Forty Words for Sorrow

37

THE “WAR ROOM” WAS A LARGE CLOSET big enough to hold maybe four cops at once. Delorme and McLeod came out first, wearing full Kevlar and carrying twin shotguns. As Cardinal emerged, Szelagy called out across the squad room: “I’ve got that teacher Fehrenbach on the line. Says the Curry kid may have stolen his credit card.”

“We’ll get back to him,” Cardinal said, cinching his vest. “Stick a note in the file.”

The phone in the hallway rang and it was Flower with Jerry Commanda on the line. He was already airborne.

“Jerry, where can you set that thing down and pick me up?”

Jerry Commanda’s voice came over with the shake and thrum of the rotor. “Government dock’s closest, but you’ll have to clear off any bystanders.”

“Where’s our boy?”

“Just passed Shepard’s Bay.”

“Good. He’s taking it easy. Government dock in five.”

As they tore out of the lot, Cardinal reached for the mike.

“We should’ve radioed St. Francis for an ambulance.”

“I already did. They’re southbound on 11 by now.”

“Delorme, I’m going to give you a great big kiss.”

“Not on duty, you’re not. Not off duty either.”

“Big smacker, Delorme, soon as we take this guy down.”

Delorme hit the siren and scared the hell out of the Toyota blocking their way. Cardinal swerved around it and onto Sumner. Four minutes and three red lights later the two of them were out of the car and running down the government dock, where the copter sat perched like a dragonfly, the rotor blasting a miniature snowstorm every which way. Behind it, the lake and sky were a pale grey canvas.

Cardinal didn’t fly a lot. His stomach was still on the dock when they crossed over Shepard’s Bay, with its stubble of ice-fishing huts. The scene was still as a Christmas card, except for a dog cavorting on the ice and his master, who trudged on snowshoes toward his hut, a case of beer under one arm.

“Look at ’em backed up on Water Road. Means they’ve closed the on-ramps.” Jerry spoke into the mike: “Boissenault. Command Post is airborne. What’s your position?”

“Half-mile north of Powassan turnoff. Guy’s none too steady with a steering wheel, I’ll tell you that.”

Delorme pointed. “There they are.”

The ChevyVan was a blue lozenge travelling round a curve of scrubby pine. The OPP car trailed two hundred yards behind. Jerry shouted to the pilot, “Stay in his blind spot. We don’t want to spook him.”

Cardinal spoke into the mike. “Boissenault, anybody get a look at him yet?”

“Old-clothes team coming the other way says we have a single Caucasian male, early thirties, brown hair, black jacket. No visible passengers.”

“We don’t know what’s in the back, though. He could have the kid in there.”

“You think he’d drive the kid around in a stolen car?”

“He doesn’t know we’re looking for it. Even if he did, we can’t know how much self-control he’s operating under. Fourteen, let a couple of cars get between you. He’s gonna spook.”

“Roger.”

Jerry Commanda said, “They’re just a patrol unit—not a surveillance team.”

“They don’t have to stay on his tail with us up here. Stay back, fourteen. Let the Camaro get in front.”

A hot red Camaro with a raised back end pulled out and passed the patrol unit. “My,” Cardinal said, “the citizenry is well-behaved around the highway patrol.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jerry said.

The pilot pointed southeast. “Sun’s out.” A rip in the grey eiderdown of sky let the sun through, and a copter-shaped shadow flickered on the hills and rock cuts twenty yards ahead of the van. The pilot dropped back and the shadow moved away from the van. A quarter-mile behind the first patrol unit, a parade of police cars—unmarkeds, patrol units and OPP—augmented now by a fire truck and two ambulances, snaked along the curves and hills like a travelling circus.

“Goddam,” Jerry said. “I hope this bastard isn’t heading to Toronto for the weekend.”

“If he is, we’re not going with him.” The pilot tapped the fuel gauge. “We go to Orillia, max.”

“What are those guys doing up there?” Cardinal pointed to an OPP unit parked at the side of the highway with lights flashing.

“Must’ve been off-frequency for some reason. I’ll radio in to have ’em move.” Jerry took the mike from him. “Central, we have a unit on Highway 11 southbound, get them the hell out of there, now. I mean now.”

“Central. Roger.”

“Too late now. He’s spooked.”

The van had lurched and slowed. Now it was speeding up again.

“Command Post, we’re losing him. You want us to pull him over?”

“Stay with him. Don’t pull him over. We have to know where he’s going.”

“Cardinal, you can’t direct a high-speed chase from the air. It’s their lives, their call.”

“Fourteen—you have two cars coming northbound, then you’re clear.” Then to Jerry, “How did they get on the road?”

“Lots of little turnoffs here. We didn’t have time to shut them all down. Look at that.”

The blue van went wide on a curve and was now on the wrong side of the road barrelling straight for a head-on with a white Toyota.

“Move,” Delorme prayed. “Move.”

At the last second the Toyota veered onto the shoulder, fishtailed wildly, and veered back onto the lane. Cardinal was sweating heavily in his body armour. He had come within an inch of killing the occupants of that car. His hand was so wet he could barely hold the mike. “Okay, Fourteen—cut him off now. Let’s get him off the road.”

“Roger. We’ll shut him down.”

“All units, lights and sirens. We’re going to yank him.” Then to Jerry: “Do we have the K-9 guy in case he runs into the bush?”

Jerry pointed. “Greg Villeneuve. Grey pickup in front of the fire truck.”

The lead patrol unit pulled forward, lights flashing. Through the whomp of the rotors they heard the high, thin wail of sirens. The van veered over to the right again, straddling road and shoulder, then back onto the road. When Fourteen came up on his left, he veered in front of them.

“Jesus,” Jerry yelled. “That was close.”

Fourteen pulled even with the van.

“Fourteen, Fourteen, back off. You got a snowplow round the next bend, repeat, snowplow southbound in your lane, and he’s standing still.”

Fourteen didn’t respond. The two cars moved into the curve as if joined at the fender. A matter of seconds and the van would rear-end the plow.

“Christ, the kid could be in that van. Why don’t they back off?”

“They want to pull ahead. Do a single lane that way.”

Delorme sat back from the window, unable to watch.

At the last second Fourteen pulled in front of the van, leaving the left lane clear. The van swerved to avoid the plow, hit a patch of ice, and shot across two lanes and onto the median.

For a hundred yards the van straddled the road and the divider. Fourteen slowed to stay with it. The van went further over the divider, into heavy snow. The wheels caught in a drift, flipping it once, twice, three times. Then it slid on its side, turned elegantly at an angle and plowed along the oncoming lanes on a bed of sparks.

“Thank God we closed the road,” Delorme said.

The van smashed, wheels first, into the retaining posts, did a one-and-a-half in the air and slammed into a rock cut, where it burst into flames.

“Take us down. All units: I want this section sealed off. Let the hook-and-ladder put out the fire and get the hostage out. Repeat. There could be a hostage in the back. Get him out first.”

The pilot set them down in a lumberyard after scattering workers with a loud-hailer. As the cops scrambled into a waiting patrol unit, workers yelled epithets at them from behind stacks of plywood and two-by-fours.

When Cardinal reached the wreck, the fire was already out, and the blackened truck was covered with foam. A firefighter jumped down from the opened side door, shaking his head.

“No passengers?”

“No driver, neither. Nobody a-tall.”

“There he is. They got him.” Jerry Commanda was pointing to the divider strip. A quarter-mile back, a cruiser was parked on the median, lights flashing. Two constables had weapons trained on a motionless, dark figure in the snow. Twenty seconds later that figure was the still point of a semicircle of shotguns, all cocked and ready.

The figure lay, hands outflung like a drowning victim’s around a jagged block of shale. Suddenly it emitted a groan, and the head lifted slightly. Larry Burke slid down the embankment and clipped cuffs on him, then turned him over, patting him down. “No weapon, Sarge.”

“Identification?”

Burke flipped through a wallet, pulled out the driver’s licence. “Frederick Paul Lefebvre, 234 Wassi Road. Photo’s a match.”

“It’s Fast Freddie!” Delorme exclaimed. “He’s been out of jail for, what—two weeks?”

Two medics hurried down the embankment. They started pushing and probing, firing questions at the confused heap of humanity in the ditch.

“Oh, my,” Fast Freddie repeated several times. “Oh, my.” One of the medics wiped the blood off his forehead with snow. Then for the first time he looked up at the shotguns, and hiccuped. “Oh, shit,” he said, stifling a belch. “Ever drunk, eh?”