The Shimmer. Carsten Stroud
at the truck, her right hand braced on the dashboard.
She keyed the mike again.
“Central, target is now northbound on South Dayton—we have just crossed Twenty-Seven.”
“Copy that.”
South Dayton was a long residential street that ran along the edge of a shallow slope covered with trees, a few large summer homes on the east side, no one on the streets now that the storm had hit and hit hard, the branches on the trees thrashing in the gale, the undersides of their leaves showing silvery white. A palm frond struck their windshield, got jammed into their wipers.
Redding swore, jammed the car to a stop, jumped out and tore the frond away, leaped back into the vehicle before it stopped rocking, accelerated hard, the tail end sliding on the slick tarmac.
“Ask Jax 250 where they are,” said Redding, fighting the wheel as they hit a pothole in the road and the Crown Vic slammed through it, bouncing crazily, the rear end coming loose.
Karras keyed the mike again.
“Jax 250.”
“Roger, Jax 180.”
“What’s your twenty?”
“A1A northbound crossing Twenty-Eight.”
In this section South Dayton was a straight run, and the truck pushed it to a flat 100 miles an hour. Jesus, thought Redding, this is not good.
“Ask Jax 250 to go to afterburners, get north of us and turn left. If they really punch it, they might be able to block the guy off there.”
“Roger, Jax 250, can you shoot up to block at Nineteen and South Dayton?”
“Ten-four, Jax 180.”
“Roger that.”
The truck blew through stop signs, almost nailed a van pulling out of a driveway, braked crazily and spooled it right back up to 60...70...
The Suburban’s brake lights flared up and beyond it they could see the flicker of red and blue lights and the glare of headlights as Jax 250 squealed to a skidding halt that blocked the intersection. The truck slid to a stop, sat there for a brief moment, wavering.
They were almost on it.
The brake lights flicked off, the truck swung a hard left and punched it, racing west toward the swamplands and the Intracoastal.
“There’s nothing down there but South Palmetto,” said Redding. “It’s a crescent, no way out. Nothing west of that but swamplands. Guy’s trapped.”
“Unless he breaks into a house along here, takes a whole bunch of hostages.”
Redding shot her a look. She was having the time of her life. Hell, so was he. Who didn’t love a totally batshit car chase? Was this a great country or what?
“Jeez, Julie. Don’t even say that.”
“But wouldn’t it be, like, a teachable moment?”
In the middle of all this vehicular insanity the kid still had her bounce. He was still grinning when the truck powered away down a short block, wheeled crazily right around the curve onto South Palmetto, big ranch homes, maybe a dozen of them, spread out on the east side, and on the left, dense forest, broken ground down a slight slope—the only kind of slope Florida had—and then the driver hit the brakes.
Hard, the truck slewing around crazily, correcting and then skidding to a stop in the middle of the road. The driver’s door popped open and a woman—not young, but lean and solid-looking in tight jeans and hiking boots and a black leather jacket—hopped out, nothing in her hands, which were the first thing you looked at.
She sent them one quick glance. They got a glimpse of a tight hard face, no fear at all, even a fleeting defiance, strong cheekbones and wide eyes, maybe green, black hair flying in the wind as she ran. Something in Redding’s memory flickered like a goldfish in a pond. He knew that face. Then she was gone, racing across the street, running like a wolf. She vanished into the trees, a flash of blue, and then the forest folded her in.
Redding slammed the brakes hard as Karras got onto the radio, telling Jax 250 what had just happened. Then they were both out of the cruiser, doors still open, running toward the truck, which was idling in the street, engine rocking the frame, windshield wipers still ticking, rain steaming off the overheated engine hood.
As they reached it, Jax 250 came rushing up and stopped on the far side of the truck. Two troopers got out with their guns drawn, LaQuan Marsh and Jim Halliday.
“A runner, LQ,” Redding shouted to them. “White female, black hair, black jacket, blue jeans, no visible weapons. She went into the trees.”
Marsh and Halliday broke right like a pair of pulling guards and went flying into the forest after her. People were popping out of their houses, standing on porches, on lawns. Redding shouted at them, warning them off, gave a go sign to Karras, and she moved in, her gun up and trained on the passenger-side doors of the Suburban. The windows were closed, dark as black ice.
The truck engine was running hot and loud, the rain hammering on its roof. Water was running down Julie’s face and she blinked it away, wishing she had put on her Stetson.
Redding was going left, and he came to a stop about ten feet off the left rear wheel, his gun up. Karras had taken the same position on the right rear side. They could smell scorched rubber and overheated metal steaming in the rain.
The driver’s door hung wide-open, the seat belt dangling. From the interior of the truck, someone crying, a woman’s voice.
“In the truck,” said Redding in a voice of brass, “show me your hands. Do it now!”
Faint, from deep inside the truck, a shaky female voice, young. “Don’t shoot us. Please.”
Karras moved up a yard, reached for the rear door. Redding told her to stop. He stepped up to the left-side rear door, leveled his gun and jerked the rear door open.
Two teenage girls were lying on the rear bench seat. They were cord cuffed to the front-seat floor struts. They were crying, beyond hysterical.
“Help us,” said one of them, dark haired, possibly the older one.
“Please. She’s crazy. She kidnapped us.”
Karras popped the other rear door, put her gun on them, wary, tense, her finger almost inside the trigger guard. Both girls were in jeans and boots, T-shirts, hair every which way, eyes red from crying, faces flushed and frightened.
In shock, scared to death.
“Who are you?” he asked, in a softer tone.
“I’m Rebecca Walker. This is my sister Karen. Help us please? That woman kidnapped us!”
Redding looked at Karras. She looked back, and they both did a quick check of the interior. Luggage scattered around. Remnants of a Happy Meal, candy wrappers, water bottles. No one else. Just the girls, cuffed to the floor.
Redding lowered his weapon and after a moment Karras did the same.
“I’m gonna go after the runner. Can you take care of these two?”
Karras said she would, lips so tight they were blue.
“You go, Sergeant. I’ll get EMT in here.”
“Search them first, Julie. Before you cut them loose. You never know.”
“I will. Go get her.”
Redding took one last look at the girls, showed them his teeth, a quick smile that was supposed to be comforting and wasn’t even close.
Redding turned away and raced down into the trees, a big lean rangy guy who could move like a linebacker when he had to. He pulled out his portable.
“LQ, I’m coming in.”
“Roger