“You can’t just walk into the police department with a fake badge,” Charlie said. “Can you?”
“In Ashton?” I said. “Pat Sumner is about a week from retirement. I don’t think that kid Ramon speaks more than ten words of English. Otis? Turley? Really?”
We all looked at each other, thinking the same thing.
I checked my cell. No service. “Where’s your landline, Charlie?”
He pointed toward the kitchen. I ran through the living room and found the cordless on the stove, and hurriedly punched in the police station’s number, which I knew by heart, having called it so many times over the years.
It rang a long while, until Claire finally answered.
“Oh, hi, Jay.”
“Claire, I need to talk to Turley. Where is he?”
“Um…” Pause. “He and Pat just walked outside with your brother.”
“What are they doing outside?”
She sighed heavily, like you do right before delivering unwelcomed news. “I guess they want him down in Concord. I’m sorry, Jay. That detective came back up for him. Remember him? McGreevy?”
“Claire, you have to stop them. You hear me? Do not let him take Chris!”
“Um, I think you need to talk to Pat or Turley.”
“There’s no time! Please!”
“Oh, wait. Here he is, Jay.”
The phone was set down on the other end, and I could hear the muffled chatter of joking voices in the background. It felt like an eternity before Turley finally picked up, though it had probably been only a few seconds.
“Oh, hey, Jay. Was about to call you. McGreevy is taking your brother down to Concord. But don’t worry. He hasn’t been charged with-”
“Listen to me, Turley. Listen to me carefully. You have to stop them. You hear me? Do not let McGreevy leave with my brother.”
“Calm down, Jay.”
“Do not let them leave! Stop them!”
“I can’t do that, Jay.”
“He’s not a real cop.”
“What?”
“McGreevy is dead. That guy isn’t McGreevy!”
“Huh? Jay, you’re not making any-”
“I’m on the way. I’ll explain everything when I get there. Do not let them leave!”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “I mean, they… they’re already gone.”
“What! When?”
“Just now. When I walked inside.”
“When, exactly?”
“Literally, less than a minute ago. But I’m telling you-”
I dropped the receiver and took off out the door, Charlie running after me. I hurdled down the front steps into the freshly settled night, a light snow beginning to fall, big soft balls floating like tufts of eiderdown. I patted my pockets for my truck keys.
“What are you gonna do?” Charlie asked.
I climbed into my Chevy. “Find them.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. You stay here.” I didn’t know how this was going to play out, and I didn’t want to involve Charlie any more than I already had. I jabbed the key in the ignition and fired my engine. “I’ll call you.”
“There’s two ways out of town, Jay.”
“They’re going to Concord.”
“How do you know?”
He was right. McGreevy was a Concord cop. Only this wasn’t the real McGreevy. They’d catch the Turnpike, either south to Concord or north to Canada, it was a crapshoot, and I couldn’t cover both on my own.
“I’ll take the Turnpike north,” Charlie said. “Just in case.”
“Okay,” I said. “Call me if you see them.”
“Go! We’ve got to catch them before the turnoff to the Interstate. Once they hit the 93, we don’t stand a chance.”
I peeled out of Charlie’s driveway, making for Camel’s Back and Axel Rod Road. The country skies grew darker. I hooked a hard left, tires squealing as I swerved onto Orchard Drive, back end fishtailing all over the goddamn place.
I panned up and down the long street. If they were going south, they’d have to take Orchard. It was the most direct shot to the Turnpike. Nothing. Even if they were going north, they’d still have to access Orchard eventually. I couldn’t have missed them. There weren’t any streetlights in the cuts, but I should’ve at least been able to make out tail lights in the distance. I couldn’t see a damn thing. They wouldn’t be leisurely sightseeing through the center of town; they’d be on the move. They had to be around here somewhere. If you wanted out of Ashton, the Turnpike was your only option. Unless you took Christy Lane to Ragged Pass, and tried to go over the summit. But who would do that? After Lamentation Bridge and Echo Lake, there was nothing but dead-end cul-de-sacs and quaint neighborhoods in the foothills. And no one went farther than that. The peak itself was a deathtrap, especially in the winter. That high up, Lamentation Mountain’s dirt roads carved through crags and gullies, meandering for miles, growing narrower and narrower, more hazardous by the minute. You could disappear in its shadows forever, and no one would even know you were missing…
I slammed on my brakes, flipped a bitch and made for Christy Lane, pushing seventy on the slick, icy street. I took the turn going so fast, my headlights barely provided any lead time to react to the hairpins and hazards. But this was my town; I could drive these roads blindfolded.
Ice and stone kicked up, dirtying high beams, hands shaking in a fit, though whether from the cold or chest-pounding anxiety, I couldn’t be sure. I grabbed my cell to call Charlie. No bars. No surprise. I was on my own.
The moon tucked behind dense banks of storm clouds as I down-shifted my Chevy into second and began to climb the snaking, bumpy terrain toward the watershed. Coming upon Lamentation Bridge and Echo Lake, still not seeing their vehicle, I realized the foolish mistake I’d made following my gut on a whim. I pounded my steering wheel. Of course McGreevy, or whatever his name was, would make for the Turnpike. Get the fuck out of Dodge as fast as possible. I must’ve just missed them. They probably left earlier than Turley had said, which meant it was over. Even if I turned around now and hit one hundred, they’d have already made the Turnpike. Once there, they’d blend into the chaos of traffic and truckers, hit the Interstate and be long gone. I didn’t even know what kind of vehicle they were driving. The only reason to come this way was if McGreevy’s impersonator planned on killing my brother, sawing a hole in the ice, and sending him to a cold, watery grave, which seemed too surreal to grasp.
Besides my brother’s potential murder, losing Chris now would mean no more time to right any ships, no more opportunities to reach an understanding. All the distance between my brother and me, never broached, all that water under the bridge, swept out to sea, with no chance for reconciliation. And just as I thought this, I caught the dim red glow of tail lights ascending Ragged Pass.
I punched the Chevy into gear, kicking cylinders into overdrive. Floored it, V-8 torqueing with a rush and a push; I took serious air over ramps of bedrock. Tires gaining traction, I gave that machine all she could handle, big block thrumming under the hood, 367 horsepower wailing. An ordinary car, in these conditions, didn’t stand a chance. My headlights soon fanned the rear window. I could see Chris cuffed in the backseat.
The Pass had no guardrails. When people did venture up here, usually teenagers looking to party, it was during the daylight and warmer months when they could navigate slowly. We were in a high-speed car chase in the dead of night and the middle of winter.