The cruiser's speed grew somewhat and the fleeing car's back fender came closer. The microphone popped back into the sheriff's hand.
"You there?"
"Yes, Jim."
"You got that complaint about the missing Olds yesterday?"
"Right here on the desk, Jim."
"Number?"
"Four-five-two, seven-four-six."
"Could be, this plate starts with four-five. Sixty-nine black Olds, right?"
"Right, Jim. Sure you don't want assistance? Bob's cruiser is on Route One, too. I can raise him."
"Sure, raise him. Ten four."
The cruiser's engine made its doors vibrate as the two cars raced side by side. The sheriff put his foot all the way down and began to steer to the side. There was a squeal of brakes. De Gier looked round. The Oldsmobile skidded and seemed to be ready to overturn, but it touched a snowbank and dug itself in, its rear wheels spinning frantically.
"Right," the sheriff said and opened his door. De Gier got out too. "Careful, sergeant. You're not too steady on your legs."
When de Gier reached the Oldsmobile the driver was facing the sheriff, dwarfing the tight upright figure that stood nailed on the glistening asphalt. Very nice, de Gier thought, a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound suspect. Like many big men the driver seemed pleasant, jolly almost.
"You're not taking me in, sheriff." The voice boomed and came from a pink slit in a thick beard that grew up to the man's deep-set eyes. De Gier stopped, his feet slightly apart, his arms dangling. The giant turned to look at him.
"Who are your
"A rider," the sheriff said.
"So why is he here?"
"A curious rider. I'm taking you in, Leroux. Speeding."
"Curiosity killed the cat." A strong waft of whiskey hit de Gier's nostrils. It hit the sheriff too.
"You've been drinking, Leroux. That's another charge. And I have a third. You stole the car."
The pink slit in the beard curled. "No, sheriff. The car belongs to my buddy. You know him-Charlie, young Charlie Bouchier. Charlie had the loan of my chain saw, but he didn't give it back. He gave me some parts back, not the chain saw. He owes me a couple of hundred to have it fixed again, but Charlie has no money."
The sheriff walked to the Oldsmobile and looked in. He came back. "There's no key in the car. How did you start her, Leroux?"
"I can start a car without a key."
"So you stole it. Charlie didn't give you the key, right?"
"You're not taking me in, sheriff." Leroux hadn't raised his voice, but his eyelids dropped halfway and the fist on his right arm swung, just a few inches forward, then dropped back again.
"Yes I am, Leroux. Get into the cruiser."
"Not unless you pull your gun on me."
De Gier looked at the gun. It stuck obscenely from a narrow holster on the sheriff's belt, secured only by a thin leather strap that would spring open if the sheriff flicked a finger. A wicked gun, an oversized revolver, the wooden butt shining in the low sunlight.
"I won't pull a gun on you, Leroux."
Leroux's throaty laugh rumbled around the sheriff. "You want to fight me, sheriff?"
"Get into the cruiser."
Leroux's hand came up slowly and a forefinger poked out of the fist. The finger touched the sheriff's nose and pressed down. The nose flattened. The sheriff hadn't moved.
De Gier's reaction wasn't conscious. His mind had appraised the situation and determined it to be dangerous. The suspect was big and undoubtedly strong. He was also armored, for the thick jacket, padded with down or plastic fluff, would absorb any blow. The only exposed part of the suspect's body was the face, but Leroux had his chin down and his left arm was free to block the sheriff's punch. The sheriff didn't have enough weight to resist the pressure of the suspect's hand. Leroux's action constituted a charge: harassing an officer. There was little the sheriff could do except try to stand his ground, but de Gier could attack. Leroux's neck was free. De Gier's knees buckled slightly and his left hand was chopped upward, forming a blade, and hit Leroux's arm a half inch below the elbow joint. Leroux's forearm snapped up and the bearded head turned slightly, but the movement was arrested by a second chop when de Gier's right hand hit the side of the big man's neck. There was less force in the second chop, but it had enough strength to block the flow in Leroux's artery. Leroux's eyes closed and he fell slowly. He rolled over once, as if he were trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold road. Then he sighed.
"Out," the sheriff said. "Thanks. Good move. I hope you haven't killed him."
"No."
"You've hit subjects like that before?"
"Not too often."
"I usually hit them with my flashlight." The sheriff showed the flashlight. The stem was a foot long. "Give them a swipe on the temple. Knocks them out and it doesn't hurt my hand. Let's move him."
They dragged the body to the cruiser and maneuvered it onto the back seat. Leroux groaned and smacked his lips. His eyes were still closed as his hand rubbed bis bruised neck.
"Did the rider knock me out?"
"He did. How do you feel?"
"Bad."
"You going to behave now?"
Leroux's groan became a bark. "No! I'll kill you both."
"Handcuffs," the sheriff said and ripped the metal rings from his belt. "Hold him, sergeant."
Leroux's hands were fists again, but they had no power and de Gier's long, muscular ringers pried them open and applied a twisting pressure so that the body on the backseat turned halfway and the arms met in the back. The handcuffs touched his hairy wrists and snapped shut. Leroux slumped back.
"Watch him, sergeant. I'll get the Oldsmobile started and drive it to the jailhouse. Can you handle the cruiser?"
De Gier looked at the controls. "Perhaps."
"Have you driven automatic cars before? They have them in Europe, don't they?"
"Yes, I have. Not often. The P is Park, isn't it? What's the N?"
"Neutral. Shift in D for Drive and be gentle with the accelerator. If you have to brake, pump it-just touch it with your toe. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
The sheriff walked over to the Oldsmobile, opened the hood, and adjusted the cable Leroux had used to start the car. When the engine caught, he reversed the big car out of the bank, allowing the engine to idle so that the wheels just moved and didn't spin. De Gier eased the cruiser behind the Oldsmobile. The radio crackled and he fumbled with the microphone, having trouble finding its button.
"Caught him, sheriff?"
"The sheriff is in the suspect's car. We are on our way back."
"Who are you?"
"Sergeant Rinus de Gier, Amsterdam Municipal Police."
The radio crackled emptily.
"Come again?"
De Gier came again.
"You the guy the sheriff went to meet on the airstrip?"
"Right."
"You got the subject?"
"Yes, man named Leroux."
"Leroux. He's big. Did he fight?"
"A little."
"Okay, ten four."
De Gier put the microphone back. 'Ten four," he mumbled.
"Means 'acknowledged,'" Leroux said. "Ten three means 'go ahead.' Sheriff's talk. I have a CB radio. Everybody has. It's fun to listen in sometimes, not always. They talk a lot of shit too. You really from the Amsterdam police?"
De Gier adjusted his rearview mirror so that he could see Leroux's face. The small beady eyes twinkled back at him.
"Yes."
"That's close to France. How come you're here?"
"An exchange. I am learning."
Leroux laughed. "On me, hey? I would have murdered that little bastard."
"Maybe not. How do you feel?"
"Bad. Take the cuffs off and I'll feel better."
"No."
Never trust a suspect when he's just been arrested. A golden police rule. An arrested suspect feels threatened, his nerves are ready to break, his reasoning is impaired. Better to humor him.