“Lieutenant!”
The microphone was raised instantly. “Yes?”
“Southern Two. I think we have him, or anyway the one that was on the Freeway, probably. We’re on Sansome; he’s ahead of us heading for the Embarcadero. I’m putting on the siren.”
“Right.” He lifted his head to Pilcher. “Let’s get over there as fast as we can!”
“He’s turning into the Embarcadero, Lieutenant. It’s got to be him or somebody else with a guilty conscience, because he knows we’re after him and he’s pouring on the coal. That bastard can move too!”
“Stay with him!” Reardon felt the old feeling of triumph return. No innocent driver of an old Buick — or any other car — would be running from a police car. His eyes came up from the microphone. “Take Columbus. We’ll cut him off down below.”
Pilcher swung the car even as the Lieutenant spoke. His hand moved to the dashboard; the siren came on again, drowning out the rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers. Below them the bay was covered with fog; it crept partially up the hill they were on, dissipating itself in the light rain that was falling. The pavement glistened beneath them, treacherous, waiting for the slightest mistake on the part of the driver. Pilcher’s face was a mask, his blue eyes icy. He stepped on the gas, taking the diagonal street faster than he wished, but determined not to slow down.
Southern Two came back on. “That idiot will get us all killed! It’s slippery as hell here.” The disembodied voice sounded almost admiring. “He can travel, but we’re gaining.”
Reardon leaned forward as if to help the patrol car’s speed. They shot through the triangular intersections with their siren clearing the slower traffic to one side, weaving about cars who paid the warning little or no attention.
“He’s turning into Bay. I might get a shot at his tires. We’re only a couple of blocks back of him now.”
“No shooting! Not in the city! You’d ricochet and kill somebody!”
“Right.”
Pilcher swayed violently as the patrol car shot around a cable car turning into Columbus from Mason. The faintest sheen of sweat touched his forehead. Reardon swallowed and then peered ahead.
“We’ve got him now.” His voice was taut. Bay Street lay only four blocks below them. He raised the microphone. “We’re on Columbus crossing Lombard. We’re going to try and cut him off at Bay.”
“Right.”
Reardon put the microphone in place and glanced at Pilcher. “When we get there, block the road.” Pilcher’s leathery face revealed nothing; he merely nodded. Reardon looked at him a moment in silence. “And when we do, be ready to jump.”
“Yes, sir.” No muscle moved in his face.
Reardon brought his eyes back to the road. One hand grasped the door handle for instant action; the other braced itself against the dashboard. His heart began to beat more rapidly, adrenaline induced. Below them Bay Street rushed toward them out of the fog...
Chapter 14
Thursday — 11:20 A.M.
They crossed Chestnut with Pilcher already beginning to slow down his suicidal speed; at Francisco he began applying the brakes, easily at first, and then more firmly, controlling the tendency of the car to skid with strong hands responding instantly with countermoves on the steering wheel. Below them the fog boiled over the intersection of Bay and Columbus, hiding it. They approached the crossing at a reasonable speed, but before Pilcher could take the patrol car into the intersection, an ancient black car hurled itself past, its driver hunched over the wheel, unrecognizable at that speed.
Automatically and without thinking Pilcher tramped on the gas again, a muttered curse on his breath, swinging up the incline into Bay Street behind it. The noise of his siren cut out the similar warning from Southern Two, hurtling up Bay in pursuit of the fleeing Buick. Even as he did so Pilcher realized his error; he tried to swing to the near side of the street to allow room for the other car, but it was too late. There was the squeal of useless brakes, a shriek of wet tires fighting the slippery pavement for purchase, and then a heavy crash, audible over the sirens, metal on metal, a brief pause and then another crash. Pilcher braked instantly, looking into his rearview mirror. Reardon looked back over his shoulder, twisting in the seat. Southern Two in attempting to avoid them had sideswiped a parked car, bounced off, twisted across the street and struck another. Its siren sobbed itself to silence. Nobody emerged from the wrecked car.
Reardon swung his body back. “Get going!” His voice was tight. “We’re not going to lose him now!” He raised the microphone as Pilcher brought his eyes back to the road, stamping on the accelerator, regaining speed. His eyes searched the fog ahead for the outline of the black car even as he spoke into the perforated disc. “Communications! Rush an ambulance to Bay and Columbus. Southern Two had a bad accident. Send the nearest car to help. We’ve got Crocker ahead of us and we can’t stop.”
“Yes, sir.”
He put the microphone back in place and sat still, his eyes glued on their quarry, now faintly visible ahead of them. They were gaining on the black car, slowly but perceptibly. Reardon realized their siren was clearing traffic from the path of the Buick as well as their own, but he didn’t want Crocker to die in a car crash. He wanted him alive where he could answer questions before he went to the gas chamber.
They passed Fort Mason at a reckless speed, their windshield wipers flashing before their eyes, clicking madly, their entire world now the scream of the siren and the swaying back of the car ahead, framed in the swirling fog. Reardon was thankful it was not rush hour; their quarry would almost certainly have been able to make it impossible to be followed. Reardon reached for the microphone again.
“Communications. Notify the Golden Gate Bridge police as well. It looks like that’s where he’s heading. Either there or the Presidio.”
“We already have, Lieutenant.”
“Good.”
The microphone went back in place. The Buick ahead of them cut sharply into Cervantes, turned at the end to parallel the water of the bay on Marina Boulevard without slackening speed, and then suddenly swayed violently, weaving across the road. For a split second Reardon wondered what could possibly be in Crocker’s mind to handle the car so dangerously; then his brain began functioning again.
“Blowout,” he said briefly, but with deep satisfaction.
Pilcher hit his brakes at once; at those speeds it took distance to bring a car to a safe halt. Ahead of them the Buick slued around in a circle and slammed into a telephone pole, crushing in the side opposite the driver. Crocker was out of it before it had stopped rocking; he paused long enough to throw two quick shots in their direction and then he had disappeared down one of the wooden ramps leading to the Marina yacht harbor. The patrol car came to a halt beside the crashed car, its siren cut. Both Reardon and Pilcher were out at once, running toward the water’s edge, guns in hand. There was the roar of a motor and the loud shout of someone’s voice raised in outraged anger. They came to the edge of the grass to see a young man in his early twenties screaming after a small speed boat disappearing into the fog.
Reardon and Pilcher trotted down the ramp to the pier. The young man turned at the sound and noted Pilcher’s uniform.
“Hey!” He pointed. “That guy swiped a boat!”
“And I’m going to swipe another,” Reardon said flatly. “Police.” He turned to Pilcher, speaking rapidly, putting his gun back into his belt holster. “Get back to the car and have Communications advise the harbor police. And see what they can do about trying to keep an eye on places he might possibly land.” This latter was a completely hopeless task and he knew it; the bay with its surrounding arms encompassed hundreds of miles of shore line. “And then stick around and wait for me.” He turned to the young man. “Which is the fastest one here?”