Gatekeeper

Chapter 5

Joe Gunther sat on the windowsill and hitched a leg up, wedging his foot against one frame and his back against the other. The VBI office was on the second floor of Brattleboro's old Municipal Building, once a high school and built in the 1800s. It looked pretty ugly from the outside, had lousy heating and cooling, was poorly laid out and crammed with people, but its windows were huge, could be opened, as this one was now, aqnd had really comfortable sills for taking in the summer sun.

It was late in the afternoon. There was a unit meeting planned for half an hour from now, but for the moment, the office was empty. Joe knew that Sammie Martens was downstairs consulting with the PD and would be back momentarily, but that didn't diminish his pleasure at having the place to himself, even if briefly.

Joe was a loner by instinct. Married once as a young man, widowed not too many years afterward, and left without children, he'd gone through a long period getting used to a life alone before meeting Gail at a political function. At the time-and often to this day-people thought them an odd match. He an old-fashioned, lifelong cop, born on a farm some sixty miles farther north up the Connecticut River, and she a New York-born, hypereducated rich liberal. But they had their common ground. Both were independent, hardworking, committed to their jobs or causes, and armed with a strong sense of right and wrong.

And both seemed to need as much time apart as time together.

He'd wondered about this once, even fretted a little in the early days, thinking of the unlikeliness that two halves of a couple could actually share this particular trait for more than a few months. But he didn't worry about it anymore. They'd gone through so much by now, including living together briefly following her rape, that they'd found a comfortable niche they could share, despite it being both unconventional and perhaps inexplicable even to themselves. All that counted was that it worked.

As if the topic had been visibly hanging in the air, Sam walked into the office as Joe was musing along these lines, and announced, "Gail dropped by a while ago." She crossed to her desk, rummaged around its paper snowbank for a couple of seconds, and extracted a single sheet, which she then consulted. "Said she'd gone to her niece's apartment and bumped into a guy the Bratt PD's since identified as Roger Novelle-local bad boy specializing in crack and heroin, both the using and selling of same."

She tossed the piece of paper back onto the pile and sat in her chair. "Nothing happened between them, by the way. He was just there when she opened the door. He probably did a lick-his-eyebrows number to impress her with what a ladies' man he is, which I think freaked her out a little, but other than that, nothing."

Joe had no trouble imagining what aspect of the encounter had freaked her out. If Gail hadn't suffered a flashback meeting such a guy in such a setting, she couldn't have been considered normal.

"Was she okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. A little distraught. No surprise. I never did get what she was doing there. I'd say collecting some personal effects if I didn't know the girl was in a coma."

"I don't think that matters," Joe said. "Gail tries to think the best of things. She'd want Laurie to have something of her own near her bed. You know if she went home? I ought to call her."

"No clue," Sam answered. "I did ask them downstairs to pick the guy up on an illegal entry charge if they could, though. I thought you might like a chat."

Joe swung off his perch and reached for the phone. "Thanks." He dialed Gail's number, reached the answering machine, and said, "Hi. I just heard what happened at Laurie's from Sam. Hope you're okay. Give me a call when you get this."

He hung up the receiver and glanced at Sam, who was still watching him. "Did she say what Novelle was doing?"

Sam shook her head, admitting, "It wasn't a super-straightforward conversation. Like I said, she was a little out of it. She didn't mention anything, though, so I guessed maybe he was just there."

"Probably retrieving some goods for resale," Joe mused. He checked his watch. "The others are about to arrive, but I wanted to ask you something first. When you were undercover at Tucker Peak last winter, chasing that drug dealer, did you ever pick up on any Holyoke connections?"

She turned to her computer and began punching keys as she spoke. "Yeah. I don't remember names since that's not where we ended up, but I did have a conversation where. ." She paused to concentrate. "I wrote it down just in case. . Here we go. Miguel Torres. I was told he was the go-to man if I wanted primo stuff."

"Coke or heroin?"

"Everything, from what it sounded like."

"Is your source still available?"

"The guy who told me about Torres? I guess so." She switched to another program and ran a check. He watched her wandering through the machine's brain with casual expertise, amazed at how easy she made it look. She finally sat back. "He's not dead or in jail, so I suppose he's still operating."

"What's his name?"

"Bill Dancer. He was very hot to get me in the sack. Funny how the attraction wasn't mutual." She smiled crookedly. "God knows why not, though, given my luck. Why all the questions?"

"The governor. .," Gunther began, but was interrupted by Lester Spinney entering the office. Spinney was routinely so cheerful, his glum expression caused them both to stare at him.

"You all right?" Gunther asked. "You look a little down."

Spinney tiredly dropped the book bag he favored over a briefcase onto his desk and slumped into his chair. "White River was a pain in the ass."

"It go okay, though? It was just a deposition, right?"

Lester waved his hand dismissively, regretting he hadn't better disguised his feelings. "Right. No problem. Guess it's just that time of the month."

Sam threw a pencil at him.

"Sexual harassment," came a voice from the door. "Call a lawyer."

Willy Kunkle crossed to his desk, squeezed between it and the wall, and wedged himself into his chair, looking, as Gail had noted earlier, ready to hold off hostile headhunters. His useless left arm, its hand as usual tucked into his pants pocket so it wouldn't flop around, seemed uncomfortably pinched between his body and the arm of the chair, but Willy didn't notice or care. The result of a sniper bullet years earlier, the incapacitated arm was more an extension of his attitude than a part of his body-and was routinely used by its owner to throw people off.

"Very short briefing today," Gunther announced as soon as Willy settled in. "But it is a heads-up. I guess everyone's heard about the hanging in Rutland?"

"Nice of the scumbags to police their own garbage," Willy commented.

"Maybe," Joe continued, never one to let Willy derail the proceedings, "but it looks like we'll have to chip in as well. The governor will soon be announcing that in an effort to stop the flow of heroin into Vermont, the VBI will be called to the trenches."

"As what?" Willy demanded. "I thought your big deal was for us to play backup to everybody, including the village constable."

"Let the man talk," Sam said wearily.

Joe nodded in his direction. "No, he's right. Crude, but right on target. This is going to happen mostly because there's a second drug-related death that hasn't made the news yet, involving a relative of one of Reynolds's key backers. Our biggest job, however, will be to find a way not to look like the governor's flunkies."

"Nice try," Willy grumbled. "It's what we are."

"Not if we deliver something the others don't have. Then his choice looks reasonable and we maintain credibility."

"How do we do that?" Sam asked. "The Southern Vermont Drug Task Force has years more experience than we do."

"I'm working on that. They are strapped for help right now, Allard is maneuvering to give us exclusive access to extra money, I got Dick Allen weighing in with his old buddies on our behalf, and I'm hoping for one extra piece of leverage, which is to get in on some of the action at the source."

"In Holyoke," Sam suggested, bringing their earlier conversation to bear.

"Right. The task force will probably have to commit more time than they'd like on this Rutland double homicide. If we can build up something fast with a Holyoke connection, it might make us more useful, not to mention more acceptable. 'Cause don't get me wrong here: I don't just want to look good. We need to be a real asset."

"Why Holyoke?" Kunkle asked. "We've known about them for years."

"True," Gunther told him, "but while most of Rutland's drugs have been and are still coming from there, there's now a very vague rumor that someone in Holyoke may be organizing how things are being done."

"Shit-that was bound to happen."

"What's the plan, then?" Sam asked.

Joe glanced over at Lester Spinney, usually a much more involved member of the general conversation. So far, he'd done no more than distractedly poke at the small framed family photos on his desk with the end of a pencil.

"Homework," Gunther said. "I've already got Sam started. If you all coordinate with her, dig into your personal files, have talks with your informants, and see whatever you can come up with that has anything to do with Holyoke, that would help. I've typed up what I got from Allard about the Rutland deaths and will print it out after this-it has dates, names, and details that might be helpful. If you have any ongoing cases that can be put on the back burner for the next couple of days, put them there. This gets top priority for now. And it's basically a no-lose deal for us-if we do tumble to an organizer, so much the better, but given that the trade originates in Holyoke regardless, any foothold we gain on the inside will have merit. Problems?"

The general silence spoke for itself. As unpleasant as was the way they were being brought in, the mere scent of a major case was an adrenaline rush for these cops. Joe was sanguine they'd get results.

But he did have one last question of his own. "Willy, you're the expert on local lowlifes. Ever hear of Roger Novelle?"

Sam looked at her boss sharply as Willy answered, "Sure. Real scuzzball. Looking at habitual offender status next time he faces the judge. No Holyoke connections that I know of, though. I doubt he has the brains to read a map. Why?"

"Name came up."

* * *

Officer Henry Jordan drove slowly down South Main much later that night, only vaguely aware of the open street ahead of him, his attention all but entirely focused on the parked cars and sidewalks to either side, the houses beyond, and the narrow streets and alleys in between. Of all of Brattleboro's sundry neighborhoods, this was the one perhaps best qualified as the land that time forgot. Not time, really, not literally, although most of the buildings here dated back to Brattleboro's industrial heyday, when this area was one of its larger employee housing clusters. But certainly most social service organizations saw it as a backwater. The houses were generally run-down and in need of paint, frequently broken into multiple apartments, and host to a larger group of transients than elsewhere in town. Brattleboro's good fortunes followed its major commercial arteries, not surprisingly, and South Main Street was definitely not one of those.

Jordan slid along at close to twenty-five miles an hour, his windows open both for the cool night breeze and so he could better hear what was going on. He kept the two-way radio volume to a murmur. It was at times like this that he felt most empowered as a cop, as if he were the good shark slipping through the dark water, watching for those elements wishing harm on society. Which is what he really believed. He was a young man, a patriot, proud to wear a uniform, and saw his role more as a defender of the weak than did many of his older colleagues, whose fatigue-tinged cynicism both irritated and concerned him, making him fret it might be contagious.

He slowed to a stop between two widely spaced street-lamps and hid in the shadow cast by an enormous maple tree. Slowly as if fearful his actions might throw off an audible sound, he killed his headlights. He saw far ahead of him, caught in profile from some distant glimmering, two people moving around the outside of a parked car.

Jordan hadn't been on the Brattleboro force for more than a couple of years, but he'd mostly worked nights and had developed some time-saving instincts, along with a feel for what types of activities were likely to occur at what time. He knew in his gut that what was going on up ahead would be of interest to him.

He quickly looked around him. For the moment, he was alone. He gently let his foot off the brake and resumed rolling at a snail's pace, bringing the shadows around the distant car more sharply into focus.

It had all the makings of a drug deal-one man at the wheel, looking passive, in control, the other man hanging on the door, his butt swinging to and fro with nervous anticipation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jordan could see the man's arms occasionally gesticulating, as if pleading or bartering. Like a hunter creeping up on his prey for a clean shot, the young officer crawled forward, unaware by now that he was even holding his breath.

The car's motor was running, or at least the ignition was on, because its parking lights were glowing red, and along with them the license plate light. Jordan had a pair of binoculars in the back seat, but by now he knew he had only a few more feet before the plate numbers, obscured by grime, became readable.

Which was when the man outside the car suddenly straightened and stared right at him.

Jordan gunned his engine, leaped forward a few yards, and simultaneously hit both his headlights and his strobes, instantly flooding the scene with a pulsing, multihued light show.

In that snapshot of a moment, the man at the wheel of what was now clearly a Chevy sedan stuck his head out the window and looked back, just as his companion took to his heels and fled across the street. The driver was Roger Novelle, whose mug shot Henry Jordan had carefully stuck to his dashboard at the start of his shift.

Jordan reached for his microphone and switched over to the cruiser's loudspeaker. "You in the car. Stay put and stick both your hands out the window."

He might as well have fired a starter pistol. With barely a pause, there was a screaming of burning rubber, an acrid, dense plume swirled into the air, and Roger Novelle took off like a mechanized jackrabbit, with Jordan in close pursuit.

Jordan switched the radio back to the transmit frequency. "Dispatch, one-twenty. I'm in pursuit of Vermont 128F4, heading south on South Main at approximately"- he paused to get his bearings-"Oak Grove. Requesting backup."

The response was immediate but calming. "Ten-four, one-twenty Will do. Please keep advised."

By this point, Jordan had hit his siren, fearful one of the kids who lived along the street, many with little or no supervision, might come running out to watch the entertainment. After that, he focused only on the taillights before him as they dipped and swerved, Novelle's car picking up speed.

Ahead, there was a Y-junction, the left hand dipping to a steep drop toward Route 142 and the town of Vernon beyond, the right hand heading slightly up and into a curve, eventually leading to the high school and the south end of Canal Street, one of Brattleboro's commercial strips. Jordan tensed himself for the lurch he knew would come from the first choice, convinced Novelle would do as he would have and head for the dark, open road. Instead, he had to pull quickly on the wheel as Novelle did just the opposite and cut right, causing them both to skid into the curve in a slippery spray of loose gravel.

Breathing fast from the surprise, Jordan struggled to key the mike again. "One-twenty. We're heading for Fairground Road."

"Ten-four. Units are responding down Canal to intercept."

As Fairground Road began flattening out and broadening to both sides, first by the town garage and then in anticipation of the vast high school parking lot, Jordan found himself caught in a moral quandary: The correct procedural thing was to continue what he was doing now, keep pressure on the pursuit and let the others box the guy in, but the young man in him was demanding otherwise. If he could do this right, Henry Jordan might end the chase and get the collar on his own-here and now.

He hit the accelerator as the road took its general sweep to the right, pulled up alongside the Chevy, and began sheepdogging it into the dirt parking lot, aiming for the line of trees in the distance.

But Novelle would have none of it. To Jordan's terror, he abruptly cut left and collided with the cruiser's right fender, making Jordan veer off to go bounding and skidding across the road.

Gasping, Jordan fought the wheel, regained control, and now fueled with rage, pointed straight at the other car, catching it just behind the left rear door.

But either Novelle was a better driver or the Chevy more sure on the road, because the impact of this second collision was minimal. After a small fishtail, Novelle was back in front as before, with the young cop now feeling humiliation mixing with his anger.

They were coming to where Fairground intersects with Canal Street at a traffic light. It was technically a T-bone, since opposite Fairground was the entrance of the Price Chopper parking lot; but given the chase so far, Jordan wasn't laying bets on Novelle's choice of routes.

Sure enough, Novelle again defied logic and cut right, onto Canal, ignoring both the interstate entry ramps to the left and the highway leading to the town of Guilford beyond them. He was driving straight toward downtown Brattleboro and into the oncoming blue lights of two patrol cars.

"He's heading right at you," Jordan shouted needlessly into the mike, making the corner with one hand on the steering wheel and bouncing off the far curb. He was blessing his luck that there was no other traffic.

Novelle had no trouble with the other two cruisers. He merely went straight at them, picking up speed, trusting to both their drivers' lack of suicidal tendencies and their fear of damaging their cars to make them get out of his way.

Which they did. Like a sharp knife running through paper, Novelle sliced cleanly between them, with Jordan still on his tail.

Now the radio was jammed with chatter, and Jordan didn't bother competing. He kept both hands on the wheel and dedicated himself solely to bringing his quarry to a halt, regardless of the cost.

Canal at this point was broad, empty, and downhill, following the geographical influence of the Whetstone Brook, which over the centuries had carved a meandering but significant ravine along the town's east-west axis. Both Novelle and Jordan took advantage of all this to hit sixty-five miles an hour past the hospital and down the gentle S-curve to the flat stretch paralleling the brook farther down.

At that point, Jordan again pulled up next to the Chevrolet and attempted to push it off the thoroughfare, this time toward several parked cars. Novelle countered by hitting the brakes suddenly, letting the cruiser slip before him, and then cutting right and accelerating, hitting Jordan broadside and causing his car to spin into a three-sixty as Novelle squealed away.

Now spewing his own twin plumes of burned rubber, Jordan swung cursing back into alignment and resumed chase, his attention sharpened by the two additional cruisers who were coming up from behind. Like a runner with only the finish line in his sight, Jordan fixated on the Chevy's rear bumper.

At the end of the flat stretch, Canal veered right, following the top of the embankment, while Elm Street went straight across a steeply angled bridge and the Whetstone Brook below, heading for Frost Street at the bottom of the ravine. It was the bridge Novelle chose to take without slowing, leaving the ground at the top of the hill and coming down half on the road and half on the sidewalk, causing a shower of sparks to rooster tail behind his car, accompanied by bits and pieces of muffler that pinged off Jordan's windshield as he followed suit.

"Henry, what's your twenty?"

Jordan became aware the dispatcher had tried to raise him several times, finally resorting to his first name.

"I'm in the fucking air," he muttered through clenched teeth, watching the Chevrolet slide expertly at the bottom of the hill into a nicely executed left-hand turn onto Frost Street, now away from downtown. "And I'm getting tired of this shit."

Frost was quiet and residential, following the brook toward West Brattleboro and changing its name to Williams Street beyond Union. Usually a leisurely drive filled with views of steep verdant hillsides and precariously perched old homes overhanging the ravine, this time it was fast, dark, noisy, and scary as hell. Despite the cool air whipping in through the open windows, Jordan was drenched in sweat by the time they roared by Brannen Street in a blur, and was all but ready to concede defeat, eat his pride, and let the others finish this for him.

Until he saw Novelle almost lose control just shy of the tiny bridge after West Street. In that split second, Jordan saw his chance. He stamped on the accelerator, braced himself for the impact, and hit Novelle's right rear fender head-on.

The effect was like riding a merry-go-round on rocket fuel. Jordan heard more than he saw-a cacophony of tearing metal, screeching tires, and the dull thuds of large objects coming violently to rest. He felt weightless at times, totally disoriented, and as if he were watching the world go by in short photographic snippets, each one having no relation to the next. At the end of it all, much to his surprise, he was left in darkness and silence, aside from the soothing gurgle of running water.

By instinct, he reached across and undid his seat belt, realizing only then that he was up to his waist in the brook, which was flowing through one window and out his own.

Shaking his head, smiling from the relief at simply having survived, he opened the door with unexpected ease and swung his feet out onto the stream floor, still feeling as if he were dreaming. Then, yielding to much the same impulse, he cupped his hands in the water before him and splashed it over his hot, sweaty face.

He took in a deep breath, blinked a couple of times to adjust to the darkness, and found himself staring straight at Roger Novelle.

Novelle was hanging halfway out his car's shattered windshield, his face bloody and torn, one arm looking absurdly twisted. But he was alive. And in his good hand, he held a gun.

The two men watched one another for a long couple of seconds. Overhead, the tree branches reflected the blue and white lights of the two cruisers that ground to a halt on the road above. Over the water's rush and the hum in his head, Jordan could barely hear the familiar chatter from the distant two-way radios.

Then a huge, bright flash exploded from the end of Novelle's gun, and Jordan felt the impact of a sledgehammer smash him in midchest.