Delorme dipped her head, smiling slightly.

"You know what stinks?" McLeod said to the whole table. "What stinks is we're buried in leads here. We're practically drowning in evidence. The guy hands us a tape of his voice, for Chrissake, and we can't do anything. He shoots his wad into an envelope for us, and we can't do anything. Now he leaves us thumbprints. It's like we're holding out for his business card or something. Guy's playing with us, and we're not getting anywhere."

"No, we're making progress," Cardinal said, wanting to believe it. "We're doing classic footwork. We just haven't found the connecting link yet, that's all. Something that's gonna whack all these little bits of info together."

"It better happen soon," Dyson said. "If I get one more call telling me to call in the OPP or the Mounties…"

"The Horsemen?" McLeod seemed to take it personally. "The Horsemen don't have any fucking jurisdiction."

"You know that and I know that. Would you care to educate the public on that point?"

"Anyways, the first thing the fucking Horsemen'd do, they'd blow something up, or steal some fucking evidence, or sell some dope to the wrong fucking judge. Besides which, you never know if what they say they're doing is what they're really doing. I'll tell you the problem with the Horsemen." McLeod was warming up now. Cardinal usually enjoyed a good McLeod rant, but not today, please. "The problem with the Horsemen is they're broke. Fucking five-year pay freeze killed 'em. They're all fucking broke, and they're looking for creative ways to make up the difference. I liked it better when they made more money. You can trust a rich Mountie. Now that they're practically fucking homeless, all they're good for-"

The intercom crackled and Mary Flower's voice came over. "Cardinal, OPP's on the line. Patrol unit on Highway 11's got a make on Woody's truck. What do you want to do?"

"Where exactly are they?"

"Out near Chippewa Falls, heading back to town."

"Patch it through, Mary. I'll speak to them from here."

Every cop at the conference table had shifted position; the air in the room was charged.

"Don, we need the war room. Shotguns, body armor, the works."

"It's yours. Fuck the Mounties."

The phone rang, and Cardinal snatched it up. "Detective Cardinal, CID. Who am I talking to?"

"OPP patrol unit fourteen- George Boissenault, here, and my partner, Carol Wilde."

"Are you sure it's our man?"

"We have a blue '89 ChevyVan in view, Ontario plate number 7698128, stolen. Sign says COMSTOCK ELECTRICAL something."

"My show, partners. Your driver is primo suspect number one in the Pine-Curry case. My show, understand?"

"Roger. They gave us the lowdown in muster."

"Good. I want you to follow him, but don't stop him."

"We may have to stop him. He's really hoofing it."

"Do not stop him. He has a hostage and we do not want this kid to end up dead. Radio home and have them close the road, but they stay out of sight, follow? Have them close the on ramps."

"Will do."

"You're in a regular patrol unit, I take it."

"Regular patrol, that's right. He's got to see us pretty soon."

"Keep a low profile but don't lose him. Do you have kids, Wilde?"

"Yes, sir. One's eight, and one's three."

"Our hostage is just out of high school. I want you to think of him as if he's your own, understand? We can save this kid if we play this right."

"Looks like he's going to turn down Algonquin. Nope, I'm wrong. He's sticking with the bypass."

"Stay on him. Detective Sergeant Dyson is here with me, and in five minutes you're gonna have more backup than you've ever seen. If he breaks for it, stay on his tail. I don't have to tell you this guy is armed and dangerous."

"We'll stay on him. We can match frequency, if you want to coordinate from a command post."

"You read my mind. Work it out with Flower. We're on our way."

37

THE "war room" was a large closet big enough to hold maybe four cops at once. Delorme and McLeod came out first wearing full Kevlar and carrying twin shotguns. As Cardinal emerged, Szelagy called out across the squad room: "I've got that teacher Fehrenbach on the line. Says the Curry kid may have stolen his credit card."

"We'll get back to him," Cardinal said, cinching his vest. "Stick a note in the file."

The phone in the hallway rang, and it was Flower with Jerry Commanda on the line. He was already airborne.

"Jerry, where can you set that thing down and pick me up?"

Jerry Commanda's voice came over with the shake and thrum of the rotor. "Government dock's closest, but you'll have to clear off any bystanders."

"Where's our boy?"

"Just past Shephard's Bay."

"Good. He's taking it easy. Government dock in five."

As they tore out of the lot, Cardinal reached for the mike. "We should've radio'd St. Francis for an ambulance."

"I already did. They're southbound on 11 by now."

"Delorme, I'm going to give you a great big kiss."

"Not on duty, you're not. Not off duty, either."

"Big smacker, Delorme, soon as we take this guy down."

Delorme hit the siren and scared the hell out of the Toyota blocking their way. Cardinal swerved around it and onto Sumner. Four minutes and three red lights later, the two of them were out of the car and running down government dock, where the copter sat perched like a dragonfly, the rotor blasting a miniature snowstorm every which way. Behind it, the lake and sky were a pale gray canvas.

Cardinal didn't fly a lot. His stomach was still on the dock when they crossed over Shephard's Bay, with its stubble of ice-fishing huts. The scene was as still as a Christmas card, except for a dog cavorting on the ice and his master, who trudged on snowshoes toward his hut, a case of beer under one arm.

"Look at 'em backed up on Water Road. Means they've closed the on ramps." Jerry spoke into the mike: "Boissenault. Command Post is airborne. What's your position?"

"Half-mile north of Powassan turnoff. Guy's none too steady with a steering wheel, I'll tell you that."

Delorme pointed. "There they are."

The ChevyVan was a blue lozenge traveling round a curve of scrubby pine. The OPP car trailed two hundred yards behind. Jerry shouted to the pilot, "Stay in his blind spot. We don't want to spook him."

Cardinal spoke into the mike. "Boissenault, anybody get a look at him yet?"

"Old-clothes team coming the other way says we have a single Caucasian male, early thirties, brown hair, black jacket. No visible passengers."

"We don't know what's in the back, though. He could have the kid in there."

"You think he'd drive the kid around in a stolen car?"

"He doesn't know we're looking for it. Even if he did, we can't know how much self-control he's operating under. Fourteen, let a couple of cars get between you. He's gonna spook."

"Roger."

Jerry Commanda said, "They're just a patrol unit- not a surveillance team."

"They don't have to stay on his tail with us up here. Stay back, Fourteen. Let the Camaro get in front."

A hot red Camaro with a raised back end pulled out and passed the patrol unit. "My," Cardinal said, "the citizenry is well behaved around the highway patrol."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Jerry said.

The pilot pointed southeast. "Sun's out." A rip in the gray eiderdown of sky let the sun through, and a copter-shaped shadow flickered on the hills and rock cuts twenty yards ahead of the van. The pilot dropped back, and the shadow moved away from the van. A quarter mile behind the first patrol unit, a parade of police cars- unmarkeds, patrol units, and OPP- augmented now by a fire truck and two ambulances, snaked along the curves and hills like a traveling circus.