The Catch

No Joe Gunther book would have ever come into existence without the advice and expertise of dozens of people, and
The Catch
is no exception. I always hope that I honor the time, effort, and input that such kind folks so willingly give me by reflecting with some accuracy their contributions. That having been said, I know I stumble regularly. With that in mind, I thank those below, and so many others, while accepting full responsibility for any gaffes my readers might encounter in the following tale. Mike McGonigle

Also:

The Maine Drug Enforcement Agency

The Maine Marine Patrol

The Maine State Police

Maine Public Radio

The Vermont State Police

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement

The Vermont Forensic Laboratory

Deputy Sheriff Brian Sleuter was looking for a better country/western station when the Toyota flew by, spraying a few roadside pebbles against the front bumper of his cruiser.

“Jesus Christ, Bud,” he said softly, turning on his headlights, putting the car into gear, and hitting his blue lights—all in a single, well-practiced gesture— “why don’t you flip me the bird while you’re at it?”

He fishtailed into the road from his hiding place, his rear tires spinning before gaining purchase, and took off down Vermont Route 7 with a burst from the Impala’s built-up engine, the Toyota’s rear lights already fading fast into the late-night summer darkness. This stretch of road—straight, isolated, and well paved—was a magnet for speeders.

It was long after midnight, and Sleuter had been waiting patiently for just such an opportunity. In the split second that his well-trained eye had glimpsed the interior of the car, illuminated only by its own dash lights, he’d caught sight of two people, both young males. That, combined with the Toyota being older, dark-colored, and nondescript in appearance—and that
it was headed south from the direction of Burlington and possibly Canada—helped him think he might be about to tag his first drug runner in five weeks.

That had been way too long for a certifiable, self-admitted Type-A personality like Brian Sleuter. He saw himself as a man on the make, and the faster that he created a name for himself, the sooner he could move up to some outfit like ATF or DEA where he could really throw the book at the bad guys.

The Toyota grew in size before him as he pushed the accelerator to the floor. Official police denials notwithstanding, high-speed rundowns had their thrills. The engine’s unleashed roar, the sudden blurring of scenery on both sides, pulsing to the strobe bar’s steady beat, heightened the defiant, indomitable sense of superiority that washed through Sleuter every time he put on his uniform. He’d been told that wasn’t a good thing—that it ran counter to the whole professional, courteous, protect-and-serve bullshit the boss spouted at monthly trainings—but he knew what he knew, which was that a gun and a badge made for a good argument in a fight, and that he had no interest in being a social worker.

Call him a jackass if you had front teeth to spare, but at least he was no loser.

The Toyota began slowing down, pulling over to the side of the narrow road. Ahead of them both, a pair of headlights crested a distant hill, aiming their way. Sleuter instinctively charted their progress, as he was simultaneously watching for any suspicious activity from the Toyota, but all the on-comer did was slow as they always did upon sight of the blue lights, before
sliding by timidly as Sleuter angled his cruiser to a stop behind his quarry.

He hit the spotlight switch by his left window, freezing the car before him in a blinding halo, and removed the radio mike from its cradle.

“Fifty-one—Dispatch.”

“Fifty-one. This is Dispatch.”