Page 65 of Rage

I floor the accelerator. Both hands on the wheel. My every sense is on high alert. I reach for calm, recall my training, search my memory for what I know about this road. No turnoffs coming up, but there are a couple of two-tracks the driver might take to lose me.

I glance down, see that I’m already at eighty-six miles per hour. There’s no sign of the vehicle ahead, so I don’t back off. Trees flash by as I fly down the road. Vaguely I’m aware of my radio lighting up. Sheriff’s office is en route. Two of my own officers.

“What’s the ETA on that ambulance?” I snap.

“Four minutes.”

“I got an officer down.”

The guardrail blurs by as I pass over a bridge. I feel the Explorer go airborne, the steering get squirrely, so I back off the gas. Then I’m past the bridge and I floor it. All the while I’m trying to remember which crossroads are farther ahead. There’s a township road. No stop sign.

“Passing Doe Creek Road,” I say into my radio, keeping the other cops abreast of my location.

I back off the accelerator to round a curve. Hit the gas in the straightaway. The road curves again. The Explorer takes it like a dream. When the road straightens, I see the flash of taillights ahead.

Gotcha, you son of a bitch.

“Suspect is eastbound on Lost Creek Road,” I say into my radio. “Coming up on Township Road 722.”

The taillights flicker again. I grip the wheel, my every sense honed on the two red points of light. The vehicle blows past the township road.

“Suspect is past TR 722. Heading toward Burr Oak.” I lose sight of my quarry as I maneuver an S curve. “Anyone to intercept?”

Glock’s voice cracks over the radio. “I’m southbound on Burr Oak.”

“Coming your way,” I say.

My speedometer hits eighty-nine miles per hour. I’ve got tunnel vision on my suspect. I’m gaining, but he’s two hundred yards ahead. I’m mapping the road and approaching turnoffs. There’s a sharp curve coming. If my suspect doesn’t slow down, he won’t be able to negotiate—

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

My windshield splinters into a thousand white capillaries. Pieces of glass fly at me, pelting my face and neck. “Shit!”

I take my foot off the gas.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Something slams into the headrest inches from my ear. I duck left. Hit the brake. A quick bark of rubber against asphalt, but the tires hold the road.

“Shots fired!” I shout. “Shots fired!”

My speedometer falls to sixty. I lean left to better see through the windshield. He’s less than half a mile ahead now, but I can’t see and I’m losing ground.

Thwack! Thwack!

A puff of glass sprays my face and neck. I stomp the brake. Cut the wheel. The windshield collapses, peels in. I’m thinking about punching it out so I can see when the Explorer shudders and goes into a sickening spin.

“Shit!”

The tires hit gravel and lose traction. The front wheels dip into the ditch. The Explorer bottoms out, then bounces violently onto the other side. The front end slams into the wire fence like a tennis ball into a racket. The momentum launches me against my safety belt, the strap cutting into my shoulder like a garrote.

The vehicle stops cold. The engine has died. I reach down. Punch the ignition button. Nothing.

Cursing, I smack my hand down on the steering wheel and snatch up my mike. “I’m out.”

CHAPTER 17

It’s three P.M. The temperature outside stands at ninety-two degrees in the shade. The humidity isn’t much lower. I’m sitting in an interview room—the nice one with a coffeemaker and water cooler—at the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office. I’ve been here for nearly an hour. I’ve given my statement. Filled out every form known to mankind. And I’ve participated in at least three interviews. The bad news is I’m tied up here while the person or persons who murdered Samuel Yutzy and Aaron Shetler are still on the loose.