Then he threw it into reverse and hit the gas, and the two-and-a-half-ton all-terrain vehicle lurched backward, barreled down the driveway, and plowed into the sweet spot of the soccer-mom sedan.
The side caved in, the van skittered across the ice, and even at thirty miles an hour, the Rover’s air bags didn’t deploy.
“One more should do it,” Bassett said as he jammed the car into low and pulled forward so he could get up another head of steam. Once again he shifted into reverse, stepped on the accelerator, and plowed backward into the wounded cop car.
This time the Rover’s powerful six-foot rear end did the job. The van rolled onto its roof, flipped onto its side, and wavered at the top of an embankment. Then gravity took over, and Bassett listened to the music of tearing metal and breaking glass as the van careened down the hill.
He didn’t take the time to examine his handiwork. Even if the cops inside weren’t dead, they were in no condition to follow him.
He was 3,152 miles from the sanctuary where he’d spend the next few years hunting, fishing, and reengineering his life.
He looked over at the old lady in the passenger seat next to him. She wasn’t going for the entire ride. He was sure he’d find a permanent home for her in less than fifty miles.
Chapter 72
Kylie’s blond hair was streaked with red, and there was a four-inch gash across her scalp. “Son of a bitch blindsided us,” she said, wiping the blood from her face with her shirtsleeve. “Don’t let him get away. Call it in. Fast.”
I was about to reach for my radio when I heard someone at the back door. The van was on its side, so whoever was trying to get in had to pull the right rear door straight up. Daylight flooded in, and Kylie and I drew our guns and yelled “Freeze” in unison.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, it’s me.” It was Teddy. “Are you guys okay? Because Bassett’s getting away. You gotta catch him.” His hands were flying in all directions as he jabbered wildly.
“Hold your hands in the air where I can see them,” I said. “Where’s your mother?”
He flung his arms high, annoyed that we suddenly didn’t trust him. “Bassett pulled a gun on us and took her hostage. Then he got in his car and smashed into your van. Twice. Knocked you right down a hill,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Do you know where they’re going?”
“How the hell would I know where they’re going? He found the wire, and now he’s mad at Ma. The guy is crazy. You said you had backup. Where are all the other cops?”
He was frantic, bordering on hysterical, tears streaming down his cheeks. I put my gun away. “All right, calm down. We’re doing all we can,” I said. “You can help us. What kind of car was he driving?”
“A Land Rover. Silver. But don’t shoot at him. He’s got Ma in the car.”
I got on the radio and called in a ten thirteen — officer needs assistance. And in our case, we needed lots of it.
I gave the dispatcher a quick rundown of the situation, along with a description of the fugitive, the car, and the hostage. It all went smoothly till I gave him my location.
“And you want NYPD to respond to an incident up in the sticks?” he said.
“An incident?” I screamed. “A maniac just tried to kill two NYPD detectives. Jurisdiction be damned. I don’t care who you send. There’s a killer on the loose, and he’s got a hostage. I want local backup, state troopers, air support — anyone and everyone who can help us cut off his escape route and close in on him.”
Teddy stared at me from the back door, his hands still over his head. “They coming?” he said.
“Your guess is as good as mine. Now put your hands down and help us out of this van.”
Teddy held the door up high, and we crawled out. After we’d spent so many hours in the van, the cold air felt good. I stood up and put as much weight as I could on my right knee. It was sore, but it held me up.
Kylie sat on a log, picked up a handful of snow, and pressed it to the gash on her skull.
My radio crackled, and I took a call from dispatch. It was a different voice this time — older, calmer. “We’re on it, Detective,” this one said. “The staties are sending up a bird, and the county sheriff is setting up roadblocks at the entrances to the Taconic for fifteen miles on either side.”
“That’s not going to help,” I said. “This guy is on the one road out of here, and it’s slow going. The best way to stop him is to cut him off now. How soon can you get a unit to where Lakeshore Drive intersects with Mohegan Avenue?”
A long pause, and then, “I can divert some of the county cops and probably have them in place in twelve minutes.”
“He’ll be in the wind by then, and he’s not going to be getting on the Taconic,” I said. “He knows every back road, off road, and rabbit trail for miles. Tell state we need that bird in the air now, or we’ll lose him.”
I put my radio down and shattered the serenity of the woodlands with a loud string of four-letter words.
“What’s going on?” Teddy asked.
I was in no mood for Teddy’s constant questions. “We’re trying to get some goddamn backup over to the other side of the lake before Bassett gets there,” I said, “but in the entire state of New York, not one cop is close enough. That’s what’s going on.”
“So why don’t you two guys go? I promise, I won’t try to escape. I’ll wait for you right here.”
“We can’t go, Teddy,” I said. “As you may have noticed, we don’t have a car.”
“Right.” He thought about it for a few seconds. “I have an idea,” he said.
“What?” I snapped, my patience out the window.
“If you want to get to the far side of the lake,” Teddy said, “why don’t you just take Mr. Bassett’s boat?”
Chapter 73
“How were we supposed to know he had a boat?” Kylie grunted as we clambered up the steep embankment. “We were working blind inside that van.”
“Right,” I said. “Millionaire outdoorsman. House on a lake. It’s not like we’re trained detectives.”
Teddy helped pull us up over the ridge and onto the driveway. “It’s over there,” he said, pointing to a covered boathouse attached to the garage.
We were both operating on high-octane adrenaline, and we sprinted to the dock, where a sleek red Skeeter bass boat was waiting, keys still in the ignition. We jumped in. Kylie cranked up the engine and leaned on the throttle.
“Bassett’s got a good head start,” she yelled, “but he’s got to navigate three miles of bad road.”
Skimming across the lake at seventy miles an hour, we closed in on the northern tip fast, and Kylie, who pilots watercraft as recklessly as she drives, waited until the last possible second to kill the engine. The Skeeter coasted into a patch of frozen wild ricegrass and came to rest against a guardrail that separated the lake from Mohegan Avenue.
“We’re in luck,” she yelled as she hopped the rail and ran toward a dark green Ford pickup that was parked on the shoulder. The gold lettering across the side said New York State Environmental Conservation Police.
EnCon cops, who started out over a century ago as game and fish protectors, still focus on environmental crime, but the modern day ECO is armed and empowered to enforce all the laws of the state.
The cop who got out of the truck was beanpole high and thin, with a longer than average neck, a smaller than average chin, and the standard wraparound Oakley shades.
Kylie and I flashed our shields and identified ourselves.
“John Woodruff,” he said. “What’s NYPD looking for up here in the sticks?”