I’d fergot my cell phone, so I got back in my car an’ drove to the next pay phone down the road, at a fillin’ station. It was one of those convenience phones you don’t have to get outta your car to use. I wasn’t keen on leavin’ my car runnin’ with the keys in, an’ givin’ Dan Underhill the chance to leave me on foot. My first call was to the mission school, to confirm Skip Jackson was missin’. He was. The Reverend Mr. Moody tole me in no uncertain terms that I could keep him if I found him, though near as I could tell, his worst infraction had been “setting a horrible example for the other boys.”
The state helicopter, meanwhile, was crisscrossin’ the area. So my second call was to the state police dispatcher. I explained that, since the car thief had a radio, the best way to get him was to feed him misinformation ’bout the pursuit. “Tell the ‘bear’ to stay with him, whatever we say we’re up to, an’ we’ll be able to trap him without our radios.”
I could tell by his sly grin, Underhill was with me, even before he said, “You all right, Vergil.”
Boone County’s got just two kinds of car thieves. Some steal to get a car or for the money they can make sellin’ it. That sort mostly heads for the local “midnight auto parts” to unload their booty or get a quick-change to a horseless carriage of another color. The rest just “borrow” whatever wheels rolls their way an’ leave ’em when a better prospect’s left unattended.
We checked on the first possibility first. The proprietor’s a old geezer, a bit loopy from too many years sniffin’ paint fumes. He claimed he hadn’t seen our missin’ car. He was so quick offerin’ to let us tour his place, I guessed he really hadn’t. We looked ’round anyway. There was enough suspicious odd parts to justify a search warrant, but none of them looked like it came from a police car.
When we got back in the cruiser, Underhill said, “He’s probably got to the city by now, got it chopped up already.”
I said, “I ain’t so sure. The clerk said she saw one of the Jacksons hangin’ ’round. Tell ’em to swing by Mama J’s an’ have a look-see.”
“A car thief s going to stop on the way out of town to visit his mother?”
I shrugged. “He might if he was only twelve.” I didn’t tell him about the thoughts I’d entertained at twelve of joyridin’ in a cop car. Luckily, none of the then-deputies had been fool enough to leave his keys in.
Just then, the radio come to life, the “bear-in-the-air” reportin’ in. “Attention all units. Suspect ve-hi-cle’s headin’ out on County C. Now he’s turnin’ south. Yee-haw! We done trapped him! There’s no other road out!”
I weren’t so sure. I’d never found it, but judgin’ from all the times Ash give me the slip when I was tailin’ him for speedin’, there had to be a back road. I grabbed the radio an’ said, “Ten-four. Headin’ east on C.” Then I turned on my ’mergency lights an’ turned west.
Underhill said, “What’n hell are you doin’?”
“Practicin’ guile an’ deception,” I tole him. I turned south on Winesap an’ floored it. Usin’ the radio, I told the troops, “Deputy Deters, turnin’ in Ash Jackson’s drive.”
“We got ’im now,” the helicopter pilot yelled. “Puttin’ down on the drive. I got it blocked.”
I slowed to turn onto County D as the chopper pilot let out a string of cuss words that’d made Ash Jackson blush. “He lost him,” I told Underhill.
The pilot yelled, “Son-of-a-bitch just took off across country—under the trees. I lost him!”
“Do tell,” Underwood said. He was eyein’ my speedometer—a tad under ninety. I noticed he’d buckled his seat belt. When I reached for the radio, he said, “Let me.”
“Next time.” I keyed the mike an’ started callin’ out location reports: “Unit Twenty-eight, ready at County D an’ Winesap.” “Unit Four, ten-eight at Westerly’s drive.” “Unit Eighteen, standin’ by at County D an’ Breech Road.” Every time I changed unit numbers, I threw my voice off a little so I sounded like someone else. I was hopin’ it would seem to our car thief like a whole posse was blockin’ his escape routes.
Underhill grinned, then noticed the speedometer an’ went white. Up ahead, I could see the dust cloud raised by somebody drivin’ cross-country, comin’ up on the roadway. The car itself was outta sight already.
Some real state trooper come on the air to announce he had County D blocked east of Goode Swamp.
“Well, get ready,” I told him. “This old country-boy car thief ain’t stupid enough to go to ground in the swamp. He’ll be comin’ your way.”
Then the chopper pilot reported he had the stolen car in sight, an’ no fewer than three other troopers came on to tell him not to “for-God’s-sake” lose him again. Things were lookin’ up.
But then, Murphy’s Law bein’ S.O.P., there was a screech of brakes, an’ the cop that was blockin’ County D screamed into his radio, “He’s done a one-eighty! He’s headin’ west again!”
I figgered I had about one minute, given my speed an’ his. I grabbed my mike an’ yelled into it. “Posse, hold your positions. Keep all them side roads blocked. If he’s goin’ anywhere, it’s gonna be Goode Swamp.” Then, ’cause I couldn’t ’member all the unit numbers I’d made up, I let out a series of ten-fours in different voices.
We come up onto the railroad overpass just west of Goode Swamp Road, an’ I laid a double line of rubber stoppin’ the car on top of the bridge. Just east, I could see the stolen squad headin’ at us, with a state car hangin’ on its rear bumper, an’ the “bear” hoverin’ overhead. I swung my car ’round, sideways to traffic, an’ stopped it square across the bridge, driver’s side facin’ east. A bicycle couldn’t’a squeezed past either end. An’ there was no way to go ’round the bridge. I told Underhill he better get out an’ take cover.
“Ain’t you comin’?” he axed.
“In a minute.”
The stolen car kept comin’. It passed Goode Swamp Road doin’ seventy—at a guess—an’ closed up the distance to the overpass without slowin’. The state trooper behind him lost his nerve an’ slowed down. Underhill shouted somethin’ I didn’t get.
The stolen car came at me up the incline like a trick truck at the fairgrounds fixin’ to jump a line of cars. I stayed put an’ hit my siren—one short WROR.
Then the car thief braked. The tires screamed an’ left heavy exclamation marks on the road. The car stopped three inches short of my door.
Underhill an’ three other troopers swarmed ’round the car with guns drawed. The driver threw his hands in the air.
To give the gravity of the situation time to penetrate the thick skull of the tow-head behind the wheel, I took my time gettin’ outta my car. So the state boys had him out an’ cuffed by the time I strolled up.
“Gentlemen,” I told ’em, “this here’s Skip Jackson.”