the snow was making things so bright the inside of the impromptu hangar was like a black pit.

"What? I don't see anything…"

"To the left of the building," he said. "On the ground!"

I looked again. Ah. Oh, my. Grossman had apparently used the space between the shed and the barn as a place to push the snow out of his yard and driveway. He'd left a small space on either side of the ten-foot-high pile, wide enough to permit someone to walk between the buildings. There was a black snowmobile boot, and a dark blue snowmobile-suited leg visible on the far side of the pile. It was very still.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Surveillance. They got down here to keep them out of the plane…" He looked awfully grim.

As he spoke, Volont rose from his position behind the rusted drums, and ran straight toward the pile and the motionless leg.

One shot, but so suddenly loud that I jumped. I don't know where it went, but Volont covered the last ten feet in the air, and hit the side of the shed with a loud thump. I thought he'd been hit, until he got up, knelt over the figure, and then scrambled frantically up the snow pile, tumbling down the other side and out of my line of sight. As he did, there was a burst of fire, and the side of the shed where he had just been erupted with small holes, bits of metal, and dust.