Gifted

Chapter Seventeen

|Sunday|

Lauren

The guy sits in his car quietly, acting as though I’m not there. Asshole.

I signal for him to pull over again with a light tap of the horn, and motion with a hand to further my point; his left taillight is out. That’s a no-no. He apparently doesn’t realize how dangerous that can be. Or he doesn’t know it’s out yet, in which case I’m here to tell him.

If that’s the case, I feel momentarily bad for calling him an asshole. Possibly.

Instead of pulling on over to the side like a good citizen, however, he guns the engine and speeds away, his tires literally smoking as they blaze across the asphalt. Ok, it’s on. You want to race? You got it. I flip on the siren and take off in pursuit.

I punch the radio: “Hey, this is Smith, in number five. Got a suspect in a blue Toyota, license number 4739HWL. Run the tags; he just floored it when I signaled a stop for a burnt-out taillight. I’m following him now. Over.”

“Got it, Smith,” says Mike Booney, our county dispatcher.

The man takes a hard left turn, cutting right through a traffic light on red. Cars screech to a halt and blare horns. I speed through after him. Christ, that was a dangerous move he pulled; I’ve seen people killed in stunts like that. The Toyota then screams through another intersection, this one mercifully empty. He turns right.

The radio crackles on: “Smith, we’ve run tags. He’s out on parole for his most recent. Assault with a deadly weapon; officers dispatched to address found a woman, his wife, on the floor of the kitchen, beaten with a baseball bat. Suspect said there’d been an argument. Weapon used was in the closet. Got five years, served three for good behavior. Been free seven weeks now. That’s a bit of a record for this guy: He’s also been arrested in the past on drug possession and trafficking. Some history of warnings and preliminary actions for hate speech and minor hate crimes against minority groups, as well. Where are you?”

“On Rowe, heading east,” I say, watching the man warily as he tries to force his truck even faster. We’re now clipping on at about sixty miles an hour in a thirty zone. His bed suddenly falls open and a box tumbles out, spilling what look like power tools across the road. “Jesus!” I swerve, trying to avoid the majority of them, but, nonetheless, feel several crunch under my wheels. Crap. Hope those weren’t stolen...

“What was that?” Booney says.

“Something just came flying out of the bed of his truck. Looked like a box of power tools; I just hit some of them. We’re pushing seventy miles an hour here now.”

The man pushes his truck even faster, now blazing up to eighty. His tires really are smoking now: thick gray smoke blasts off of the punished rubber. Must be some cheap tires he has, or really old ones. Looks like this race isn’t going to last much longer, either way.

The truck bounces over the median, veering into the oncoming lane. I swear.

“He just sailed into the oncoming lane,” I warn.

“Say again: Suspect is in oncoming lane?” Booney verifies.

“Yep. I’m going after him. The road’s clear the whole length.”

“Ok. But be careful. Backup should meet you at Pike, Smith. Don’t let this guy get on Highway One,” Booney says.

I power over the median and zoom up behind him, considering whether I should perform a PIT at this speed. No. We’re travelling at close to ninety miles an hour, so a crash right now...I would walk away, after a bit; he wouldn’t walk away at all.