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She nodded her head. "It's funny, driving out here, how suddenly everyone starts to drive the speed limit."

"Yup. People see the bubble gum lights on top of the car and they get religion -- real quick. But there's a lesson in this, too. Know what it is?"

"Something about showing the flag?"

"Maybe, but no, something a little less obvious. The guy driving a little too perfectly, too carefully, he's usually hiding something. You look at his car carefully. Is it well kept? Are the tags current? The inspection sticker? Sometimes you've got to drive close, get a look, see if he looks like a scrote."

"A scrote?"

"Yeah, derived from scrotum, I think, but someone who looks hinkey, suspicious. It's a perception thing, too. You can look at someone out here, after a while, and you can almost read their arrest and conviction record before the printout is in your hand. Certain types of tattoos are a dead give away, but I can see it in the eyes now. More a smirk, you know? No respect for the law, or for the badge, and that usually comes after a little time in the big house."

"The big house?"

"Behind bars."

"Oh. What do you think is the common denominator? I mean, behind criminal behavior?"

"Wow. Now there's a question. Maybe a pointless one, but let's see. If I were going to lay one thing out there, it's that most street criminal think they're real smart. That makes them lazy, and often careless. Another word that comes to mind is stupid."

"Stupid? Really?"

"Yeah, you watch a few when you arrest them. They do things they think are smart, but in the end those moves are self-defeating, not thought through real well. Stupid, in other words."

"Then why do so many get away with stuff?"

"Well, I hate to say it, but luck plays a big role in that. Not to mention we're stretched thin, especially at certain times of the day, and, believe it or not, cops aren't immune from fucking up, too. The problem with being out here, exposed like we are, is that when we fuck up we, generally speaking, get fucked up. My biggest fear isn't getting shot, it's being run over on a traffic stop, or out on a highway, working a wreck."

"Really?"

"The closest I've come to getting killed was working a wreck out on I-20. A couple of 18-wheelers got into it, jack-knifed across all lanes of traffic, and one of 'em was a chemical tanker. I get there, park on the shoulder and start helping a patrolman get cones and flares set in the road. A sergeant was parked up beside the tanker truck, his strobes on, flares set back from the truck. I see a car barreling along, in the lane I was standing in, and I put out my hand -- like, "STOP! Now!" -- but the car doesn't slow down, not one bit, and as I leap out of the way all I can see is a 'little old lady' -- squinting under the steering wheel -- as she roars by, doing at least seventy."

"No shit?"

"And she plows right into the tanker truck. Killed instantly, but so was the sergeant. I mean vaporized. The explosion knocked us off our feet, blew out windows in houses and businesses on both sides of the interstate, and the sergeant's squad car was just a black, scorched pile of metal. That fast, you know? Probably thinking about his kids, but who knows? Maybe he coulda done X, Y, or Z if he had been paying closer attention, but he didn't, and he was just dead. Smart guy, nice, dedicated. Great father, good husband, and he was a friend, too. And I watched him die. That's part of the job too, one you need to get ready for. It's not 'if,' Deborah, it's when. It WILL happen to you, someday. You WILL see someone you know get seriously hurt, or killed. You WILL go to a lot of funerals, dead officer's funerals, and it will fuck you up."

"How many have you been to?"

"Three. In the last year. When there's one anywhere within driving distance, the chief likes at least four motorjocks to show up."

"Jesus."

"When it happens to a friend? Man, that fucks with your head, big time."

"How many? For you, I mean?"

"Too many, Deborah. One would be too many...but...too many. Uh...Camp Wisdom Road, one mile."

"Got it."

"Turn left at the light, go down to Hampton and make a left."

"K. Where we headed?"

"The country club."

"What?"

"Turn right on Red Bird, then right, the next right, into the lot."

"Okay?"

"The maroon Jaguar. Under the tree. Pull my side up to the driver's door."

"Right."

He rolled down his window when the car stopped. "Hey, Dad, how's it going?"

"Alright. Who's this?"

"New rookie. Deborah Desjardins."

"Pleased to meet you," the old man said, eyeing the rookie closely. "Why don't you talk this asshole into bringing you to dinner at my place this weekend. Sunday afternoon."

"I, uh, well, I'll try, sir."

"Well, you're invited, so come on over anyway."

"Bad case this morning?" he asked his father.

"Old guy, in his 80s, replaced his mitral valve last year. Bacteria all over it, eating it up. Tried to fix it...I told him it was too risky, but he insisted."

"Lose him?"

"Yup."

"Whoya playing with this morning?"

"Bill and Henry. They ask about you, you know? They'll be there Sunday, so try to come, willya?"

"Yeah."

"You too, young lady."

"Thank you, sir."

"Seeya later, Dad."

He rolled up his window as she pulled ahead, and he pointed at the road. "Right on Red Bird, then the next left. Lake Placid, I think, then let's start cruising the alleys."

"Right. Now what the fuck was that all about?"

"Hmm? What?"

"Inviting me to dinner?"

"Guess he liked you."

"So?"

"He's not married to, like, your mom?"

"She passed a couple of years ago."

"Oh. Sorry."

"He's lonely as hell, and he's a world class flirt. I think you'd have a good time."

"So, did you arrange this little meeting ahead of time?"

He turned and looked at her, grinned: "Who? Me?"

"Hell, I guess I should be flattered."

"Flattered?"

"That you'd think of me that way. Someone your dad might like."

"Look, kiddo, if I wasn't married I'd be all over you."

She blushed, turned away.

"Next alley, make a right."

"K."

"Windows down, go real slow," he whispered. "Slower...now...stop. Engine off." He got out of the car and tip-toed along slowly, up to a six foot tall wood fence. He crouched low, walked up to the fence and pushed aside some shrubbery, peeked over the fence then motioned her to get out of the squad car and come over, but he was grinning like a fool. She walked over quietly and looked over the fence, then tried her best not to break out laughing.

A naked blond, by the swimming pool, with a German Shepherd between her legs, doing the deed...

She doubled over, stumbled back to the car and got in, watched as he came back and got in the car...

"Goddamn!" she said. "You knew she was going to be here? Doing that?"

"Most mornings, all summer long."

"Shouldn't we arrest her? You know, like animal cruelty? Something like that?"

"Did you see that dog's face? Did he look like he was suffering to you?"

She started laughing again, this time harder.

"I mean, you're going to testify in court? Testify about the look on the mutt's face? Really? That fuckin' dog is in Hogg Heaven. Animal cruelty?"

She was losing it now.

"Roll up your window, dammit! You don't want to disturb them, do you?"

"Goddamn you," she snorted. "You're a sadistic sonofabitch, you know it?"

"What? Don't it make horny?"

"Stop it!" she tried to say, but she was laughing harder now. "I'm about to piss my pants..."

"2141?"

He picked up the radio. "2141, go ahead."

"2141, signal 53, Woodstock and Oak Forest. RP advises a black Camaro in the area just pulled into one of the houses on the cul-de-sac, unsure of the address."

"41, code 5."

"2110, show me code 5, and get another unit en route."

"Units en route at 0935 hours."

"Do you know how to get there?" he asked.

"No..."

"Left to Reynoldston, then make a right. We'll turn left on Polk."

"Okay."

"Put your overheads on."

"Got it."

"Slow for the intersection...look both ways...okay, bust it...!"

"Yeah, got it."

"Traffic on Polk is gonna be shit," he said as they approached the intersection. "Okay, nose out just a little, let people see the strobes...okay, you got it...go now..."

She turned left... "Should I keep the lights on?"

"Hell yes...right lane now...Oak Park ahead, right -- at the school, then an immediate left..."

"Got it..."

"Slow...down...you got to look ahead, but you have to scan the side streets, remember -- look out for the little old lady with her air conditioning going full blast. She can't see you or hear you...okay, here's the school..."

"Yeah, got it."

"Left now, lights off, and about two blocks...lot's of kids...keep it down now."

"Okay."

"Slower...there it is, about eleven o'clock, reddish brick house, hipped roof. Got it?"

"How the fuck do you see these things?"

"Pull over here," he said as he picked up the radio. "2141, show us code 6 and we have the suspect vehicle in sight now. 2110, can you approach from Oak Trail?"

"2141 at 0939"

"2110 received."

"2113, show us code 6 in the area at this time."

"0939 hours."

He pulled binoculars from his duffel and looked at the black car. "2141, 27 on Arkansas 132 George Paul Sam."

"Received at 0940."

He looked at the house, saw movement inside a window then looked at the front door. "2141 going to TAC2," he said, switching to the encrypted tactical channel. "2141 on 2, front door kicked in, male white suspect in the house."

"2113, coming up behind you."

"2110 on Oak Trail."

"Okay, they've seen us...running for their car...switching to primary...2141, suspects are in their car, backing out the drive...coming right by me now..."

"0940 hours."

"Turn around!"

"I'm trying..."

"Just cut through the fucking yard...!"

"Got it..."

He reached down, turned on the lights and siren...and 2113 got in behind the Camaro. "Keep on 'em, close it up, stay with them."

2113 busted the intersection with their lights and sirens going, 50 yards behind the Camaro, and they heard the officers in that car take the lead, call the chase.

"That's Tim," she said.

"Tim?"

"We were in academy together..."

"Okay...come on, keep it tight. If they wreck out, we're the lead and we can't lose 'em...got it?"

"Yessir."

"Ease up on the steering wheel, don't choke it...take a deep breath, good, keep breathing...remember, scan ahead and the side streets, always ahead..."

"2113, we're at Camp Wisdom and Polk, southbound."

"2110, get an air unit headed this way, notify DeSoto and Duncanville we've got a chase headed their way."

"0941."

"2113, passing under I-20 now..."

"0942."

Two more patrol cars joined the chase, fell in behind the shift sergeant, 2110, so there were now five patrol cars following the Camaro.

"Roads choke down out here, hilly, and the surface is rough -- these shit cars can't handle it."

"Air 2 monitoring, think we have 'em."

"0942."

"2113, passing Wheatland Road."

"0943."

He looked over, saw their speed was over 80. "You're doing good, keep a few hundred feet behind now, at this speed if something happens you need a buffer."

"2113, turning west on Danieldale."

"0943."

"Okay, get left and brake before you turn...that's it...now accelerate through the turn...attagirl. That was smooth. Remember, smooth increases speed, jerky slows you down."

"Got it."

"There are some choppy hills up ahead, lots of trees, reduced visibility. Got it...?"

"Yup?"

"You okay?"

"Yup, think so."

He looked at her, hard: she was sweating and her lip was quivering but she was doing okay.

"Uh, 2110, we're approaching Cockrell Hill Road. Is Duncanville aware of this pursuit?"

"2110, 10/4."

He saw a slow car ahead, yellow, and a sharp little hill -- but the Camaro pushed it, started to -- make the pass --

"Don't do it...don't do it..." he whispered, but 2113 started to pass the slow car too. He watched the Camaro duck back into their lane atop the hill -- then 2113 went head-on into a pickup truck -- at about 80 miles per hour.

"FUCK!"

"2141, 2113 is out of the chase, 36B about a quarter mile east of Cockrell Hill, we're in the lead."

"0945."

"Okay, get around that shithead..."

"2110, someone behind me stop that yellow car."

"DeSoto 211, we got em, sir."

"Cite 'em for failure to yield and hold 'em at your jail."

"Got it, sir."

"Uh, 2110, get EMS out here Code 3, looks like multiple 60s."

"What?" Desjardins cried. "Dead?"

"Concentrate on your driving, Deb. You have one job now. Don't lose these fuckin' scrotes. Got that?"

She became feral, possessed, punched the accelerator -- hard.

"2141, we're going south on 67 now, uh...wait one...okay, 2141, the guy on the right is leaning out the window, he's shooting at us...notify Cedar Hill we're in their jurisdiction now for Sig 1A."

"2110 to Air 2, you got a sharpshooter on board?"

"Air 2, negative."

"2141, their engine is smoking...looks like they've thrown a rod, slowing fast now, they're going for the frontage road..."

"0947."

Smoke pouring out of the underside of the Camaro, the two men jumped from the car as it rolled to a stop...

"2141, out on two suspects running into the woods, 300 yards south of Wintergreen Road."

"0947."

Police cars from four jurisdictions slid to a stop, twenty patrolmen started running into hilly scrub west of the highway; Desjardins was following the driver of the Camaro with her gun drawn. He heard a pop-pop-pop, saw her stop, aim and fire two rounds -- and he ran to her, then ran with her -- to one suspect down on the ground, two bullet wounds in his chest.

"2141, Signal 33 shots fired, one suspect down, one suspect still at large."

"0948."

"Air 2, second suspect in custody."

"2141 to 2110, my partner took out the driver, and he is Signal 60."

"2110, notify CID and the watch commander."

"0949."

V

'Still an hour to go 'til I finish up with this mess,' he thought, and he rubbed his eyes, looked at his watch. Seven thirty already, but the sun was nowhere near ready to go down. Two more hours, at least, 'til he could wrap up his measurements and head home. Nineteen hours straight. Called back to work at midnight, on his only scheduled day off this week, five hours after going off duty. Now, nineteen hours on top of that. Two bad wrecks in the morning, and he had been heading in to work on those reports when this one came out. A school bus full of kids going to a church campout. Railroad track. Driver not paying attention. Speeding train. Thirty four killed, seventeen injured.

"You know, there's not enough room in the soul for this much heartbreak."

He turned, looked at a pastor and saw a kindly soul, at least that's what he thought when he looked into the old man's eyes.

"You knew..."

"All of them. Every one of them." The old man's eyes were red, watery and red, and he could tell this soul had endured enough today.

"Why don't you go home now, sir. You look..."

"The Lord will give me strength, son. Don't worry about me."

He turned, looked at the last two bodies being loaded in a medical examiner's van, then looked down at the ground and rubbed his eyes again.

"What about you, son? How are you doing?"

"You know, I've been better."

"You look tired. More than tired. Your soul looks -- well, almost broken."

He smiled. "Does it? I'm not surprised."

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"It's been a bad month, sir."

"My name is Ewan. Ewan Biltmore. Please, call me Ewan," the old man said, handing him his card.

He took it, looked it over, then got out his. "Here's my card, sir. You'll need the information, this service number, for your insurance company and, I assume, legal counsel."

The old man nodded his head, looked him in the eye. "Perhaps you can't speak now, but please, call me when you have some time."

"Sure."

The old man walked across the scorched grass of August's in a fading breeze, over to an old station wagon and to the arms of his wife -- and he watched them as they held on to one another, consoling one another in the face of this sudden eclipse. He turned, found the department photographer, confirmed all the angles he needed had been covered, then he walked the half mile down the rough gravel roadbed to the locomotive, up to the engineer.

"Sorry to keep you so long," he said. The man was about fifty, his expression bleak, lifeless. "Could you tell me again exactly what you saw?"

"Like I told the detectives, I was approaching the crossing and I see the bus slowing, then the driver looks, and I could see his face."

"He looks? What do you mean, he looks?"

"He looked right at me."

"How far away were you when you saw him look at you?"

"Fifty yards. Maybe a little less."

"Your speed?"

"Forty, on the nose. Those NTSB guys have the recorder now, but I swear I was right on forty."

"I'm not questioning that, sir, just need to make sure I've got my notes squared away."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Where was the bus, I mean what part of the bus did the locomotive strike? Front, middle, rear? Just your opinion, okay?"

"You want my opinion?"

"Yessir."

"That guy waited for the train, and the driver pulled out onto the tracks, then stopped."

"He what?"

"I been sittin' here thinkin' about this for a few hours, playin' this thing over and over in my head. I see that guy lookin' at me, his face all blank like, then he pulls right up on the tracks...and stops, and he never stopped lookin' at me...not once, the whole time."

"You think he, what? He committed suicide?"

"Yessir, I sure do."

"You tell this to anyone yet?"

"No, sir, I haven't. No one asked me about my opinion 'til you did."

"What about the kids? Any of them in the back of the bus looking at you?"

"They all was, officer. All of 'em, lookin' and screamin' -- I can still see them...oh sweet Jesus!"

The engineer turned away, leaned over and held onto a handrail, vomited once, then wiped spittle on his arm. He turned back a moment later, looked at the motorcycle cop standing there, almost like a robot.

"One more question...Anything like this ever happened to you before?"

"Couple of suicides, yeah, but never anything like this."

"Okay, Mr Simmons, I guess I'm done. Here's my card. Anything else you want to tell me, give me a call. You have anyone you can talk to about this?"

The man shrugged, looked away. "Wouldn't do no good. Wasn't anything I could do, you know? I just ain't ever gonna get those kids' faces out of my mind."

"I know. Still, sometimes talking about these things helps. Then again, sometimes nothing does."

"What about you? You seen shit bad as this before?"

He looked away, thought of the Tri-Star tumbling through the thunderstorm three weeks before, the bodies in the grass, the smell of jet fuel and seared flesh still fresh in his mind, then he looked back at the engineer.

"You have a...no, sorry. Adios, Mr Simmons."

"Yeah. You too."

*

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