"Goddam," Jerry said. "I hope this bastard isn't heading to Toronto for the weekend."

"If he is, we're not going with him." The pilot tapped the fuel gauge. "We go to Orillia, max."

"What are those guys doing up there!" Cardinal pointed to an OPP unit parked at the side of the highway with lights flashing.

"Must've been off-frequency for some reason. I'll radio in to have 'em move." Jerry took the mike from him. "Central, we have a unit on Highway 11 southbound, get them the hell out of there, now. I mean now."

"Central. Roger."

"Too late, now. He's spooked."

The van had lurched and slowed. Now it was speeding up again.

"Command Post, we're losing him. You want us to pull him over?"

"Stay with him. Don't pull him over. We have to know where he's going."

"Cardinal, you can't direct a high-speed chase from the air. It's their lives, their call."

"Fourteen- you have two cars coming northbound, then you're clear." Then to Jerry, "How did they get on the road?"

"Lots of little turnoffs here. We didn't have time to shut them all down. Look at that."

The blue van went wide on a curve and was now on the wrong side of the road barreling straight for a head-on with a white Toyota.

"Move," Delorme prayed. "Move."

At the last second the Toyota veered onto the shoulder, fishtailed wildly, and veered back onto the lane. Cardinal was sweating heavily in his body armor. He had come within an inch of killing the occupants of that car; his hand was so wet, he could barely hold the mike. "Okay, Fourteen- cut him off, now. Let's get him off the road."

"Roger. We'll shut him down."

"All units, lights and sirens. We're going to yank him." Then to Jerry: "Do we have the K-9 guy in case he runs into the bush?"

Jerry pointed. "Greg Villeneuve. Gray pickup in front of the fire truck."

The lead patrol unit pulled forward, lights flashing. Through the whomp of the rotors they heard the high, thin wail of sirens. The van veered over to the right again, straddling road and shoulder, then back onto the road. When Fourteen came up on his left he veered in front of them.

"Jesus," Jerry yelled. "That was close."

Fourteen pulled even with the van.

"Fourteen, Fourteen. Back off. You got a snowplow round the next bend, repeat, snowplow southbound in your lane, and he's standing still."

Fourteen didn't respond. The two cars moved into the curve as if joined at the fender. A matter of seconds and the van would rear-end the plow.

"Christ, the kid could be in that van. Why don't they back off?"

"They want to pull ahead. Do a single lane that way."

Delorme sat back from the window, unable to watch.

At the last second, Fourteen pulled in front of the van, leaving the left lane clear. The van swerved to avoid the plow, hit a patch of ice, and shot across two lanes and onto the median.

For a hundred yards, the van straddled the road and the divider. Fourteen slowed to stay with it. The van went farther over the divider into heavy snow. The wheels caught in a drift, flipping it once, twice, three times. Then it slid on its side, turned elegantly at an angle and plowed along the oncoming lanes on a bed of sparks.

"Thank God we closed the road," Delorme said.

The van smashed, wheels first, into the retaining posts, did a one-and-a-half in the air, and slammed into a rock cut, where it burst into flames.

"Take us down. All units: I want this section sealed off. Let the hook-and-ladder put out the fire and get the hostage out. Repeat. There could be a hostage in the back. Get him out first."

The pilot set them down in a lumberyard after scattering workers with a bullhorn. As the cops scrambled into a waiting patrol unit, workers yelled epithets at them from behind stacks of plywood and two-by-fours.

When Cardinal reached the wreck, the fire was already out, and the blackened truck was covered with foam. A firefighter jumped down from the opened side door, shaking his head.

"No passengers?"

"No driver, neither. Nobody a-tall."

"There he is. They got him." Jerry Commanda was pointing to the divider strip. A quarter mile back, a cruiser was parked on the median, lights flashing. Two constables had weapons trained on a motionless dark figure in the snow. Twenty seconds later, that figure was the still point of a semicircle of shotguns, all cocked and ready.

The figure lay, hands outflung like a drowning victim's around a jagged block of shale. Suddenly it emitted a groan, and the head lifted slightly. Larry Burke slid down the embankment and clipped cuffs on him, then turned him over, patting him down. "No weapon, Sarge."

"Identification?"

Burke flipped through a wallet, pulled out the driver's license. "Frederick Paul Lefebvre, 234 Wassi Road. Photo's a match."

"It's Fast Freddie!" Delorme exclaimed. "He's been out of jail for, what- two weeks?"

Two medics hurried down the embankment. They started pushing and probing, firing questions at the confused heap of humanity in the ditch.

"Oh, my," Fast Freddie repeated several times. "Oh, my." One of the medics wiped the blood off his forehead with snow. Then for the first time he looked up at the shotguns and hiccuped. "Oh, shit," he said, stifling a belch. "Ever drunk, eh?"

38

FOR Cardinal, the aftermath of chasing down Woody's vehicle was mostly paperwork. His sup alone was developing the heft of Moby Dick, and on any operation involving another force, such as the OPP, the reports just multiplied. Even using the war room required a detailed accounting of equipment requisitioned, personnel involved, rounds fired, etcetera.

He wanted to question Freddie Lefebvre, but Fast Freddie, having lapsed into unconsciousness moments after his confession of intoxication, was sobering up in a well-guarded hospital bed.

The message light was flashing on Cardinal's phone. It was Karen Steen asking if there was any progress, to please call her when he had the chance. He remembered the denim-blue eyes, the absolute candor of her features. He wished he had something to tell her, some words of encouragement, but there was nothing. The ident boys, Arsenault and Collingwood, were locked up in the garage with Woody's van. There would be no point pressing them for prints for several hours.

Cardinal pulled a stack of paper from his In box. There were several fat envelopes from the Crown, the usual notices, forms, and requests for information. Then there was an interoffice envelope containing a memo from Dyson telling everyone for the hundredth time not to make idiots of themselves in court. The word contemporaneous appeared several times, underlined.

There was another piece of paper attached to the memo apparently by accident, held there by traces of something that looked a lot like honey glazing. It was a note labeled From the Desk of Det. Sgt. A. Dyson, addressed to Paul Arsenault. Arsenault was to make himself available to the Mounties' document people on an upcoming weekend. The combination of the RCMP and document experts could only be the Kyle Corbett case. And a weekend- that would mean a big production, something serious in the offing.

"Jesus Christ. Why should I testify again? I'm starting to feel like a voodoo doll. Everybody wants to stick pins in me!" McLeod was shouting into his phone and searching for something buried under the junkyard on his desk. He hung up, cursing. "Fucking Crown. It's like he wants me to have a heart attack."

"Maybe he does," Cardinal said mildly.

"It's my kid's piano recital on Thursday. I missed his birthday, courtesy of the Corriveau Brothers. If I miss this, my wife- pardon me, my former wife, Lady Macbeth with a court order- will cut me out of the picture altogether. She's already got the Family Court in the palm of her hand, I swear. Far as that place is concerned, I'm somewhere between Attila the Hun and Charles Manson. And Corriveau- what's the point of dismissing a witness if you're just gonna call him back every five minutes?"