The Big Thaw

11

As I walked out the back door, I saw that John's squad car was already at the end of the drive. The porch light caught the reflective five-inch, blue-bordered gold stripe on his white car. Not too good for hiding at night, but great at wrecks. I ducked into the garage, to my unmarked car, and pulled out my Canadian Army parka. The best way to not have to spend time standing outside was to take it. Its pockets were full of neat things, like a stocking cap, thermal gloves, individually wrapped granola bars… I also grabbed my black flashlight.

I opened John's back door, and threw in the parka. I stuffed myself into the front passenger seat. "Hi, John."

"Good evenin', boss."

I reached down and picked up his mike. "Comm, Three's ten-eight for a while with Nine." You had to let them know where you were, and you had to be logged as working if you got hurt. Insurance companies can be a pain in the ass about that stuff.

"Ten-four, Three." In wraparound sound. John had wired the police radio to his stereo speakers.

"Cool," I said. "Sounds better than in real life." Actually, it sounded a lot more bass, and gave her a bedroom-sounding voice. A bit out of character for Eunice, whose voice I recognized.

"You ought to hear Sally," he said, grinning. "Sounds the way you think she would in the morning. So to speak."

"Nice. I'll tell her you said that."

"Wish you wouldn't," he said, backing onto the street. "Things are scary enough…"

"So," I said, as we straightened out and headed out of town. "What brings me out on a night like this?"

It turned out that John had been patrolling in the area fairly close to the Borglan place last night. He had found a level field entrance at the base of a wooded hill, and had backed in about three car lengths, to have coffee and a sandwich. All lights off, but with the engine running, he was eating his midnight meal when he thought he saw something move, out of the corner of his eye. He unrolled his window a way, and listened.

"All of a sudden," he said, "there was this whine, and something came whipping by down the road. Going like hell, it went right off the roadway and down a little bank, and off into a field. Goin' like a streak of shit. But really quiet. I mean, really quiet. Spooky as shit."

"I'll bet." We were turning off the highway, and onto gravel heading toward the general area of the Borglan farm. "What was it?"

"That's the really spooky part. I couldn't tell. I really couldn't."

"Did you get a look at his taillights? Any tire marks in the snow?"

"Sorry. Sorry, he didn't have any lights at all. God, I can't believe I forgot to say that."

"That's okay," I chuckled. "No problem."

"It was really dark, and I didn't want to shine any lights in case I'd fuck something up, you know? So I just sort of sat there for a while, and waited, but nothing came back down the road. So I walked over and tried to see, but there weren't any tire tracks, so I thought I was seeing things." In a major rush.

"Slow down," I said. We were slipping along at about 60, and the road was about 100 percent ice and snow-covered. "You're driving as fast as you talk."

"Sorry. I suppose it wouldn't look good to have a wreck with a superior officer onboard."

"Not with a big, ugly older one, either. Now, then, you have no idea what it was? How big was it?"

"I just got a flicker of it as it went by. I couldn't really tell. Isn't that the shits?"

"Yeah. So… what are we doing now?"

"Well, I didn't want to fuck anything up, so I thought the two of us could go back down there now, and look out into the field and see what kind of tracks we had."

"Sure. You could have done it yourself, though." I wasn't really resentful, or anything. But I had been so comfortable…

"Here we are," he said, shutting off his headlights and sliding to a stop. He began backing into the little lane where he'd been the night before.

"Boy, it sure as hell is dark down here," I said. Only starlight, and it was partly cloudy. If the landscape hadn't been covered with snow, it would have been like a black hole. As it was, it would take several minutes for your eyes to even begin to adjust.

"Let's just sit here a minute," he said, "and then we can walk over and look." He pointed as he talked. "It came from that way, and went off the road over there."

From the left, going right. We were about fifty feet back from the road, pretty well covered by trees and large limestone blocks that had rolled off the hill years before. From what John told me, whatever it was would have rounded a curve, gone by our location, and dipped right off the road, over a small bank, and out into a field. According to John, the place where it had gone into the field was about seventy-five yards from our parking place.

"It pretty much had to be a snowmobile," I said. "Don't you think?" That explained my presence. The troops in the department knew we were looking at snowmobile tracks.

"That's kinda what I was thinking," said John.

"But, it was quiet?"

"Yeah, that's what got me, too. Never heard a quiet one in my life."

I opened my door. I felt dark-adapted enough to walk across the roadway. "Let's go look. I'm getting really curious." I got out of the car, took one step, and was up to my knees in snow. Apparently, the little lane was elevated a bit. "I'm up to my ass in snow over here," I said, stomping my way back up to the surface of the lane. "Little ditch there."

"Shit, I'm sorry. There isn't one on this side."

"No kidding." Now my feet were cold, and going to get colder. The all-weather boots were great, but they sure weren't heated.

It's one of the peculiarities of the deep winter that the road is usually lighter than the surroundings. The paved roads are whitish with dried salt, and the gravels with packed snow. It makes it a lot easier to see the road in the dark. We squeaked in the snow as we walked across the road. Over to the bank. In darkness on the roadway, I became aware of the fact there was a bit of a moon, hidden from view behind the hill from our parking spot. The moonlight shadow of the hill reached out over the roadway. The field across the road was slowly lighting up, as a couple of clouds moved past the moon. It was like a postcard. We were standing on a roadway that curved very gently to our left, disappearing after about half a mile. It curved around a big flat field, maybe three quarters of a mile across. Like a quiet harbor in the Arctic.

We reached the bank, and I shone my flashlight on the area John indicated. Snowmobile track, all right. Fresh, with little crumbled bits and chunks of snow scattered on both sides. Straight out into the field.

I turned off my light. "Son of a bitch. Doesn't that track lead toward Borglan's and his hired man?"

"I think it does. Harvey Grossman, you mean?"

"Yeah."

I looked off in the direction of the track, letting my eyes readjust to the darkness. There was a discontinuity in the snow cover, about half a mile across the field. "You see that… that different sort of area… off that way, and just before the trees…?"

He did eventually. "Yeah, that's that lonesome machine shed of Borglan's. You know, the one with no other buildings anywhere…"

Oh, yeah. The one where some of the tracks led from Grossman's place.

I walked back up the roadway, in the direction the snowmobile had come from.

"Was it this dark last night?" I asked.

"Darker, the moon was down by the time he came by."

"Hmm." We stopped at the point of the curve, about a hundred yards from our car. I looked at it. "You say he had no lights?"

"None."

I could make out the exhaust plume of our car because I knew to look for it, but not the car itself. Well, not clearly, at least. Too much stuff in the way, like brush, trees, and rocks. I began walking toward it. About sixty yards from it, the left front fender became visible. By fifty yards, you could begin to see the area of the driver's door. At forty or so, a shrub began to block the view of the left front fender again. A narrow range of visibility, but…

"It looks for all the world like he was coming around the corner, saw you, and ducked off the road." I looked back toward the curve. "The distances are right if he's goin' about forty-five or so."

"But he didn't have any lights…"

"Yeah, I know." So how did he see John? Night vision goggles, that's how. "I'll bet you look good in green light."

"What?"

"Night vision goggles. NVGs."

"Oh. Yeah, that'd do it."

"Sure would," I said. "Let's get back in the car before I freeze to death."

I stomped through the snow again, trying to hit my original tracks and not succeeding particularly well in the dark. But, back in the car, the heat felt good. I'd left my parka in the backseat, of course. Just too much of an encumbrance. Besides, the heat would warm up the granola bars enough that they wouldn't break my teeth…

We each cracked a window, subconsciously listening. To hear a railroad train over the loud hiss of the heater/defroster and the engine would have been quite a feat, but we did it anyway.

"Granola bar?"

"Yeah, thanks."

We munched in silence for almost a minute.

"So," said John. "What do you think?"

"I think we got something really spooky here," I replied. "I don't know why, but somebody with a silenced snowmobile and NVGs is touring the countryside. Near a murder scene. Where the killer probably left via snowmobile."

"I never heard of a snowmobile like that, with the goggles and all."

"I did once," I said, around a mouthful. "On TV. Finnish Army."

"Who?"

"The Army of Finland. They and the Swedes were on TV. They have special units that use that sort of stuff. Go a hundred and sixty miles per hour on lakes in the Arctic like that. Quiet, and run 'em at night."

"Yeah…" said John.

"No," I said, "I don't think we've been invaded. But military people use this kind of stuff. Or, at least, would if they needed to. Survivalists would probably know about it, then."

"Oh."

"Just have to figure out who and why," I said. "For starters."

I could just hear Art with that one. I'd be labeled the conspiracy theorist of the year.

"Don't tell anybody. I mean, anybody. Got that?" I was deadly serious.

"Yes, sir." So was John.

"I want you to keep working this area, but don't hang it out too far on this thing. All right?"

"Yes, sir."

"You did exactly right, last night, by not giving any indication that you saw it. He probably thinks he just blew past you and you weren't even aware of him. That's good. And…"

There was a rising whine, followed by a suddenly deepened tone, along with the crunch of snow and gravel, and a black object flew by on the roadway. And was gone. Just like that. He'd come from our right this time, and wouldn't have been able to see us at all.

We looked at each other.

"You see well enough to drive?"

"Without lights, you mean?"

"Yep," I said, making sure my seat belt was secure. I knew his answer.

"Oh, yeah," he said, pulling the gearshift lever down. And away we went.

Without any lights on, it was fairly easy to see the road. It wasn't possible, however, to see the speedometer, so I had no accurate idea of how fast we were going. Probably just as well. We were fishtailing a lot of the time, and I thought we were going to go into the ditch more than once. It might have just been my perspective, but I thought the ditches were getting deeper and steeper on my side as we went. Because of the curving road and the nearness of the hills, we were in and out of moonlight constantly. I really sweated those dark patches.

"You see him?" I asked.

"Nope."

"Let me know if you do…"

We rounded a curve and caught a little moonlight. Up, over a small hill, going about 50 on a straight stretch. Over the top and down, like a roller-coaster ride.

"Careful… there's a bridge here somewhere," I said. Just as we flew across it.

"Yep."

He accelerated.

"Watch it, the curves start again really soon… and be careful, he's gonna be kicking snow, might be hard to see…"

"I see him… I see him…"

So did I. We were just barely gaining on a darker spot about a hundred yards up the white snow-covered roadway. He was hazy or fuzzy or… of course. The rooster tail of snow I'd just reminded John about. He was picking up just enough from the roadway to make a snowy haze.

"Try not to lose him, but don't fuckin' kill us, either." I get all fatherly in tight circumstances.

"Okay."

I picked up the mike. "Comm, Three. Nine is in pursuit of an unknown vehicle, proceeding south on G4X. Vehicle traveling at a high rate of speed…"

"Ten-four, Three."

Whoever it was was apparently oblivious to our presence. He was pooping along at about 40 or so, and we were now gaining perceptibly. But 50 was a high rate of speed for us, considering the snow-packed and icy condition of the road.

If this guy really was using night vision equipment, my plan should work. Get in close, then hit him with all the light we had on the car. It should cause the night vision goggles to "bloom" on him, and he'd be unable to see for a few seconds. His first reaction should be to stop.

"In about a second," I said, "we hit every damned light we got. Top lights, high-beam headlights, spotlight, everything. Just get ready for a hard stop. When I say…"

"Okay…"

"Stay with the son of a bitch for another five seconds, we got a chance here…" We were approaching a fairly sharp curve to the left. "Just before he gets to the curve…"

"Right…"

"NOW!"

We both worked switches, John taking the headlights and the spotlight, and me getting the top red and white strobes, and hitting the siren on "yelp" for good measure.

The lights had a dazzling effect on us, as well.

"SLOW DOWN, JOHN!"

Too late. I watched the snowmobile careen off the right side of the road toward the trees, with us right behind him. We hit small stuff, not much bigger than brush, and came to a stop in a large snowbank. I lost the snowmobile completely, as it went over the snowbank we stopped in. We didn't stop fast enough to deploy the airbags, but I was sure as hell grateful for the seat belts.

I reached over and cut the siren. The snow we'd kicked into the air came thundering back down onto the hood. Then silence. The black night air was filled with tiny red and white flashing snow particles, slowly settling on the windshield.

"Well, fuck." I looked over at John. He was opening his door.

I tried to open mine, but couldn't manage more than a few inches in the deep snow that had been thrown alongside by our sliding impact. My outside view was considerably diminished by flashing strobes. "Want to kill the lights?" I pushed a little harder, and got about four more inches of opening.

"Sir…"

"What?" My door seemed to have hit an obstacle.

"Sir…" said John. I looked up, and in the flashing red lights I could see the outline of a figure in a dark snowmobile suit, helmet with NVGs tilted up, sprawled in the snow at the top of the snowbank. It wasn't moving.

"Great," I said, "we've fuckin' killed him…"

I pushed real hard, and the door opened another three or four inches. I squeezed out, into the knee-deep snow, and approached the supine figure as cautiously as I could. I could hear John crunching through the snow just above and to my left. He'd obviously gotten up on the bank.

"Careful, sir," he said.

"Yep." I could see both hands of the figure, gloved, with the left one out to the side, and the right one almost folded behind. I heard the peculiar steel on nylon sound as John drew his gun. That meant that I was going to have to check the body. I really hoped he wasn't dead.

I took off my right glove, reached down, and worked the zipper at his throat, until I could get my first two fingers inside and feel for a carotid pulse. Strong. Good. I pulled my hand back, and pushed the night vision goggles up onto the top of his shiny black helmet, and carefully tested his visor. It slid up easily, and as it did so, I saw his eyes fly wide.

"Don't move," I said. "You've been in an accident…"

I took both his feet squarely in my chest. He lifted me a good foot off the ground, and propelled me backward about three. If it hadn't been for the bulletproof vest, he would have broken a couple of my ribs, at least. He'd moved so fast I hadn't even had time to react.

John, on the other hand, cracked off a round right past the guy's ear as he started to stand. He stopped so fast his momentum carried him forward on the bank, and he rolled head over heels down toward me. I rolled to one side, and got to my knees, drawing my own gun as John yelled, "Freeze, asshole!"

A great command, although not designed for "post-shot," and still better late than never. The man in the snowmobile suit froze, all right. He had both knees under him, one hand in contact with the ground, and he was grabbing at his zippered neck. Obviously trying to reach something inside the snowmobile suit.

His hand stopped when he saw my gun in front, and heard John ask a question behind him…

"Should I shoot now, sir? I got him…"

"Only if he moves," I said. I continued kneeling in front of the man, pointing my gun at his chest. "Both hands in the air. Slow, but do it."

He did. The visor of his helmet was still up, and I could just make out his eyes in the moonlight. As both hands cleared the top of his head, I rocked back, got my feet under me, and stood.

"Now lay down on your face, like you were going to make an angel in the snow. Hands way over your head… And turn your face away from me… That's right…"

He did as I told him, and I saw John put his gun away, and get out his handcuffs.

"Careful, John. Stay toward his hips, 'cause I'm gonna shoot him in the head if he moves. I don't want to get helmet fragments in you."

That was said for the benefit of the suspect, naturally. With his head turned away, he wouldn't have any idea where I was, and could only feel John put the handcuffs on. For a smart suspect, it would be a case of no data, no plan, no action.

The man never moved a muscle.

When John stood up, I told him to open the rear door of the car. He did, and then came back to us. I was taking no chances with this fellow, none at all. He was just too damned quick.

"Roll over, and get to your knees," I said. Not the easiest thing to do when you're handcuffed behind your back, but he accomplished it in one motion. I stepped behind him, removed my gloves, and patted him down. Large lump under the left arm. I knelt directly on the back of his lower legs and ankles, and reached around him and unzipped his suit. He was kind of squirmy, but never made a sound. With me on his legs like that, he had no chance for any leverage.

I reached in, and pulled out a.40 caliber Glock semiautomatic handgun. I dropped the magazine, jacked the chambered round out into the snow, and put the gun in my gun belt.

"Found a Glock," I said to John.

"Cool…"

"Got any more?" I asked, patting his sides. No answer, but no weapons, either. Not as far as I could tell.

"He's probably got a knife," I said to John, "but I can't find it with him kneeling down." Just a hunch.

I reached under his chin, and unstrapped his helmet, and pulled it off his head. Keeping it securely in my right hand, I leaned on his shoulders and pushed myself back to my feet.

"Walk on your knees to the car."

He spoke for the first time. "What?" He sounded exasperated and angry.

"It's either that or be dragged," I said, evenly. "We have rope in the trunk. It's not that far, and the snow's soft. You can do it."

He did, too. I stood on his right, and John stood about twenty-five feet away, at the open rear door of the squad car. He covered him every inch of the way.

When he got to the car, I said, "Just kneel right against the open door there, don't get in. You'll get enough warm air from the door."

No leverage in the snow. Besides, he was likely a lot warmer than we were. I sat his helmet on the roof of the car, and handed the Glock to John. "For the trunk, I think. And you'd better get us some backup," I said. "Good thing we called in the pursuit."

"I'm just glad you were along. God, I'd hate to explain this all by myself."

The flashing red strobe lights that were left were disorienting, to say the least. In the white environment, things seemed to leap toward and away from you with each pulse.

"Check your temp gauges, make sure the engine isn't overheating…" Snow up under the hood could block the radiator, loosen belts, throw belts, you name it. "If it's okay, keep it running." In this area of the county, the hilltops were a good hundred feet above the roadway, and pretty close, to boot. Radio communications with our 10 watt walkie-talkies would be chancy, at best. I wanted the 100 watt radio in the car available, if I could.

"Yes, Father…" came from the car. Oops. Let up, Carl. He's able to do all of that.

I got busy thinking. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that the subject in custody was related to or involved with the two murders. None. I was as certain of that as I was of the fact that there was absolutely no real evidence to back me up.

Over my walkie-talkie, I could hear John's side of the conversation with the office. He mentioned that we needed assistance. That it wasn't an emergency, but that we had a suspect in custody. He promised to keep in touch until help arrived.

He joined me in watching our prisoner. Time to get some information.

"Who are you?"

Silence.

"You got a name?"

Nothing.

"Well, let me put it this way," I said. "Any ID you got is going to be mine as soon as we get that suit off you." In the ensuing silence, I recited his Miranda rights. No reaction. Nothing. "Right." The radio was blaring in the background. "I'll get the radio," I said. I trudged up to the front, and reached in for the mike.

"This is Three, go ahead."

"Three, One is ten-seventy-six. So is Seven. 388 is coming from Wheaton, ETA ten."

"Ten-four, Comm."

"Ten-fifty-one is also ten-seventy-six." That meant that a wrecker was also coming. Well, we needed one, no doubt about that. Unfortunately, that also meant a civilian at the scene, as well.

"Which fifty-one, Comm?"

"Eddie's Body Shop."

If it had to be anybody, I was glad it was Eddie. He was pretty good at keeping his mouth shut.

What we needed was a cover story. Something that most people could be told, something that would explain a chase of a snowmobile, and a subject in custody. We were going to need it in a hurry, too. I could see the faint flashing red lights way back down the valley. Probably Seven. Deputy Gary Oberbrech. Fairly new, and a good officer. He'd need to know some details, but I didn't think I wanted the whole world to know that I had my real suspect. Not just yet.

Two deer broke cover, about ten yards from me, and just about finished me off right then and there. "Holy shit," I said to myself, when I got my breath back. "That woulda been cute, Carl. Scared to death by a couple of nervous deer…" Ah, but yes. That was going to be it. Our cover story. "John!"

"Yeah…"

I walked back up on the road. "Listen up. Except for Lamar, everybody is told this is a poacher. Got that? We caught a poacher. Use 'poacher' every chance you get. Poacher."

"'Poacher'? Okay, yeah, poacher… sure."

"Stick to that even if they torture you." I grinned. "Coffee, doughnuts, chocolate bars… the works. Don't give in. Except Lamar," I added. "Never lie to Lamar."

"Got it." He grinned back. "You know how close we came? I almost ran over the fucker, I swear. Another hundred yards of straight road…"

"Yeah. Close." I clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll bet you scared the crap out of him when you touched off that round, too." Bravado has its uses. Oh, yeah.

According to my watch, it was 2310 when we got our suspect to the jail, and field-stripped him down to his dark blue union suit. Three of us, Gary, John, and me. No chances. You gotta take the cuffs off to get ' em undressed. We did find a knife, a Gerber, underneath his bulletproof Kevlar vest, which was also dark blue. He hadn't said a word to that point.

"Pretty well equipped for a poacher," said Gary, dryly.

"Got a wallet here," said John, who was going through the snowmobile suit. He handed it to me. Junior officers will do that, I suspect because they think us older folk would like the privilege of opening the prize, or something. This time, I was glad that he had.

I opened the wallet, and found myself staring at a complete FBI identification set. Photo, document, everything.

I just looked at him for a long moment. He just looked back. Well.

I cleared my throat. "It says here you're Norman John Brandenburg," I said. "That right?"

"That's right."

"And that you're a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation…"

Both Gary and John stopped their inventory of his gear.

"That's right."

"How do you want us to go about proving that?" I asked. I'd seen FBI identification many times, and this was about as authentic as you can get. Including subtleties like slight wear and scuffing.

"Just make a phone call," he said. "The office will confirm."

I thought for a second. "Field office?"

"Yes, but not a local one. I'll provide the number."

I'd asked, because I'd never known a local field office to be open for phone calls after 1700. Not that I was going to be satisfied with a phone call, anyway.

"How about I call an FBI agent I know, and we have him do it?" It wasn't really a question.

Special Agent Norman John Brandenburg didn't seem happy with that. "You shouldn't do that."

My first thought had been that it was a phony ID, and that we were getting a phony number. Now I was just about certain I was right.

"I think we'll do it my way," I said. "John, why don't you put the cuffs back on him, and sit him over by the booking desk. This won't take too long…"

I went out to dispatch, where Sally was monitoring the taping of our activities with our suspect. She'd arrived about 2245 for the start of the eleven-to-seven shift, and had made sure that the recording system was working well. Audio and visual.

"Well, holy shit," she said, in a conversational tone. "You think he really is?"

"Dunno," I said. "Got George's home number?"

She found it in a second, wrote it on a slip of paper, and handed it to me, all the time monitoring the activities in the booking room.

"Can they execute you for arresting a Fed?"

"No," I said. "But I'm not sure about embarrassing one…"

I dialed George from the "officer's" phone, at the end of the dispatch console, near the coffeepot and supplies. The pot was empty. We'd have to do something about that.

"Hello…" came the familiar voice of Special Agent George Pollard, known to us as George of the Bureau.

"George?"

"Yes… Houseman?" He sounded very surprised. He should have. I think this might have been the second time in five years that we'd called him at home.

"Yep. Got a second for a strange one?"

"Oh, no. Now what?" He knew the Nation County Sheriff's Department pretty well.

"Well, it appears that we may have arrested a federal agent…"

"What?!"

I chuckled. "Well, somebody who's claiming to be one, anyway."

"My God. For what?"

"That," I said, "is pretty much going to depend on whether or not he's a real FBI agent."

There was a small groan on the other end. "An FBI agent…" George cleared his throat. "I was assuming it was some other agency…"

"Nope. Fucking Big Indian, as they used to say."

"What are the charges?"

"Well, if he isn't one, then we start with impersonation, and go down the list to concealed weapons, eluding pursuit, and reckless driving. If he is, we just got reckless and eluding pursuit."

"My God," whispered George. "Do you have his car?"

"No," I said, unable to suppress a grin, "but I got his snowmobile."