He decapitates the mailbox at the end of the lane and whips left onto the township road. Sludge from the truck’s tires spatters my windshield. I hit the wipers and emergency strobes. A hundred yards down the road and I’m nearly on top of him. I’m lining up for a PIT maneuver in an effort to spin out his vehicle, when a hole the size of my fist explodes my windshield. A hollow thunk sounds; then a thousand diamond capillaries spread out like some bizarre road map. The son of a bitch is shooting at me.
Blind, covered with shards of glass, I cut the wheel right. The tree comes out of nowhere. I try to avoid it, but I’m on the muddy shoulder and the Explorer responds sluggishly. The impact knocks me so hard against the shoulder harness that I swear I can hear my clavicle snap. Simultaneously, the air bag punches me in the face and chest like a huge boxer’s glove.
Gasping in pain, I extricate myself from the air bag, reach down, and unlatch my safety belt. Steam spews from the engine. Looking through the shattered safety glass, I see the crinkled steel of my hood. Shoving away the deflating bag, I unlatch the door. When it sticks, I swivel and kick it open.
I slide from the vehicle, but my legs are like rubber and I go to my knees. I know I’m hurting, but there’s so much adrenaline, I can’t pinpoint where. Groaning, I force myself to my feet, look around. Mose’s truck is stopped fifty yards down the road, facing me. Ten feet away, the Explorer sits at a cockeyed angle, wrecked and useless.
That’s when my temper kicks in. Operating on instinct now, I hit my lapel mike, put out a 10-33. This is exactly the kind of situation that can spiral out of control and end very badly. I don’t know if Salome is a willing participant or a hostage. If Mose feels he has nothing left to lose, he might harm himself. He might harm Salome. Or both.
I should wait for backup, but I’m not going to follow protocol. Pulling my .38, I move to the bar ditch, where I have some measure of cover, and start toward the truck. “Mose!” I call out. “Put down the gun!”
No answer. I don’t stop walking. “Put it down, and come over here and talk to me!”
Dead silence.
I try another approach. “You’re frightening Salome! Come on! Talk to me! Is she okay?”
The passenger door opens. An instant later, Salome stumbles out. She’s wearing the blue dress and only one shoe. No kapp, her hair flying. “Chief Burkholder!” she screams. “Don’t hurt us!”
“Come here!” I shout. “Run! I’m not going to hurt you.”
She breaks into a run, arms outstretched, her eyes wild with terror. I continue toward her. The knowledge that I’m in plain sight should Mose start shooting never leaves my mind. I’m scared, more scared than I’ve been in a long time, but I don’t stop. Don’t let me down, Mose, I silently chant.
I’m twenty feet from Salome now. She’s hysterical, choking out sobs, her arms wrapped around her as if she’s holding herself together.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Take cover on the other side of the Explorer. You’ll be safe there.”
“Don’t hurt him,” she cries.
The truck’s engine revs. Adrenaline jolts me like electricity. Gravel shoots out from beneath the tires. Then the vehicle jumps toward me. I shove Salome toward the bar ditch. “Run!”
“Moses!” she screams. “Don’t!”
I face the truck, raise my hands. “Mose! Stop!” I scream the words, but it’s too late. I know he isn’t going to stop.
“Goddamn it!” Dropping into a shooter’s stance, I raise my .38. “Stop! Stop!”
The vehicle is ten yards away, engine screaming, gaining speed. I fire five rounds into the windshield. The glass splinters and spreads. The engine emits a final roar. The vehicle jerks right, slides sideways, and then nose-dives into the bar ditch and goes still.
“Moses! Moses!” Salome’s screams are bloodcurdling.
I spin, point at her. “Stay put!”
Covering her face with her hands, she drops to her knees and bends, her body racked with sobs.
I turn my attention to the vehicle. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the sirens. I can’t see the fire truck or ambulance yet, but they’re nearby, probably turning onto the township road from the highway. Just a few more minutes …
Hold on, Mose, I think. Don’t be dead. My brain chants the words like a mantra as I approach the passenger door. Dear God, let him be alive. I don’t want the death of a seventeen-year-old boy on my conscience. The irony of that is almost too much to bear.
The truck is nose-down in the ditch. The driver’s side looks difficult to get to, so I approach from the other side. The first thing I see is blood spatter on the door window, and I know in my gut this isn’t going to have a good ending. I try the door, but it’s jammed, so I hold down the latch and yank it as hard as I can. Steel groans as I pry it open.
Mose is slumped against the driver’s door. I know immediately he’s dead. He’s suffered at least one gunshot to the face, probably two. There’s a lot of blood. Brain matter on the headrest. More blood on his shoulders. Blowback on the side window. A clawlike hand still grips the wheel.
“Aw, Mose. Aw, God. Mose.”