Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [52]
The loud one was telling me that I was not in uniform, that if there was backup coming from a considerable distance they wouldn’t have the faintest idea who I was, and that I was about to get shot by mistake.
I absently reached down and changed the siren from ‘‘yelp’’ to ‘‘wail’’; the constant up and down of the yelp gets irritating in a hurry.
‘‘Comm, Three.’’ I was getting curious.
‘‘Three?’’
Now, I knew that if she had anything she’d tell me instantly. I knew that. But I couldn’t help asking, after about a minute had elapsed since our last transmission.
‘‘Anything yet?’’
‘‘I’m working on it,’’ she said. Irritated, but sympathetic. In just the right tone to let me know to shut up and let her do her job.
‘‘Ten-four.’’
I slowed from about 120 to 90 as I entered a series of curves. All the way down to 50, as I came roaring up behind a pickup truck. The adrenaline was really flowing. As always, when you slow abruptly from over 100 to about 50, it feels like you could step out and walk faster. And we were in a double yellow zone, and this particular pickup was obviously being driven by somebody who was both blind and deaf. By this point, my bright headlights were flashing, red lights in the grille were flashing, a red light bar on my dash was flashing, my siren was blaring, and my air horn was going full blast. Dum de dum de dum. Finally, we crested a hill, and the yellow line in my lane was gone. Around I went, drawing a startled and confused look from the driver. Hadn’t a clue.
‘‘Three, Comm?’’
‘‘This is Three, go ahead.’’
‘‘Three, no contact with One. Two troopers en route from Unionville, ETA about twenty minutes. Subject on the phone says there may be an officer down.’’
Son of a bitch.
‘‘Ten-four, call out our people. Get an ambulance.’’
‘‘Ten-four . . .’’
I didn’t have my bulletproof vest on, since I was in plain clothes. It was in the trunk. With my rifle, my extra ammo, and my first-aid kit. My future in the trunk.
‘‘Comm, my ETA is about five. Get a description of the locations from the lady, and, uh, especially the location of the shooter, uh . . .’’ It’s hard to be glib at these times.
‘‘Ten-four.’’ She knew what I meant. Been there, done that.
I hung up the mike and reached over into the passenger seat and got my walkie-talkie. I shoved it into my breast pocket and hoped it wouldn’t fall out until I could get it into my pants pocket. I touched my left leg, feeling the spare set of keys in my pocket. Good. I could leave the engine running, with the flashing lights going, front and back, and wouldn’t drain the battery when I left the car. It’d be locked up, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. Make it easier for the responding troopers to find us, with the lights still flashing. Thinking about that, I reached down and turned on my rear-facing yellow flashers in the back window. That’d help too. I had an awful feeling that I wasn’t going to be able to talk to the troopers after I arrived. Speaking of whom . . .
‘‘Comm, what troopers are responding?’’
‘‘884 and 732.’’
I switched frequencies to LEA, which is Law Enforcement Assistance. Runs off repeaters, and you can talk to any officer within 150 miles.
‘‘884, Nation County Three . . .’’
‘‘Three, go.’’
‘‘884, we may have an officer down. You comin’ in from Unionville on 288?’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’ You could hear the road noise and her siren over the radio. Moving right along.
‘‘Uh, 884, when you get to Porpoise Road . . .’’ A board had named the roads in the county, trying to use names that would be inoffensive.
While I was giving directions to 884, Sally apparently got through to One.
‘‘Three, Comm, ten-three!’’ Shut up, everybody, this is important.
‘‘Comm?’’