Open season jg-1 Page 30

  “Where are you going to position?” I asked him as Katz and McNaughton slid out of the car with one of the equipment bags.

  Kunkle shook his head at the weather. “With this shit, I could park on the sidewalk and he wouldn’t see me.” He paused and looked around, more out of habit than for anything he might see. “I guess my best bet is to park in front of the supermarket. The snow’ll cover me fast enough.”

  I opened my door. “Don’t forget to clear your tailpipe every once in a while.”

  He gave me a withering look and remained silent. I didn’t care. More than one cop had inhaled too much monoxide during a winter stakeout.

  I got out and thanked DuBois and entered the abandoned building. It was a standard diner-counter along one wall, booths and front door along the other. The windows were mostly boarded up, with a gap here and there. McNaughton and Katz were already settling at a booth next to one of the gaps. I slid in beside Katz and peered past him out the window.

  Across the street, as in some half-developed photograph, I could just make out the vague pale outline of the one-story brick post office. To the left, even less visible, was the supermarket and laundromat; to the right was Charlie’s Restaurant.

  McNaughton pulled out his radio. “Frequency check. All units report in.”

  One by one, the men responded with their call names and the formal, “in position.” Kunkle merely muttered, “P-Five.”

  McNaughton put the radio down and stretched his legs out. “That one’s a little different.”

  “Kunkle? He’s all right.”

  “Looks like a time bomb to me. We had a guy like that once. Stopped a motorist one day and asked the usual. The driver got ornery so our guy beat the shit out of him. Just snapped.”

  Katz muttered. “Sounds like a good lawsuit.” "0em"›

  “Would have been, but we got lucky. The driver had some weed on him so we said we’d leave him alone if he’d do likewise, but it was the end of our boy. We got rid of him.”

  I moved to a stool so I could lean against the counter and look straight out the cracked window. The diner was as cold and dark as a refrigerator. “Kunkle’s just a little tense.”

  “So was the Boston Strangler.”

  McNaughton unzipped the long equipment bag and exposed its contents: three Winchester pumps, ammunition, and three bulletproof vests. I leaned over, picked up one of the shotguns and loaded it.

  “I thought you said this guy’s almost in a wheelchair.”

  “I keep telling you, Stark’s my concern, not Cioffi.”

  The state trooper handled the second Winchester but didn’t load it. I think you’re a little paranoid about that guy. I mean, I know he’s caused you guys a lot of grief, but he’s not Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  “You don’t know him. He as cold-blooded as a nightmare, and I’m laying bets he’s already here.”

  McNaughton didn’t answer, but after a couple of minutes he nonchalantly loaded the gun. Katz left the third one alone.

  That was it for conversation. For the next several hours we sat and stared at the snow falling. It never varied in intensity. Untouched by any wind, it crossed our sight from top to bottom like a ragged white sheet on rollers. I began to feel I was seeing the same flakes go by. Every quarter hour, McNaughton conducted a radio check.

  At about ten o’clock, sounding like an incongruous angry bee, a snowmobile bounced to a stop by the post office’s front door. The bundled figure on its back slowly detached itself from the saddle and awkwardly stood in the deep snow. He paused for a moment, looking around, and then bent over the snowmobile, working at something on its far side. When he straightened again, he held a long, thin object in his hand, hard to distinguish through the flurries.

  “What the hell’s that?” McNaughton muttered.

  The figure planted the object in the snow, leaned on it, and took his first step toward the post office.

  “It’s a cane,” I said.

  30

  McNaughton picked up his radio, his nonchalance suddenly gone “All units from P-One. Heads up. Suspect’s entering post office.”

  “I hope he is,” I muttered.

  “Is what? Isn’t that Cioffi? You said he had a cane.”

  “He does, supposedly. So do lots of other people. Do all your guys have those mugs I handed out?”

  The furrow between his eyes deepened. “Of course.”

  “Can your inside man make a match without getting himself in turouble?”

  McNaughton didn’t answer. He jabbed the transmit button. “P-Six, this is P-One. Match the suspect with the mug shot, and let me know when you’re clear.”

  We waited for several minutes before the radio hissed at us. “P-One from P-Six. Hard to say. Lots of facial hair and it’s the wrong color.”

  “What about height and weight?”

  “That fits.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He asked if the Express Mail had come in yet. He’s just standing around.”

  “Okay. Let me know when he moves.”

  McNaughton put the radio down and was silent. It was the first time I’d seen him hesitate. I let him stew in it.

  He finally gave me a sidelong glance. “You want to grab him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?” His tone was neutral.

  “Well, if you want to get complicated, until he signs for the envelope, we have no proof he’s our man. I don’t want to run the risk of spooking Cioffi.”

  “That’s a little academic, isn’t it? Whoever he is, if we let him get on that snowmobile, we’ll lose him.”

  I let a slow count of five pass by before I said, “We sure will.”

  The fact that McNaughton had not anticipated a snowmobile hung in the room like a fat, fourth person. Despite that, I gave him high marks for composure. Of course, maybe he just didn’t give a damn, but I doubted that. More likely, the man’s ego had just been rushed into surgery and he was surviving on a stiff upper lip. Of course, I wasn’t in much better shape-the snowmobile had caught me by surprise too-but I wasn’t about to give him that comfort. Besides, I was counting on having enough time to grab Cioffi between when he received the package and when he headed for parts unknown.

  McNaughton picked up the radio again. “All blocking units, this is P-One. Watch the roads but don’t close ’em up. And don’t show yourselves. Report all traffic.”

  A voice came back. “P-One, this is P-Three. There is no traffic. These roads are closed to anything normal.”

  I pulled out my own walkie-talkie and raised my eyebrows at McNaughton. He nodded.

  “You there, Willy?”

  “Where the hell else am I going to be?”

  “You got the snowmobile in sight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See if you can put it on the sick list.”

  His voice lightened. “You got it.”

  All three of us moved closer to the window.

  “Do you have access to those Sno-Cats at the school?” I asked McNaughton.

  He pleasantly surprised me. “I had ’em put there.” He followed that by picking up the radio again. “Base, this is P-One. Roll one of those Sno-Cats in our direction. Take it easy, though. No rush.”

  In a couple of minutes, Kunkle’s blurry dark shape appeared slowly from the left, picking its way carefully through the soft, clinging snow. He crossed over into the post office’s parking lot and approached the snowmobile as if he was making for the door.

  The radio made us jump. “All units from P-Six. Suspect’s going outside.”

  We watched in utter stillness. Kunkle stopped dead in his tracks and then altered his course slightly away from the snowmobile. At the same time, the man with the cane came out of the post office. Kunkle raised his hand in greeting. The other man nodded in response as they passed. Kunkle entered the building and disappeared.

  McNaughton muttered, “Jesus.” The man glanced at his vehicle and then looked around. He hunched his shou
lders and began to cross over toward the restaurant. “What the hell’s he doing? The place is closed.”

  “He doesn’t know that.” McNaughton said “Jesus” again and hit the button. “All units from P-One. Suspect’s proceeding to the restaurant.”

  We saw him struggle through the snow to the front door and pull at it without success. He hesitated, and then suddenly cupped his hands against the glass to better see inside. There was a pause, and he backed away and began stumbling as fast as he could toward the post office.

  “This is P-Eight. We’re blown. We’re blown.”

  “P-One to all units. Everyone out. He’s heading for the snowmobile.” McNaughton shouted into the radio.

  I ran for the door, Katz hard on my heels. McNaughton was still yelling. “Close the roadblocks. Get that Sno-Cat here now.”

  I stumbled outside in time to see Kunkle burst out of the post office and point his revolver at the man with the beard. His shout of “Stop. Police.” was answered by the sharp crack of a rifle. Kunkle collapsed against the wall. A moment later, Cioffi reached the snowmobile and filled the air with its scream. I saw dark shapes running from both restaurant and laundromat as the snowmobile lurched forward, ran over Kunkle’s extended leg and slithered toward the street. There were a couple of shotgun blasts before the target vanished into the blizzard, heading toward the school.

  McNaughton appeared at the door. “Suspect’s headed southeast. Whoever’s on the Sno-Cat, heads up for a bright red snowmobile. There’s an officer down; call for backup and an ambulance.”

  I pointed across the street. “Take Kunkle’s car.”

  McNaughton broke into a clumsy run. I headed for the post office and got to Kunkle just as his car fishtailed into the street. The radio in my hand was alive with voices.

  “This is P-Nine. He cut around me. He’s still on Main.”

  “P-Nileft"›ne from P-One. Turn around and wait for me. I’m almost there. Get the second Sno-Cat in pursuit.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Kunkle sat in the snow, his back against the wall, his face as white as the world around him. The only bright color anywhere was a crimson half circle of blood spattered on the wall above us and a tomato-sized stain high on his left arm. His eyes were wide open and dreamy.

  He blinked and tried to focus on my face. “Go get the son of a bitch.”

  “That’s being taken care of. Where’re you hit?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Shoulder, I think-arm somewhere. Not much pain; not any, really.”

  I didn’t touch anything, but from the look of things the shoulder had been shattered.

  “It wasn’t him,” he added after a sigh.

  “Who shot you?”

  “Yeah. It came from the right.”

  A man appeared at my side, breathing hard. He had a small detached earphone dangling over his collar.

  “You with McNaughton?”

  “Yeah. Corporal Wilcox.”

  “You got a car?” I stuck out my hand.

  He nodded. “Jeep. Out back. Keys are in it.”

  I made Kunkle focus on me. “You’re in good hands. I’ll let you know.” I got the Jeep sliding down Main before I radioed in. “This is P-Two. What’s happening?”

  “P-Two from P-One. Good news, bad news. The eastern roadblock worked, but he doubled back and is heading south. That gave us a little time. Can you get to the school?”

  “I’m almost there.”

  “Catch a ride on the second Sno-Cat and head south on Route 16.”

  “Any sign of Stark?”

  “Fuck Stark. What’s with Stark?”

  “Who do you think shot Kunkle?” I dropped the radio in my lap and put both hands on the wheel. I had no idea why I was still on the road. I couldn’t see a goddamned thing, and my foot was flat on the accelerator. After a pause, I heard McNaughton’s one word response: “Shit.”

  I caught the dim flicker of a yellow flasher ahead and slowed down in time to avoid crashing into the Sno-Cat. One trooper was at the controls. I baled out of the Jeep and climbed up next to him.

  “How’s your guy?”

  “Shoulder wound-bad.” The engine noise climbed to a howl, and we lumbered quickly down the street to the Route 16 turnoff.

  “This is P-Three. Suspect is in sight.” That was the roadblock just over one mile ahead. There was a full minute of silence before the radio crackleradio crd again. “This is P-Three. Suspect doubled back. We cannot pursue effectively.”

  “I got him.” It was McNaughton’s voice.

  Another fifteen-second pause followed. “P-One to all units. Suspect’s off the main road. He’s headed west up a logging road. We’re in pursuit.”

  My driver picked up speed now that we were clear of town. The engine between us let off a deafening high-pitched wail. The blurred treads by the side of the cab sent up a flurry of snow which mixed with the blizzard. The only half-clear view was straight ahead.

  I suddenly saw where McNaughton’s tracks took a violent cut to the right. We slammed into a crablike skid and followed suit, bursting through a gap in the trees and going straight up a steep, narrow trail cut in the woods, barely wide enough for the Sno-Cat.

  “Where can he go from here?” I shouted over the noise of the engine.

  “Anywhere if he can really drive that thing, but it’s rough going. And with all this shit, we might find him wrapped around a tree.”

  “Is there any other way onto this mountain?”

  He hesitated. “You mean Stark?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure, if he’s got a skimobile too. But I don’t see how he’d know where to go without following some tracks.”

  I listened to the radio chatter as we crawled up the steep hill. A wall of trees pressed in from both sides, simultaneously cutting down on the light and the falling snow.

  McNaughton’s voice was rearranging his troops, ordering more backups, positioning vehicles at roads that meant nothing to me. For a man who had laid too loose a net and let the fish escape, he was remarkably calm and organized under pressure. I, on the other hand, was neither. Not only did I share the blame for this fiasco, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of Stark’s breath hot on my neck.

  “Where does this lead?” I shouted to the driver.

  “Dunno. We’re northeast of Mount Washington. There’s not a hell of a lot around here. Field and forest is all I know.”

  I radioed McNaughton. “P-One from P-Two. Can you position some men where this trail hits Route 16? We might get Stark.”

  There was no argument. I heard him give the orders.

  “I think we’re in better shape than we thought,” the driver suddenly shouted.

  “Why?”

  “If he was a real hot dog on that machine of his, he wouldn’t be sticking to this road-he’d be in the woods.”

  I looked at his profile and saw him smile-the happy hunter.

  I was less thrilled. As I saw it, I was lurching across the countryside like some Keystone Kop with a mysterious cripple out front and a slippery homicidal maniac on my tail-maybe. The fact tha The fact Cioffi was not the Evel Knievel of the snowmobile set was of little comfort.

  The radio crackled and announced that Klesczewski and a trooper had been dropped off at the trees at the foot of the mountain road. More men were “continuing pursuit.”

  I looked out the side window at the slow parade of passing trees. Hotshot or no, I couldn’t imagine that a man on a snowmobile couldn’t outdistance a Sno-Cat as if it were standing still.

  “Jesus.” The driver threw the controls and sent us into a grinding, sliding halt. Off to the right was the first Cat, lying on its side, wedged between two trees. McNaughton and one of his men were climbing out of the cab.

  I opened my door and McNaughton got in beside me and yelled at the driver. “Get around that and head down the slope to the right. The son of a bitch cut off the road.” He jabbed his radio key. “All units. P-One and P-Two are now on same vehic
le.”

  We moved forward a couple of yards. A skimobile’s thin imprint sliced between the trees bordering the road and vanished down the steep, treeless slope beyond. The driver continued on until he came to a similar gap wide enough for us. He turned the Cat and paused at the edge.

  “Go, man, go.” McNaughton was half-crouching by the door next to me, his eyes glued ahead.

  The Cat lurched up and over the bank and plunged with a sickening shudder straight down the slope. Despite the seat belt, I slammed both my hands against the dashboard to keep my teeth from being buried in my kneecaps. McNaughton ended up pressing against the windshield. The Cat’s engine noise climbed to a scream, the gearbox began a high-pitched whine, and the snow burst from the thrashing caterpillar treads like foam from a tempest-tossed ocean. There was no room for any more sound, but as I glanced at McNaughton’s face, I could see he was shouting into the mike.

  The roller-coaster dive lasted for what seemed like an hour-probably two minutes. At its bottom, we found a half-buried wooden fence, and caught between two of its broken rails was the red snowmobile. Our driver killed the engine and wiped his face with his glove.

  The sudden quiet impressed us all. Without a word, we opened our doors and swung out onto the treads. Dimly, high above, we could hear the other Cat laboring up the mountain road. The smashed snowmobile was alone.

  “I guess he couldn’t stop in time,” McNaughton said quietly. He spoke into the radio, bringing everybody up to date.

  In the meantime, his trooper reached back into the cab and brought out three pairs of snowshoes and handed a couple to us across the roof. We all sat down on the treads to put them on.

  Far below, to the right, came a series of shots, first two sharp and high-pitched, as from two stones rapped together, followed by the mechanical rattle of a machine gun.

  “Holy shit,” McNaughton murmured. We looked at each other and waited. Several minutes passed during which we heard the other Cat pause at the top of the slope.

  The radio crackled. “Officer down. We need help. This is P… Shit, I don’t know. Move it.” It was Klesczewski’s voice.