Cat & Mouse - James Patterson [117]
Sampson was holding his breath and so was I. There’s a joke about black men being pulled over illegally in suburban areas. The DWB violation. Driving while black. We were up to seventy inside the city limits.
We made it in one piece out of the town center—Walden Street—Main—then back onto Lowell Road approaching the highway.
I whipped around onto Route 2 and nearly spun out of control. The pedal was down to the floor. This was our best chance to get Thomas Pierce, maybe our last chance. Up ahead, Pierce knew this was it, too.
I was doing close to ninety now on Route 2, passing cars as if they were standing still. Pierce’s Thunderbird must have been pushing eighty-five. He’d spotted us early in the chase.
“We’re catching this squirrelly bastard now!” Sampson hollered at me. “Pierce goes down!”
We hit a deep pothole and the car momentarily left the road. We landed with a jarring thud. The wound in my side screamed. My head hurt. Sampson kept hollering in my ear about Pierce going down.
I could see his dark Thunderbird bobbing and weaving up ahead. Just a couple of car lengths separated us.
He’s a planner, I warned myself. He knew this might happen.
I finally caught up to Pierce and pulled alongside him. Both cars were doing close to ninety. Pierce took a quick glance over at us.
I felt strangely exhilarated. Adrenaline powered through my body. Maybe we had him. For a second or two, I was as totally insane as Pierce.
Pierce saluted with his right hand. “Dr. Cross,” he called through the open window, “we finally meet!”
CHAPTER 126
“I KNOW about the FBI sanction!” Pierce yelled over the whistle and roar of the wind. He looked cool and collected, oblivious to reality. “Go ahead, Cross. I want you to do it. Take me out, Cross!”
“There’s no sanction order!” I yelled back. “Pull your car over! No one’s going to shoot you.”
Pierce grinned—his best killer smile. His blond hair was tied in a tight ponytail. He had on a black turtleneck. He looked successful—a local lawyer, shop owner, doctor. “Doc.”
“Why do you think the FBI brought such a small unit,” he yelled. “Terminate with prejudice. Ask your friend Kyle Craig. That’s why they wanted me inside Straw’s house!”
Was I talking to Thomas Pierce?
Or was this Mr. Smith?
Was there a difference anymore?
He threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was one of the oddest, craziest things I’ve ever seen. The look on his face, the body language, his calmness. He was daring us to shoot him at ninety miles an hour on Route 2 outside Concord, Massachusetts. He wanted to crash and burn.
We hit a stretch of highway with thick fir woods on either side. Two of the FBI cars caught up. They were pinned on Pierce’s tail, pushing, taunting him. Had the Bureau come here planning to kill Pierce?
If they were going to take him, this was a good place—a secluded pocket away from most commuter traffic and houses.
This was the place to terminate Thomas Pierce.
Now was the time.
“You know what we have to do,” Sampson said to me.
He’s killed more than twenty people that we know of, I was thinking, trying to rationalize. He’ll never give up.
“Pull over,” I yelled at Pierce again.
“I murdered Isabella Calais,” he screamed at me. His face was crimson. “I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to stop. I like it! I found out I like it, Cross!”
“Pull the hell over,” Sampson’s voice boomed. He had his Glock up and aimed at Pierce. “You butcher! You piece of shit!”
“I murdered Isabella Calais and I can’t stop the killing. You hear what I’m saying, Cross? I murdered Isabella Calais, and I can’t stop the killing.”
I understood the chilling message. I’d gotten it the first time.
He was adding more letters to his list of victims. Pierce was creating a new, longer code: I murdered Isabella Calais, and I can’t stop the killing. If he got away, he’d kill again and again. Maybe Thomas Pierce wasn’t human, after all. He’d already intimated that he was his own god.
Pierce had out an automatic. He fired at us.
I yanked the steering wheel hard