Chapter 12 The Chase
The Chase
Shane had been cruising highways and county roads for over three hours when Amy called. “Anything yet?” The distress in her voice caused his own to spike. All he wanted to do was take her worry away, but he was getting nowhere.
“Nothing. You?”
“No, and his phone goes instantly to voicemail. Hailey just drove by, and he’s not home. I was hoping to get away and wait for him there, but we’re swamped more than usual this morning.”
“Your marketing plan paid off, Barista Amy.” She didn’t respond to his attempt at lightening her mood, so he reverted to his sober tone.
“You keep taking care of your customers, and I’ll keep looking for Micky.
I’m in constant touch with Dispatch, and they’ve got nothing to report, which is a good thing.
I’ll call you the minute I hear or see anything, okay?
” Her reply came in the form of a shaky sigh.
“Look, I know it’s hard, but try not to worry.
I have a feeling he’ll turn up.” What Shane didn’t do was assure her that Micky was fine and would make an appearance after whoever he was boning got sick of him and threw him out of her bed.
Either way, sharing his suspicions aloud wouldn’t help Amy—it would simply cause more fissures to form in her fragile mettle.
She thanked him and hung up, and he continued his slow roll along the highway, eyes probing the forest for any trace of Micky.
The scene was a trip into Déjà Vu World, taking Shane back to a time when his father had left and fallen off the face of the earth.
He’d been a state trooper, and they’d thrown their resources at searching for him.
So had Shane, enlisting help from everyone he knew.
Though they’d combed the wilderness, they’d never turned up any signs of him.
His father’s actions were the reason Shane could never work for the Colorado State Patrol.
If he made a move now, it would have to be to a different county.
He shook off the disquieting memory and the anger it usually stirred up.
His dad had been a fuck-up, a disgrace to the uniform, and Shane didn’t have the bandwidth to allow thoughts of him to hijack his brain.
On those occasions when he did let his father occupy a corner of his mind, that space tended to expand until it sapped all of Shane’s brainpower. He couldn’t let that happen right now.
Head on a swivel, his gaze methodically sweeping the embankments on either side of the pavement, Shane crept along the highway. Shadows crowded between the tall evergreen trunks, making it nearly impossible to see beyond the first line of trees.
“Where the hell are you, Allen?” he said aloud. The question was the same one he’d repeated to himself and the universe since he’d started his search.
A silver SUV on the other side of the two-lane highway interrupted the pointless loop in his head.
As it approached, he spotted a broken headlight and the vehicle’s unusually slow speed.
The light wasn’t a hazard right now, but in a few hours, darkness would settle over these twisty mountain roads.
Running without a functioning headlight in those conditions wasn’t only illegal, it was downright dangerous.
Shane’s attention zipped to the vehicle’s front plate; there wasn’t one.
Then motion on the passenger side snagged his eye.
He caught a glimpse of someone ducking down, and something familiar about the form registered, tickling the back of his brain.
As the vehicle came closer, he immediately zeroed in on two more red flags: The driver with his beanie pulled so low Shane almost didn’t catch how his eyes darted left to right and back again, and the missing license plate at the rear of the vehicle. Not even a temporary tag.
Despite the driver’s attempts to hide his features, Shane recognized him.
Suspicion surged and locked his senses into gear.
On high alert now, he drove onto the shoulder, yanked the magnetic emergency light from under his seat, and slapped it onto the roof.
He flipped a Uey and gunned the engine. The silver SUV accelerated.
Pulse picking up speed, Shane keyed his radio. “Central, this is 431. I’m off duty, and I’ve got a silver SUV, no visible rear plate, northbound on 550 near mile marker thirty-two. Attempting a traffic stop.”
Donna’s voice immediately crackled on the radio. “Copy, 431.”
Instead of slowing, the SUV increased its distance.
Really? You wanna do this? “Central, vehicle’s not yielding. I’m initiating pursuit. Northbound 550, now approaching marker thirty-three. Late-model Chevy Tahoe, male driver, possible second occupant. Speed’s at fifty-three and climbing.”
“Copy, 431. Pursuit acknowledged. Advise road and weather conditions.”
“Road’s dry but temps are low—maybe thirty degrees, with possible snow oncoming. Visibility good, no traffic. Twisting grade coming up.”
The Tahoe whipped around a sharp corner, but no brake lights came on. Either the lights didn’t work, or the driver was taking the curve hot.
“Come on, man, don’t be stupid,” Shane muttered to himself as he stepped on the gas.
To Donna, he said, “Central, suspect vehicle just passed marker thirty-four, hitting seventy-one.” An object flew from the Tahoe.
“Tossed an item from the passenger window—looks like a bag or packet. Steep drop. Need to come back for it.”
“Copy, item discarded, marker thirty-four. Logging GPS for recovery.”
Shane rounded the curve, braking to stay in his lane. More turns lay ahead, but enough of the highway was visible so that he could see a fuel truck coming from the opposite direction up ahead, a string of six cars bringing up the rear.
Shit! He gripped the steering wheel. “Be advised, oncoming propane tanker southbound, multiple vehicles in tow. I’m slowing. Traffic risk too high to continue.”
The propane truck flashed its lights, blasted its horn, and the SUV swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding a collision. The glow of its brake lights winked on and quickly went out as it passed the cars.
Brake lights are operational after all. Small consolation. With the way the idiot was driving, his chances of taking out an innocent driver were sky-high.
Donna’s voice echoed in the cab. “Copy. Disengaging pursuit. Do you require backup at dump site?”
“Negative, I’ll circle back solo. Will advise.” Shane ground his back molars. What if the SUV had rammed that tanker and set off an explosion?
Fuck!
Shane dragged his hand over his jaw, the obvious question niggling at him. Why had the asshole been running in the first place?
Back at the toss site, he parked his truck. He shrugged on his parka and donned the high-visibility vest stowed in his search and rescue kit. After cramming on his beanie with the San Juan Sheriff’s Department insignia attached to it, he pulled out his flashlight and hailed Dispatch.
“Central, this is 431. I’m back at marker thirty-four, checking for discarded item.
” He made a meticulous sweep of the embankment, but it was covered with thick brush so dark it obscured everything.
He began descending its steep grade, shining the flashlight beam in a grid pattern as he searched for the item.
Nothing. How could something that big and that light in color simply disappear?
Same way a grown man can disappear in this shit.
The incline grew more steeped in shadows that seemed to swallow the beam.
After ten more minutes of searching the slope, he stopped.
The grade dropped straight down another fifteen feet, and he didn’t have the right gear to keep going.
With weary reluctance, he spoke into the radio.
“Negative contact. Drop area’s too steep and covered with too much brush to access safely right now.
Marking GPS. Will flag for follow-up in better light. I’ll file in report.”
“Copy that, 431.” Donna paused before adding, “Stay safe out there.” In spite of himself, Shane smiled. Donna was the department’s den mother, and she was good at it.
After marking the area, he U-turned and headed back toward Fall River. On his way, he called Amy to let her know he needed to stop at the Sheriff’s Office, omitting the reason why. She still hadn’t heard from Micky.
When he walked into the office, Gunderson was manning the desk again. He narrowed his eyes at Shane and smirked. “Were you on a rescue, or have you been rolling around in the forest again?”
“Something like that.” Shane filled him in on the chase.
“Yeah, I heard a little bit about that. That’s close to my turf, so I thought I’d head over there when my shift here is over.”
Still picking pine needles and crunchy dead leaves from his hair and clothes, Shane grabbed himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and plopped into his creaky office chair at a battered desk in a row of similarly scarred desks and wobbly chairs.
One would think that after ten years he could get an upgrade, but he’d stopped asking two years ago after hearing Sheriff Chesterton pontificate for the millionth time on the measly budget and citizens’ ongoing complaints about the levies that fed said budget.
The work environment added to his list of gripes about working for a tiny department.
Checking his phone for the exact time, he settled in to file his incident report.
It was four minutes past noon. Mountain Coffee would close in two hours, and he was going to be there, whether Amy planned on moving out of Micky’s today or not.
She would need moral support, and he would be the guy who provided it.
He was almost done with his leftover coffee and halfway through typing his report when his phone buzzed with an internal call.
“Hey, O’Brien? Sheriff wants you in his office. Now,” Gunderson said.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! It’s my day off!