The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [148]
The Frieberg officer, who had been assigned to the bridge ramp before the fun started, responded immediately. He gave the same description as the trooper had, and said, “… went through here about ten or fifteen minutes ago, headed west or south, depending on where he went at the intersection …”
In a perfect world, we would simply have put out a call to block some roads. Unfortunately, all the available assets in N.E. Iowa were either home in bed, or up at Frieberg with us.
“He picked up a hitchhiker, right up here …”
What?
We would have wasted time getting to our own vehicles, especially going back through the crowd. We commandeered two state troopers and their cars, and Volont, George, Hester, and I headed up the bridge ramp toward the Frieberg officer.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “I was standing here, doing traffic control, and this guy came walking up out of the fog … from over that way … and he just talked with me for a couple of minutes. Said he was supposed to meet somebody. I told him that I was stopping all traffic into town, but he said they’d be leaving …”
“And …” said Volont, tightly.
“Well, this old green Chevy came up out of the fog, and the door opened and the driver just yelled, ‘Get in, Harv,’ and he did. He said, ‘Good-bye,’ and they left.”
He looked at each of us, trying desperately to help. “They went that way …” he said, gesturing.
“What did this ‘Harv’ look like?” I asked.
I received a pretty good description of Harvey Grossman, Cletus Borglan’s hired man.
For somebody whose best-laid plans were turning to shit in his hands, Volont was remarkably self-possessed. He directed the troopers to drive us up the hill to the spot where the Huey had landed, up out of the fog.
It was the fastest 10 mph I’d ever gone. I know the troopers were young, and highly trained drivers, and all that, but I for one couldn’t see beyond the hood of our car.
When we got about halfway up the bluff, we emerged into blinding sunlight. It was just like climbing above the cloud layer in an airplane. It was so bright in comparison, it almost hurt.
We covered the remaining mile to the Huey’s location at about 100 mph.
I’d expected, I guess, that the TAC team members assigned to the Huey would have stayed with her. Of course not. They’d quite properly arranged to be transported to the bank area, via State Patrol, because that was where they were needed. Well, needed then. I really wished they were here now.
I was wondering just where we were headed. So, too, was Hester.
“So, you think we just fly and look out the windows for a car?” She said this as we took notice of the enormous traffic jam in the single lane leading down toward Freiberg and the fog. All traffic was still being stopped.
Volont put down his cell phone. “They just pulled into Grossman’s farm,” he said.
“What?”
Volont looked surprised. “You didn’t think we’d pulled our surveillance just because you caught a couple of agents, did you?”
Actually, I had. If he hadn’t, that meant that he knew about the tractors in the field that night about as soon as I had. Among other things.
“Get in, Houseman,” he said. “You hold the arrest warrant. I think you ought to serve it.”
Volont, Hester, George, and I. That was it.
“You serious?” I asked, as I hauled myself into the dark green helicopter.
He was. He told the pilot to take us where instructed, and then to immediately return for some of the TAC team. He said that there was a “high probability” that we’d need assistance, so to bring them as fast as possible.
Right. Like that would be fast enough.
The pilot had a map of the county, and I indicated Grossman’s farm. “The people we want are there, so far, and they’re armed. Like he said, we gotta hurry …”
“Hang on, troops,” he said, over the intercom. “We’re gonna haul ass, here …”
The term fit. We went up, the nose came down slightly, and we were off. Fast. I leaned forward,