Open Season (38 page)

“He doesn’t know that.” McNaughton said “Jesus” again and hit the button. “All units from P-One. Suspect’s proceeding to the restaurant.”

We saw him struggle through the snow to the front door and pull at it without success. He hesitated, and then suddenly cupped his hands against the glass to better see inside. There was a pause, and he backed away and began stumbling as fast as he could toward the post office.

“This is P-Eight. We’re blown. We’re blown.”

“P-One to all units. Everyone out. He’s heading for the snowmobile.” McNaughton shouted into the radio.

I ran for the door, Katz hard on my heels. McNaughton was still yelling. “Close the roadblocks. Get that Sno-Cat here now.”

I stumbled outside in time to see Kunkle burst out of the post office and point his revolver at the man with the beard. His shout of “Stop. Police.” was answered by the sharp crack of a rifle. Kunkle collapsed against the wall. A moment later, Cioffi reached the snowmobile and filled the air with its scream. I saw dark shapes running from both restaurant and laundromat as the snowmobile lurched forward, ran over Kunkle’s extended leg and slithered toward the street. There were a couple of shotgun blasts before the target vanished into the blizzard, heading toward the school.

McNaughton appeared at the door. “Suspect’s headed southeast. Whoever’s on the Sno-Cat, heads up for a bright red snowmobile. There’s an officer down; call for backup and an ambulance.”

I pointed across the street. “Take Kunkle’s car.”

McNaughton broke into a clumsy run. I headed for the post office and got to Kunkle just as his car fishtailed into the street. The radio in my hand was alive with voices.

“This is P-Nine. He cut around me. He’s still on Main.”

“P-Nine from P-One. Turn around and wait for me. I’m almost there. Get the second Sno-Cat in pursuit.”

“Ten-four.”

Kunkle sat in the snow, his back against the wall, his face as white as the world around him. The only bright color anywhere was a crimson half circle of blood spattered on the wall above us and a tomato-sized stain high on his left arm. His eyes were wide open and dreamy.

He blinked and tried to focus on my face. “Go get the son of a bitch.”

“That’s being taken care of. Where’re you hit?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Shoulder, I think—arm somewhere. Not much pain; not any, really.”

I didn’t touch anything, but from the look of things the shoulder had been shattered.

“It wasn’t him,” he added after a sigh.

“Who shot you?”

“Yeah. It came from the right.”

A man appeared at my side, breathing hard. He had a small detached earphone dangling over his collar.

“You with McNaughton?”

“Yeah. Corporal Wilcox.”

“You got a car?” I stuck out my hand.

He nodded. “Jeep. Out back. Keys are in it.”

I made Kunkle focus on me. “You’re in good hands. I’ll let you know.” I got the Jeep sliding down Main before I radioed in. “This is P-Two. What’s happening?”

“P-Two from P-One. Good news, bad news. The eastern roadblock worked, but he doubled back and is heading south. That gave us a little time. Can you get to the school?”

“I’m almost there.”

“Catch a ride on the second Sno-Cat and head south on Route 16.”

“Any sign of Stark?”

“Fuck Stark. What’s with Stark?”

“Who do you think shot Kunkle?” I dropped the radio in my lap and put both hands on the wheel. I had no idea why I was still on the road. I couldn’t see a goddamned thing, and my foot was flat on the accelerator. After a pause, I heard McNaughton’s one word response: “Shit.”

I caught the dim flicker of a yellow flasher ahead and slowed down in time to avoid crashing into the Sno-Cat. One trooper was at the controls. I baled out of the Jeep and climbed up next to him.

“How’s your guy?”

“Shoulder wound—bad.” The engine noise climbed to a howl, and we lumbered quickly down the street to the Route 16 turnoff.

“This is P-Three. Suspect is in sight.” That was the roadblock just over one mile ahead. There was a full minute of silence before the radio crackled again. “This is P-Three. Suspect doubled back. We cannot pursue effectively.”

“I got him.” It was McNaughton’s voice.

Another fifteen-second pause followed. “P-One to all units. Suspect’s off the main road. He’s headed west up a logging road. We’re in pursuit.”

My driver picked up speed now that we were clear of town. The engine between us let off a deafening high-pitched wail. The blurred treads by the side of the cab sent up a flurry of snow which mixed with the blizzard. The only half-clear view was straight ahead.

I suddenly saw where McNaughton’s tracks took a violent cut to the right. We slammed into a crablike skid and followed suit, bursting through a gap in the trees and going straight up a steep, narrow trail cut in the woods, barely wide enough for the Sno-Cat.

“Where can he go from here?” I shouted over the noise of the engine.

“Anywhere if he can really drive that thing, but it’s rough going. And with all this shit, we might find him wrapped around a tree.”

“Is there any other way onto this mountain?”

He hesitated. “You mean Stark?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure, if he’s got a skimobile too. But I don’t see how he’d know where to go without following some tracks.”

I listened to the radio chatter as we crawled up the steep hill. A wall of trees pressed in from both sides, simultaneously cutting down on the light and the falling snow.

McNaughton’s voice was rearranging his troops, ordering more backups, positioning vehicles at roads that meant nothing to me. For a man who had laid too loose a net and let the fish escape, he was remarkably calm and organized under pressure. I, on the other hand, was neither. Not only did I share the blame for this fiasco, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of Stark’s breath hot on my neck.

“Where does this lead?” I shouted to the driver.

“Dunno. We’re northeast of Mount Washington. There’s not a hell of a lot around here. Field and forest is all I know.”

I radioed McNaughton. “P-One from P-Two. Can you position some men where this trail hits Route 16? We might get Stark.”

There was no argument. I heard him give the orders.

“I think we’re in better shape than we thought,” the driver suddenly shouted.

“Why?”

“If he was a real hot dog on that machine of his, he wouldn’t be sticking to this road—he’d be in the woods.”

I looked at his profile and saw him smile—the happy hunter.

I was less thrilled. As I saw it, I was lurching across the countryside like some Keystone Kop with a mysterious cripple out front and a slippery homicidal maniac on my tail—maybe. The fact that Cioffi was not the Evel Knievel of the snowmobile set was of little comfort.

The radio crackled and announced that Klesczewski and a trooper had been dropped off at the trees at the foot of the mountain road. More men were “continuing pursuit.”

I looked out the side window at the slow parade of passing trees. Hotshot or no, I couldn’t imagine that a man on a snowmobile couldn’t outdistance a Sno-Cat as if it were standing still.

“Jesus.” The driver threw the controls and sent us into a grinding, sliding halt. Off to the right was the first Cat, lying on its side, wedged between two trees. McNaughton and one of his men were climbing out of the cab.

I opened my door and McNaughton got in beside me and yelled at the driver. “Get around that and head down the slope to the right. The son of a bitch cut off the road.” He jabbed his radio key. “All units. P-One and P-Two are now on same vehicle.”

We moved forward a couple of yards. A skimobile’s thin imprint sliced between the trees bordering the road and vanished down the steep, treeless slope beyond. The driver continued on until he came to a similar gap wide enough for us. He turned the Cat and paused at the edge.

“Go, man, go.” McNaughton was half-crouching by the door next to me, his eyes glued ahead.

The Cat lurched up and over the bank and plunged with a sickening shudder straight down the slope. Despite the seat belt, I slammed both my hands against the dashboard to keep my teeth from being buried in my kneecaps. McNaughton ended up pressing against the windshield. The Cat’s engine noise climbed to a scream, the gearbox began a high-pitched whine, and the snow burst from the thrashing caterpillar treads like foam from a tempest-tossed ocean. There was no room for any more sound, but as I glanced at McNaughton’s face, I could see he was shouting into the mike.

The roller-coaster dive lasted for what seemed like an hour—probably two minutes. At its bottom, we found a half-buried wooden fence, and caught between two of its broken rails was the red snowmobile. Our driver killed the engine and wiped his face with his glove.

The sudden quiet impressed us all. Without a word, we opened our doors and swung out onto the treads. Dimly, high above, we could hear the other Cat laboring up the mountain road. The smashed snowmobile was alone.

“I guess he couldn’t stop in time,” McNaughton said quietly. He spoke into the radio, bringing everybody up to date.

In the meantime, his trooper reached back into the cab and brought out three pairs of snowshoes and handed a couple to us across the roof. We all sat down on the treads to put them on.

Far below, to the right, came a series of shots, first two sharp and high-pitched, as from two stones rapped together, followed by the mechanical rattle of a machine gun.

“Holy shit,” McNaughton murmured. We looked at each other and waited. Several minutes passed during which we heard the other Cat pause at the top of the slope.

The radio crackled. “Officer down. We need help. This is P… Shit, I don’t know. Move it.” It was Klesczewski’s voice.

“P-Four from P-Seven. We’re on our way.” I recognized Tyler.

I reached inside the cab and unhooked the transmitter. “P-Four from P-Two. What happened?”

“A second snowmobile blasted through us. He caught Reynolds right in the chest. It looked like a Mac 10. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m real sorry, Lieutenant.”

“What about the shooter?”

“We got off two shots, but it was like fighting a hail storm. He’s on your tail now.”

“Okay. Hang tight.”

I heard the other Sno-Cat start up again and cautiously edge its way over the lip of the mountain. “Why not leave them there as a rear guard?”

McNaughton shook his head. “They’re too thin—better we team up.”

I finished attaching my snowshoes and hopped off the Cat. There is a fraternity among cops despite the bickering and class distinctions.

The saying goes that if a cop is in a jam, he can count on any other cop to at least try to pull him out of it. So I felt sorry for McNaughton. I was also mad as hell it had taken one of his men’s lives to catch his full attention.

They also say that when you’re maddest, it’s usually because you screwed up. Whoever “they” are, they’re right. I, more than anyone, knew how determined Stark was. And yet I’d allowed most of this to happen.

I was standing over the red wreckage of the snowmobile when the second Cat clattered to a halt. Stan Katz appeared at my side in a couple of minutes, carrying my shotgun. I hadn’t realized until then that I’d run off without it.

“Thanks, Stan.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I jerked my thumb back at the second Sno-Cat. “How’d you manage to hitch a ride?”

He smiled thinly. “They still think I’m a cop.”

“You may have to do more than pretend, the way things are going. We’ll need every gun loaded.”

He nodded. “So I heard.”

A momentary silence passed. We could hear the others talking behind us—that and the sound of ammunition being loaded.

“This thing’s a real mess, isn’t it?” he finally added. His voice was quiet, even comforting.

“It’s not our finest hour; I’ll give you that.”

“A failure to communicate, as the saying goes?”

“Let’s just say they fucked up; I fucked up; we all fucked up.”

Katz smiled again. “You’ll never be a MacArthur with lines like that.”

McNaughton stepped into our stillness. “Any tracks?”

I nodded to a crooked line of oblong holes that trailed away from the broken machine. McNaughton swung his snowshoed feet deftly over the fence. “All right, gentlemen. Captain Gunther and I will form the middle. I want a line with ten foot intervals off to either side.”

“What about Stark?” I asked, it seemed for the hundredth time.

“If we get Cioffi, we’ve got a bait for Stark.”

It made sense, as everything had before it—only my trust in sense had gone out the window. I was also troubled that with the arrival of the second Cat, there were only six of us.

“I think we should wait for more people,” I said.

“I don’t.” McNaughton’s voice was flat. “I don’t want to lose the bastard now.”

We spread out, shotguns in hand, like gentlemen at a country shoot, and started off across the snowfield. To both sides of me, I could just perceive the ghostly outlines of my neighbors but no further. I relied on them to be keen to what lay ahead; my own concentration was given to what lurked behind.

We walked for forty minutes in total silence, the only sound being the muffled shuffling of the snowshoes and the occasional squawk from the radios. Even so equipped, it was slow going. Unless you do it regularly, snowshoeing is exhausting work, and in groups speed is reduced to the slowest member. Still, it is easier and swifter than plunging along without them, and I had to admire our prey for his stamina.

But stamina has its limits, especially if your hip is grinding away at the socket, reducing the bone to dust. We found our man eventually, peacefully sitting in the snow, staring at his lap.

McNaughton stepped up to him, the muzzle of his shotgun three feet from his head. “Are you Steven Cioffi?”

Cioffi looked up and smiled slightly. He had the appearance of a man in mid-daydream.

“Answer.”

“Yes.” His voice had a feminine softness to it.

“I have a warrant for your arrest.”

As the New Hampshire men lifted Cioffi to his feet and searched him, finding nothing unusual, McNaughton read him his rights. When he was through, there was a curious lull, a palpable disappointment that the hunt had ended with such a murmur.