"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.