After the Rain (28 page)

Barry Sauer was sitting
three miles east of Langdon, parked on the side of Highway 5 watching the cherry-red ’Cuda grumble off the shoulder. He glanced at the file on his MDT screen. He’d just tagged Kyle Shriver doing seventy-five in a fifty-five. Fifteen years ago he’d given Kyle’s old man about the same ticket for about the same margin over the…

“Jimmy, Barry, Lyle: Dale Shuster just called.”
Dispatch at the SO came on the radio yelling, so blown-away excited she skipped the ten codes, “…
and was he freaked. Said Joe Reed shot his brother Ace and maybe some woman at the Missile Park and sounds like Joe kidnaped Dale…maybe shot him, too. EMT is started…”

The voice on the radio changed. Norm Wales had taken over the mike.
“Where is everybody?”

“Yeager. Two north.”

“Lyle. On Main. Headed for the bar.”

“Sauer. Three east,”
Sauer croaked as the adrenaline thickened his throat. He whipped the cruiser around, tires fliging gravel, then hammered the gas as he headed into town. Pins and needles played
hopscotch up and down his spine—the déjà vu running with the acceleration.

Last week. Really cranking, lights and sirens to an accident, and this deer…

Doing sixty now, sixty-five…

His skid marks were still carved into the road surface headed toward the Pembina Gorge, panic hieroglyphics about what happens when an 02 Crown Victoria with a Interceptor package and a 351 Cleveland engine with high-performance fuel injection and two-hundred-dollar Eagle GT tires doing 120 miles an hour…

…mature running whitetail, weighing 200 pounds…

The nylon air bag was in his face like an air fist. Everything went steam white from the hot blast of nitrogen that powered the inflation; add the cornstarch coating from the bag, which wound up in his teeth. Damn deer drove in the grill and the radiator and pushed them back into the engine. Crammed the bumper back into the left front wheel…

Coming up on town…driving his sergeant’s car today.
Shit!

Gotta make a decision here.
In his trunk, tucked in with his emergency gear, he carried an M-14 semiautomatic rifle with a twenty-round magazine. If he stopped to take it out, how much time would he lose? He glanced at his speedometer. Already going seventy.

No M-14, he decided. He loosed the safety strap on the holster that held his .45. The radio squawked:

“Joe driving that brown metallic van?”

“Where is he?”

“Bet he’s headed for the rez.”

“Don’t figure. He can’t outrun us on the flat.”

“If he just shot Ace, he’s probably not thinking real clear.”

Then they got a break from a local game warden.

“Norm, this is Phil Lutes. Monitored your traffic. I’m out on Richmond just off 5 and the sumbitch just turned off the highway,
heading north…I got him. I got him. Just turn onto Richmond Road going north. That’s him, brown GM van, kinda metal-flake brown.”

“Hey, people, you got that? He’s heading for the border. I’m calling customs to get the Canadians up. But remember—no pursuit into Canada.”

“We got it.”

Then a transmission stepped on the others, persisting through the static.
“Norm, it’s Lyle.”
Lyle was out of breath, shouting.
“I’m at the bar. Ace and a woman are down, shot.”

“Lyle. Secure the scene for EMT.”

“They don’t need no ambulance. They’re dead, Norm.”

“You monitor out there?”

Sauer put his foot on the floor, picked up his radio mike, called it in to the state net.
“Milton Tower, two-five-nine. Langdon nine-one-one has a double shooting, two confirmed dead, suspect running north on Richmond Road in a brown Chevy van. Am in pursuit. Request backup.”

“Milton ten-four.”

Sauer switched to his shoulder mike.
And I got the fastest car.

Two miles north of town, closer in than Sauer, Jimmy Yeager did not step on the gas first thing. Thinking Joe probably had a shotgun in his van, or maybe a deer rifle, he popped the trunk, jumped out of his cruiser, and unclipped his M-14 from the inside roof of the trunk. He inserted a twenty-round mag of 7.62 NATO rounds, advanced one to the chamber, set the safe, and stashed the big rifle in the passenger foot well.

Don’t want to get outgunned.

Yeager got back in, put the cruiser in gear, locked his seat belt, and stamped on the gas.

Roaring past the city limits, Sauer was thinking it might be smarter not to go to noise yet. Play it stealthy. But he was coming upon the four-way stop on north 1, and he was already doing seventy-five,
eighty. So as he blew past the line of brand-new Border Patrol Tahoes parked at the Motor Inn, he hit the lights and the siren.

The whoop of the siren brought Broker up to an instant sitting position. He reached over and felt the empty bed next to him. He saw the gun belt on the table, got up, read the note. As the siren receded in the distance he got a real bad feeling. He grabbed for his clothes.

Sauer made his second decision. He’d shot past the Richmond turn and was beginning to brake to catch the next road.
“Where is everybody?”
he yelled in the radio.

Sheriff Wales answered first:
“In back of you, coming outta town.”

“I’m going to parallel west. Try an’ get ahead of him.”

“I’ll come up Richmond. Get on his tail.”

Sauer tightened both hands on the wheel and manhandled through a skid. Turning, rear end sliding out. Caught a piece of the far ditch and threw clods of dirt.
Oh shit. Shit. Gonna flip.
Amazingly, he didn’t. Got her stable and back on the road, rattling along.
“Jimmy?”

“Parallel east of Richmond and I think I see him.”

“Okay.”
Sauer blinked sweat.
Goddamn, I hope nobody’s on this road ahead of me. “I’m going to try to get ahead of him.”
He glanced at the speed.
Holy shit, does that 140 mean 140?
Nothing under the accelerator but fuckin’ floorboards now.

As Broker pulled on his jeans and stepped into his shoes he heard a second siren start to wail. Coming out the motel front door he saw
the familiar boxy green shape of an ambulance, flashers revolving, heading west on 5. He ran for the Explorer, got in, started up, and took off after the ambulance.

On his way out of town Broker heard and caught the barest glimpse of a red flasher whipping over the fields to the north. Then the lights were gone. Just the sirens ahead of him and to the north. The whole town seemed to echo with sirens.

And he caught some of the old frenzied feeling in his chest. Car chase. Then the adrenaline jag solidified into a dull thump when he saw the ambulance pull into the parking lot of the Missile Park bar…

…and stop next to the dusty red Volvo with the Minnesota plates and the Wellstone bumper sticker. He parked behind the ambulance and got out.

One cop car. A stout county deputy stood on the porch talking to a female EMT. The other EMT hunched over the wheel of the ambulance, absorbing the staccato radio traffic.

The EMT slouched, empty hands hanging at her sides. Her bag sat on the porch. The body language didn’t look good, none of that pit-bull intensity of a medic starting in on a casualty. She was waiting.

For a crime lab and a coroner.

Broker came abreast of the Volvo. The window was open on the driver’s side, and he saw the blue pack of American Spirits lying on the dash. The brand Nina smoked. He approached the porch and stopped at the steps. He took a breath, held it for a moment, then let it out. “Who’s down?” he said.

The deputy and the EMT studied him, put their heads together, and conferred. Then the deputy said, “You’re Broker, right? We all heard how Jimmy Yeager went out with you last night.”

Broker nodded, still edging toward the door.

“Okay, it’s like this. I’m Deputy Vinson. And, Mr. Broker, you can’t go in there. We have to keep it sterile for the lab guys.”

The EMT stepped forward. She had a short strawberry-blond
shag, a face dusted with freckles, and vivid blue eyes. She paused. “There’s two women that were in town, soldiers…”

Broker’s knees started to buckle, the edges of his vision occluded, and he had trouble breathing. He forced the words out: “I’m married to the redhead.”

“She’s not in there,” the EMT said crisply. Broker could see a weight lift from her face. “It’s a young woman with very short black hair. And Ace Shuster.”

“What happened?” Broker said.

“They think it was a guy named Joe Reed. That’s who they’re after,” the deputy said. Broker toed the gravel, hitched up his belt. “I’d be out there, ’cept the sheriff told me to wait here.”

“My wife was with Jane, the dark-haired woman.” He pointed to the building. “They went out for breakfast…”

“We don’t know much, yet,” Vinson said.

Where’s Nina?
Broker’s hands started shaking and he turned and walked back to the Volvo, reached in through the open window, took the pack of cigarettes, removed one, and put it in his lips.

He didn’t have his lighter.

Vinson came off the porch and popped a Bic. Broker inhaled the comforting poison. Exhaled.

The ambulance driver yelled, “They got him! They’re closing in.”

They waited, all probably holding their breath. Half a minute passed. Another fifteen seconds. They all looked up to the north at the same time. A sound like sheets ripping in the wind.

“Thunder?” the EMT wondered, looking into the fierce blue sky.

Broker and Vinson locked eyes and shook their heads.

Sauer had pulled ahead of Joe’s van, but a half-mile of barley separated them. He spotted Yeager coming in a little behind and to the right. First he just saw Yeager’s lights, a red streak against the green
fields, then the lights erupted in a cloud of dust as Yeager left the pavement and hit the gravel.

“He ain’t working no jigsaw to double back west for the rez,”
Yeager shouted on the radio.

“No shit. He’s headed for the border,”
Sauer shouted into his shoulder mike.

“Richmond Crossing.”

And Richmond Crossing was coming up fast as the brown-green field to the right changed to bright yellow and the Crown Vic hit the gravel and started to shimmy and slide. Sauer gripped the wheel and felt his forearms load up with the road tension. He had to make another decision. Unless Yeager intercepted and rammed the van, they would lose him.

The solution was visceral: high ground dry, low ground still wet.

Old man Kreuger’s field fanned out with ripe canola. He had hunted whitetails on it for years. One of the few parcels with some roll and height to it west of Pembina. Little work road skirted the slight rise, running in just about
here
…

Ooohhhh shittt!!!!
He took his foot off the gas, tapped the brake, and swerved into the chest-high blossoms at 110 mph.

Joseph Khari fixed his eyes 200 yards ahead, where the gravel road ended in a rutted two-lane path with a strip of grass growing up the middle. He had driven this route dozens of times in the dead of night. Canada was less than a minute away. He knew the American cops could not pursue across the border. He figured someone had seen him leave the bar. But he was too disciplined to waste energy wondering why the police were chasing him. He kept his focus on driving, on feeling the gravel under his wheels at high speed. A mile beyond the border he had another truck hidden in a copse of trees. Get to it. Destroy the Joe Reed ID. Wait for dark.

He had always been practical and unflappable. It would be close but he could make it. The cop on the left had no access across the field; had, in fact, dropped out of sight. The one on the right would be too late to stop him. They might have radioed to the Canadians, but it was happening so fast. A plane or a helicopter would be a problem.

But he saw no activity out ahead of him. He could do it.

Then he saw the steak of white shoot through the yellow field to his left, plowing down a slight rise. A police car coming almost out of control. Oily with crushed plants, flattening them like a wave. On a collision course.

The American fool cut through the field and was going to crash into him.

Reflex and instinct dictated that Joseph swerve right to avoid the onrushing car. But the moment he drove off the trail his wheels slipped into a muddy depression. He lost traction. Had to turn back to the trail…

But the American stopped abruptly just shy of the trail. He’d hit something. The air bag inflated in the police car. Yes, he’d crashed into something.

Joseph mashed his foot on the gas. It only spun his wheels and dug him in deeper. The van shook and then stalled. Instantly he jumped out the door. Wading through the muck—all right then. For a split second he’d considered reaching back for Broker’s pistol. No time. All he needed was the Browning in his hand. He kicked open the door, hit the ground in a lopsided run. The police car was heeled over, at an angle. The policeman was clawing at the air with his hands, wrestling the air bag aside, wiping something from his eyes. The Browning swept up. So Joseph would run the last thirty yards to Canada on his bad leg—but first he would kill himself an American.