Robin Cook - Vector

The critical question was whether the cop would pull up behind Curt as he expected. Fortunately he did.

The moment the lone policeman began to exit his vehicle, Curt put his truck into reverse and stomped on his accelerator, pressing it firmly against the floor. The truck tires spun with an ear-splitting screech before suddenly catching. The heavy king cab pickup lurched backward and gained considerable speed in the short distance between the two vehicles before smashing into the police cruiser.

Despite tensing for the collision, Curt’s head snapped back on impact. The sound was like beer cans being crushed and the siren, which until that moment had been piercing the night, went silent. The police cruiser’s hood popped open and a geyser erupted.

More important from Curt’s point of view was that the opened driver’s side door had been ripped off its hinges by its own momentum. It went skidding out across the road. The policeman, whose hand was still on the door, ended up face down on the pavement.

“Glory be,” Curt remarked. He put his truck into drive and stepped on the gas. At first the cop car remained attached to his rear bumper. By backing up a little and then going forward again, Curt succeeded in detaching the vehicles. Glancing into the street, he noticed the policeman had not moved.

Ahead, amid laughter and loud banter, the troops were piling into Nat’s truck, except for Mike. He sprinted back and got in next to Curt. In the middle of the lawn were two still, supine figures.

“Hey, cool move with the fuzzmobile!” Mike shouted while looking back through the rear window at the crushed front of the cop car. The geyser had abated. Now the engine just steamed in the glare of the car’s still functioning revolving lights.

Curt didn’t say anything. He pulled forward, then braked alongside Nat’s vehicle. “Listen, you clowns,” he snapped after the windows had come down. “No stops, drive the speed limit, and go directly to the White Pride for a debriefing! Got it?”

“Got it,” Nat answered amid more laughter.

Curt accelerated, shaking his head in frustration. The whole operation was like a comedy movie that wasn’t funny.

“The cop car looks like it’s going to catch on fire,” said Mike. Curt glanced at the vehicle and was going to explain that the smoke was merely steam from the coolant coming in contact with the hot manifold when he caught his troops’ final stupid move of the night. Instead of pulling forward, Nat backed up so that he ran over the prone policeman. Curt winced. He didn’t regard local sheriffs as the enemy the way he did federal agents or city police.

Mike faced forward when Curt turned west at the next intersection, heading back toward the city. “I know why Kevin and Luke took after those two fags,” he said.

“Sure you do,” Curt mumbled irritably and without particular interest. No matter what the explanation, Curt was planning on giving Kevin and Luke one hell of a dressing-down when they got back to base. Disobeying orders, even implied orders, was not to be tolerated.

“They were a mixed couple,” Mike said. “One of them was a paleface, the other was a nigger, and the bastards were holding hands.”

“No wonder!” Curt’s change of heart was genuine. Queer miscegenators. He immediately understood how provocative such a situation would have been.

Yuri’s eyes blinked open. He sat up from where he’d fallen asleep on the couch. He wasn’t sure what had awakened him. He looked at his watch. It was a little after one in the morning. The sound of the TV drifted through Connie’s closed door.

With a few choice Russian expletives, Yuri lifted his feet from the couch and slipped them into his slippers. Since driving the cab required early morning rising, Yuri always went to bed early. Consequently, he had no idea of Connie’s bedtime habits other than knowing she stayed up later than he did. Yet after one was later than he’d imagined she stayed up. There was a good chance she’d fallen asleep without having enjoyed her butter pecan ice cream.

Standing up, Yuri winced against a momentary pulsating pain in his temples. He shivered through a fleeting wave of nausea that made him quickly close the cover of the cold, half-eaten pizza on the coffee table. Its congealed surface looked disgusting.

Yuri was exhausted and felt miserable. He drained off the residue of vodka in his tumbler and collected his thoughts. He had to do something. He couldn’t wait any longer for Connie to request her dessert.

Outside her door he paused for a moment. He debated whether to knock or just open it as he usually did on the rare occasions he went into her room. In the end, he just opened the door.

Connie looked away from the classic movie she was watching and glanced briefly at Yuri. Her left eye was even more swollen than before. At the side of her bed was the open and empty pizza box.

“What about your ice cream?” Yuri said in a gravelly voice.

“Are you still up?” Connie questioned. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

“Just tired.”

“I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“I fell asleep on the couch,” Yuri said. “How about that ice cream?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone about this ice cream,” Connie said. “Besides, it’s pretty late. I was about to fall asleep myself.”

“Come on,” Yuri urged. “You made me buy it from the take-out place.”

“Are you sure you’re not sick?” Connie asked again. “You’re making me worried the way you’re acting.”

“God damn it!” Yuri yelled, losing patience. “I told you, I felt guilty after hitting you and smashing your TV. I’m trying to do something nice, but you won’t even let me do that.”

“Now you’re sounding more like yourself,” Connie said. “Fine! Bring the ice cream if it’ll make you feel better! And you can take this pizza box while you’re at it.”

Relieved but still exasperated, Yuri snatched up the empty box and carried it back to the kitchen. He took the ice cream out of the freezer. From a drawer he got a spoon. He carried both back into Connie’s room and handed them to her.

Straining under her own weight, Connie worked her way up to a semi-sitting position and took the ice cream and spoon.

“This container has been opened,” she said. She looked up at Yuri for an explanation.

“I tried a taste earlier,” Yuri lied.

Connie let out a huff. “You didn’t ask me,” she complained.

Yuri didn’t respond. He was eyeing the phone next to Connie’s bed. He hadn’t thought of the possibility of her calling someone to describe her soon-to-arrive initial symptoms, provided she ate the ice cream. Anxious that she not reach a doctor, Yuri had to do something about the phone.

“I’m talking to you,” Connie persisted. “You know I don’t like people eating my food.”

“It was just one taste,” Yuri said.

“Just one?” Connie questioned. “You didn’t put the spoon in and out a bunch of times?”

“Just once,” Yuri said. “Open it up and look.”

Connie grumbled as she pushed the flaps open. The ice cream bulged from the container with a smooth, unblemished surface.

Yuri couldn’t think of any excuse to take the phone out of the room without raising Connie’s suspicions.

“I don’t see where you ate any,” Connie said.

“Because I took such a small amount,” Yuri said. “For crissake, forget it! Just enjoy it!”

“All right,” Connie said. “Leave me in peace.”

“Gladly,” Yuri said. “Just give a yell when you want me to come in here and take the container.”

Connie raised her unswollen eyebrow in disbelief, glared at Yuri suspiciously, then redirected her attention to her movie. “Maybe I’ll call you and maybe I won’t,” she said.