Pursuit Page 12

  Rayder’s foresight in bringing along the short-wave receiver had not made him privy to the wired teletype messages being used to set up the defenses to the north. For all the men in the car knew, the whole State Police force was on its way to the area they were in now. In fact, the only solid information that they had pointed to just this possibility.

  The dispatcher had mentioned cars coming down from Peoria to set a trap at Lincoln. Rayder felt that he and Grozzo had no choice but to continue their high-speed run. Their experience with the hay wagon showed a speed of a hundred thirty or forty would be suicide if anything showed up in their path. They had to go slower than that. He had told the driver ninety, because he figured they needed to go at least that fast to get out of the area. Also, despite the dark man’s protests that he could not stop at anything less than fifty, Rayder knew that he had real ability at the wheel and was sure that, like most skilled people, Grozzo could do better than he thought.

  Rayder sat, immobile, his arms on the back of the front seat, concentrating just as intently as the driver. The only break in the rhythm of their flight was the very occasional slowing down to cross the hump of a railroad track at grade.

  They came to a small town, passed through it carefully at the legal limit, then, at the direction of the man in the rear, accelerated back to their regular speed.

  “There’s going to be more of them damn little towns as we get closer in,” Rayder said, his mouth hard. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to lose a second.

  Another crossroad loomed as they bore down on it. At the last possible second, in what would have been a classic scene from an old movie, a self-propelled corn picker clanked across in front of them. They missed it by inches.

  Rayder’s face went chalk white, but he said nothing.

  The green Chevrolet hurtled on through the early-afternoon heat.

  38

  The Superintendent stooped over the clacking teletype and glanced at his watch. It was approaching two, almost two hours since he had listened to the last message in the radio room.

  The defensive ring of cars—he hoped it would turn out to be a noose—was drawing tight around Chicago’s Southwest Side. Backing them up, an integral part of the defensive wall almost like some ancient, massive earthwork, was the physical bulk of the Tollway. This modern concrete dike, built to carry traffic rapidly around the South Side, would now be made to serve a different function: as a dam to keep the culprits out of the city.

  But this dam had holes in it. Forty-one holes between the Indiana line going south and Roosevelt Road, running west: the area where the men would most likely try to penetrate.

  The teletype came to life.

  “WE WILL HAV 39 CARS,” it stuttered onto the unwinding roll.

  “HOW MANY IN PLAS NOW?” he pecked back.

  “THIRTY ON STATION. FIVE MORE DISPATCHT. FOUR LEFT TO GO. LOOKS LIKE WE’LL HAVE TO LEAVE TWO HOLES.”

  “OK. LEAVE TWO NEAREST INDIANA LINE.”

  “OK.”

  He had a thought. “WAIT MIN.” he typed. He wanted a strategic reserve. His defense line was entirely static. He wanted at least two cars mobile, held back centrally someplace, even at the risk of uncovering two more of the less heavily traveled routes.

  He went back to the other room and looked at his map, then returned to the teletype and spelled out: “DISPATCH CORRECTION. PULL CARS OFF INTERSECTIONS AT TORRENCE AND BLUE ISLAND FOR MOBILE RESERVE. ONE AT JCT RTS 50 AND 7 OTHER AT 34 AND 42A.”

  “YES SIR” was the reply.

  He bent over again and typed. “THIS IMPORTANT. VERIFY YOUR DISPATCH THEN TELETYPE ALL CAR NUMBERS WITH INTERSECTIONS ASSIGNED. I WILL HANDLE THE DIRECT DISPATCH FROM HERE ROUTED THROUGH YOUR TRANSMITTER FOR EXTRA POWER. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUEST.”

  In a minute the reply came. “NO QUEST. SIGNAL WHEN U ARE READY TO ASSUME CONTROL.”

  “OK,” he typed, then walked out toward the other room. As he got to the door the bell rang the Post Seven signal again, and he walked back to the teletype. He acknowledged, and the machine spelled out: “WE HAVE CALL FROM CIVIL AIR PATROL. PRIVATE TRI-PACER AIRCRAFT ALERTED BY FAA, MIDWAY AIRPORT, AWAITING ORDERS.”

  “Why, bless their cotton-pickin’ hearts,” he mumbled to himself. It was only one little plane, and air spotting in a situation like this was chancy, but he was glad to have it. It made him feel good that they had come through for him. It was the first lift he had had all day.

  “GIV HIM DESCRIPTION AND HAVE HIM ORBIT BLOCKADED SECTION TOLLWAY,” he pecked.

  “YES SIR” was the reply.

  39

  The red needle stuck to 90 as if pasted there.

  Their luck was holding. It had been almost an hour since they had passed the corn picker, and there had been no more close calls since then. It was 1:35.

  The monotonous cornfields kept going by as if they would last forever. The deadly crossroads appeared just as regularly as the second hands went two-thirds of the way around the dials on their wrist watches.

  Both men were tired now. Beat. The chases and near-misses had stirred them each time to a high pitch of excitement; their blood was saturated with adrenalin and loaded with sugar. Their bodies could not take supercharging indefinitely, and they were beginning to feel the strain. They were both in the early stages of auto-intoxication: tense, jumpy, irritable and mean. Ready to fight!

  Both had sensed that something like this had happened, and by unspoken mutual consent they had stopped talking.

  Then something came up which demanded communication. Grozzo noticed that they were almost out of gas. He waited until the needle was almost on “E,” then reached over and tapped the gauge with his finger to attract the other man’s attention.

  “Goddam,” said Rayder tensely. “How much farther will it go?”

  “Twenty miles, maybe thirty. I wouldn’t risk more’n twenty.”

  “I make it, we’re still forty or forty-five miles out. We may have to stop and hit one of these farmers,” said Rayder.

  Silently he cursed himself again for not bringing guns.

  They peeled off another five miles; then the clump of trees that usually signified a town showed above the green fields ahead.

  “Here comes a town.”

  “Go all the way through and stop at the last station on the other side. Leave the motor running.”

  It was a village of a few thousand, about the size of Bucola, at the fringe of the metropolitan build-up. They watched with cat’s eyes for anything suspicious.

  Nothing! Just a drowsing country town. They idled through.

  A block from where the cornfields started up again, the driver swung into a station.

  “Fill it,” he said to the uniformed man who walked out.

  Rayder kept watch out the back as the attendant set the hose into the opening and left it running while he went around to wipe the windshield.

  Ahead of them, a block away, a black car pulled up at the side street entering the highway, paused, then turned in their direction and came slowly down the street. It had a big, bronze star on the side and the legend GRAPE CREEK POLICE DEPARTMENT.

  Grozzo made a peculiar noise in his throat. The attendant was right at his open window, leaning across, wiping the windshield.

  Rayder instantly swung around. Smoothly, appearing not to hurry, he completed the turn and nonchalantly rested his chin on the back of the front seat. His head pointed toward the dashboard, but his eyes, like a hawk’s, followed the black sedan. Its driver, a young-looking man without a hat, was not in any apparent hurry. He came easily down the street, eyes casually taking in the scene on both sides. As he came by, his eyes flickered over them quickly, then stuck for just a minute. They shifted away again. As they did so, Rayder touched the driver’s sleeve. There was a barely perceptible nod.

  As soon as the police car was a few feet past them, its driver quickly spun his head for a fast look at the rear window. Almost instantly he was jamming on his brakes and turning.

  Rayd
er shouted, “Hit it!”

  Grozzo had had the car in gear with the engine running and clutch depressed. He let it out and floored the gas. The tires screamed as the car rocketed out, spilling the attendant sideways and pulling the hose from the pump. They were a hundred yards down the street before the police car was fairly onto the station apron.

  But, once past the sprawled attendant and back out into the street, he came charging—siren, lights and all. And from his back bumper waved the twenty-foot, spring-mounted fishpole that meant he was radio-equipped.

  Both cars accelerated flat out until the men found that they were once again tempting fate in a hundred-thirty-mile-an-hour chase. The road was dry and powdery. The lead car raised a plume of dust which soon obscured the pursuing machine.

  Rayder immediately got on the radio, just on the chance the man might slow or turn rather than chase them blindly at high speed through the dust cloud they were raising.

  “Not all cops are brave,” he said, half-aloud.

  For a few minutes he got nothing, then he realized that this would be a local outfit, not on the state frequency. He shifted to the other wave band and picked him up. The cop was young. His voice was excited, and he sounded inexperienced.

  “This is Grape Creek police. I am chasing a green Chevrolet with a bullet hole in his rear window. We are north of Grape Creek. There was a call out on a car like this. Can anybody help?”

  In a minute an authoritative voice said, “Grape Creek police, this is State Police Post Two. Where are you now?”

  “Several miles north of Grape Creek. We should be getting close to the canal and the Des Plaines River. I’m in his dust and can’t see very well.”

  “We are searching for a car that fits your description. The men in it hit a supermarket downstate this morning. I am going to feed your transmission into our communications net here so the cars we have out will be able to help you. It is very important that you let us know where you are at all times so we can move in. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, okay. I’ll do my best, but I can’t see much in this dust.”

  Sweat broke out on Rayder’s brow as he listened to the noose again being tightened about them.

  The dispatcher carefully began to inform the men in the blockade of the status of the chase. He was interrupted by a shout from the young officer.

  “We just crossed the bridge over the river. They’re heading for Route Sixty-six. That’s just about five miles north of here. It looks like they’re going to take Sixty-six to Chi.”

  A babble of voices broke loose as cars announced themselves ready to join the chase, asked questions or said they were ready to leave their posts. This sudden scrambling rush was not at all according to the Super’s plans, but men in action rarely conform to carefully prelaid schedules.

  An angry voice cut through the babble and mounting confusion. “This is Superintendent Franklin. I am assuming dispatch control. I want total radio silence. NOW!”

  In a few seconds the air became silent, and Franklin continued in a calmer voice. “All units maintain position unless dispatched otherwise. Cars Four-One, Eight-Three, and One-Nine, proceed south on Route Sixty-six. Try to intercept the car now being chased. You are authorized to use your radios; acknowledge.”

  They did, and Franklin stopped transmitting.

  The chase car came on again. “We ought to be getting pretty close to Sixty-six. I can’t tell if he’s slowing down yet. I’ll let you know as soon as he turns.”

  In the lead car there was no plan, nor apparently any resources left for forming one. The two men were scared and tired, not far from panic. Even Rayder’s strength seemed to desert him. He appeared to be capable of nothing but a hypnotic concentration on the radio, as if by some act of will he could do something about the relentless pursuer, unseen but broadcasting loudly from the dust cloud boiling behind the fleeing car.

  Grozzo appeared oblivious to everything except concentrating on just keeping them on the road.

  At the break in the transmissions, Rayder looked blankly up at the road ahead. It curved, ever so slightly, not enough to slow them, but just enough so that he could see only a few hundred feet ahead.

  Presently, to one side, he saw a smoking factory chimney rising into the air. His subconscious mind was about to dismiss this as of absolutely no consequence when the impression stopped being subconscious. Something was wrong with the picture!

  Something was really wrong! It all rushed to the front of his mind. That chimney was moving—toward him—only it wasn’t a chimney. It was the exhaust pipe of a diesel truck rising above the corn.

  Even as his mind was registering the fact, they came into the open at an angling crossing. A bare hundred feet ahead lay the two concrete ribbons of a superhighway. There was a truck, only a few feet away and approaching them at an acute angle, looking like an ocean liner. The massive grill loomed over Rayder like a big square cliff. Then the car squirted past, saved only by its great speed.

  Neither of the drivers had any time to react. In an instant, the car was across both lanes of the divided highway. It was safe, blasting down the gravel road again on the other side.

  Rayder watched the huge tanker as it crossed his field of vision out of the rear window. It looked like a great blunt-ended sausage. Just as it came squarely behind him, he saw a flash of wheels under its belly, approaching from the other side.

  Suddenly, the monster jumped four feet into air. He was sure he saw a seam in the middle of the tank opening and a wash of liquid starting out. Before it could touch the ground, there was a huge yellow flash followed by a great white and red ball of fire that mushroomed, grew and tumbled as it coiled in upon itself, churning skyward.

  Simultaneously came a clap like an exploding artillery shell. Then a huge whoof nudged his own car, as it sped down the road. He felt the skin on his face singe.

  Incongruously, there came jumping, bumping and flipping, chasing straight down the road after them and looking almost like a glittering football, the egg-shaped siren-cum-red light mounting from the police car. It gave a last mighty bounce high into the air and disintegrated, a small silver part twinkling in the sunlight as it spun up and up into the air, then down and over into the field.

  Stunned, they slowed the car and drove along slowly for a moment. Then Grozzo turned to look at his companion.

  “That was Sixty-six,” he said. “You wanna go back and go into the city on it? It’s the quickest way.”

  Rayder looked at him with dull, vague eyes. Finally, he said, “No, we couldn’t get by the wreck.”

  “What do you wanna do?”

  Again there was a pause, while Rayder stared with dead, unfocused eyes. Eventually, he said simply, “You do it.”

  The driver gave him a long look, then turned back around without speaking. He turned right at 55th Street, which ran into Chicago on an angling course north.

  The Tollway was ten miles ahead.

  40

  Superintendent Franklin had been pacing the floor like a man outside a hospital delivery room. It was time now, it must be time. The climax of their frantic, pushing, daylong effort was bound to come within the next few minutes.

  He had known that he shouldn’t react as he did, but he had felt somehow responsible. If the intercept failed, he would consider the blame and humiliation to be his alone.

  Then the speaker had squawked into life with the report from the Grape Creek policeman that he had brought the men to a chase again.

  Franklin had walked over and gripped the edge of the radio console with both hands. He felt like a football coach on Saturday afternoon. He had created the team and directed its strategy. Now, he must direct it in action.

  Taking the mike, he had ordered the upstate transmitter run up to maximum power, then had taken charge of the dispatch and gotten the situation under control again. As soon as things were stabilized he had pulled three cars off the blockade and sent them down Route 66 to try an intercept at the junction of the co
unty road and 66.

  He had had a desk moved up near the transmitter with the large Chicago area map atop it. Each car he had at his disposal had been marked with a numbered pin so that he could see the whole situation at a glance.

  The pursuing car had come on again, saying, “We’re almost…” Then the voice had stopped suddenly and the air had gone dead. There was not even transmitter hum. It was the second time today this had happened, and Franklin felt a chill of apprehension.

  The tension in the radio room started to rise. Somebody broke in. “This is Unit Four-One proceeding south on Sixty-six. There’s a big ball of fire, about two miles ahead of me on the highway. Must be a tank truck, to be that big. I’m about six miles south of the Tollway intersection now. Shall I stop and assist?”

  “You’ll have to,” Franklin said instantly. “But keep your eyes peeled till you get there. The Chevrolet should be up to Sixty-six by now. Can you see the two cars we pulled in from either side of you to go down Sixty-six?”

  “This is Eighty-three,” said a voice. “I was at the Plainfield interchange. I’m about two miles behind him.”

  He was followed by another. “Nineteen. I can see Eighty-three.”

  “Okay,” said the dispatcher. “You two keep going.” There was silence for a few moments. The Super began squeezing the mike, and his hand began to vibrate.

  A trooper’s voice filled the room. “I’m at the fire! Lemont Road. That was a police car that hit a tank truck. They said it was chasing a car.”

  Franklin jumped erect. This meant the fugitives had crossed 66. They were north of it somewhere! They had got past the interception point!

  As the significance sank in he expected, somewhere in the back of his mind, to become emotional again, to feel as before the bitter disappointment and hurt. Instead his emotions dropped away like a garment, and he was suddenly coldly analytical.