Dream Chasers (31 page)

When he hurtled the car down his quiet street, dog walkers and mothers with strollers scattered before him. The front of his house looked peaceful, and the door was locked. When he burst inside, he was greeted only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint smell of coffee. He ran through the house, shouting for Hannah, but to no avail. He forced himself to calm down and inspect the house through the eyes of a detective. There were no signs of a struggle. No overturned tables or broken lamps, no paintings askew. No blood. He breathed a little more easily. In the kitchen, Hannah's empty cereal bowl sat on the counter, just as she always left it. On the kitchen table was an empty plate with crumbs on it, and two cups. He picked one up and sniffed it. Just coffee. Maybe she had gone out before Crystal arrived. Maybe she was safely off on one of her whimsical adventures.

He tried her cell phone, only to hear it ringing from inside her bedroom. A bad sign. Hannah never forgot her phone. Her backpack was also there, but her wallet was missing. He took a deep breath. This case was getting crazier at every turn. How many more people could be on the loose in the city? McIntyre, Riley, Crystal and now Hannah! Who the hell was pursuing whom, and why?

He returned outside and stood in the drive, looking down the street. No sign of Hannah. He drove slowly down to Richmond Road. The bus stop was vacant. He fought an overwhelming frustration. His daughter was an infuriatingly free spirit, inclined to pick up and disappear on a whim. If she had caught a bus, she could be anywhere in the city. There was really no evidence she was in danger. He had a murder case to solve and a search to coordinate. Reluctantly, he turned around and was just heading back towards Carling Avenue to return to the station when his cell phone rang. He wrestled it off his belt, praying it was Hannah. An unfamiliar voice burst through the speaker, deep but youthful and cracking with urgency.

“Inspector Green?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Riley O'Shaughnessy.”

Green nearly drove off the road. One handed, he swung his car under the Queensway overpass and accelerated towards the on-ramp. “Where are you, Riley?”

“I didn't kill her. You have to believe me.”

“Where are you?”

“In my car.”

“Where?”

“It doesn't matter where!” Riley's voice had a manic edge. “I need to know you believe me.”

“I do believe you. I'll be at the station in five minutes. Can you meet me there?”

“It wasn't my idea to throw her into the river.”

Keep him talking, Green reminded himself. In the background, he could hear the rumble of the powerful Mustang. “I know it wasn't. We know all about it. But—”

“How do you know?”

“We've been piecing things together. We know you called Vic McIntyre. But I really want to hear the whole story.”

“He's looking for me! He wants to kill me.” For the first time, the youth's voice broke, revealing how young he was.

“Then come in.” There was a pause. Green barrelled down the Queensway, lights flashing. “Riley? It's the safest thing you can do.”

“I thought he was in my corner. I thought he wanted my dreams too. But the bastard doesn't care. I called him for help, and he...he threw her away. Like a piece of garbage! And now that poor social worker. It's not worth it! All the money in the world, all the contacts, are not worth this! Oh, God, I just wanted to play hockey!”

“Riley, where are you?”

“On the 416. I'm going home.”

The youth's voice broke, and Green could hear him sobbing. He pictured him streaking down the highway, one hand clutching the cell phone, the other locked on the wheel. Tears blurring his view.

Christ. “Riley! Come back to the station. We'll get McIntyre, but I need to know you're safe.”

“No! I want to go home! Shit! There he is!”

Green's pulse leaped. “McIntyre? Where!”

“I just passed his car, sitting behind the pillar. Fuck, he spotted me! He's getting on the highway.”

“What's the next exit?”

“I don't know, I don't know! Oh...Bankfield.”

Green forced his own voice to be calm. Commanding. “Turn around at Bankfield and come back towards town.” He tried to visualize the highway. Bankfield was near the southern extremity of the city. There was nothing but farmland around, and even at highway speeds, it was a good twenty minutes drive from the station. Far too long for an inexperienced driver in a Mustang to run against a Lincoln Navigator. He did some rapid calculations.

“Riley, I'm going to get you some help. Turn around, and get off the 416 at the exit for Hunt Club Road. I'll have a police cruiser waiting for you.”

“No, I can outrun him easily in this machine!” The engine's roar increased, almost deafening.

Green shouted over the din. “Riley. Riley! Listen to me. Hunt Club exit. My officers will be waiting for you.”

He hung up and immediately called the Com Centre, hooking up with the duty inspector. Without hesitation Ford dispatched a unit to the Hunt Club exit then sent word to the Ontario Provincial Police to watch the highway further south in case Riley continued on toward Gananoque.

Green pulled into the front of the station, leaped out and dashed through the glass doors into the lobby. Just as he was climbing on the elevator, his cell phone rang again. An unknown number. Not Riley, not Hannah. McIntyre himself, perhaps? He punched “talk”.

“Mike?”

Relief flooded through him.
Baruch Hashem
. “Hannah? Are you okay?”

She paused. “Are you at the station?”

The elevator hummed upwards. “Sort of. What's up?”

“Just stay put.”

“But—”

The line clicked dead. He frowned at his phone but had no time for bewilderment before the elevator door opened onto the tense excitement of the Com Centre. Inspector Ford was pacing behind a row of dispatchers, coordinating the search. “Any news from Hunt Club?” Green asked.

“Not yet, but the unit's just arrived.”

“We should call up the Tac Team,” Green said. “Just in case things go sour.”

The duty inspector ran his hand through his bristly crew cut, frowning. “Where would we send them?”

Green thought fast. “There's no way to know where—or if—the situation might explode. I think we should at least have them mobilized and ready to move.”

The inspector shrugged. “I'll see what the team supervisor says,” he muttered and flipped on his phone. While he waited, Green glanced around, but there was no sign of Sullivan. He phoned him. When Sullivan picked up, he sounded tense.

“I'm en route. I've got a cruiser bringing Darren O'Shaughnessy in.”

Green was astounded. “What for?”

“For questioning in the murder of Jenna Zukowski.”

“What!” Riley O'Shaughnessy had been their prime suspect, Vic McIntyre a late alternative, but Darren had never even been on the radar.

“Ident found blood on Darren's axe and wheelbarrow, and I think there's traces of blood in his living room.”

“Did he admit it?”

“He's playing coy. It's hard to tell—” At that moment, the Com Centre dispatcher shouted for attention. “It's the unit at Hunt Club exit,” she said, turning up the speaker. A strident female voice penetrated the static. “A red Mustang just blew past us on the highway, going at least a hundred and sixty klics an hour.”

Green's relief was short-lived. The boy had turned around, but he hadn't stopped for help. “He's coming all the way in. Any sign of a black Navigator?”

“Not yet. Oh! Yeah, there he goes! He's about one kilometre behind.”

Green glanced at the duty inspector, who was still tied up on the phone with the Tactical Unit. Green thought fast. “Take up pursuit. Try to box in the Navigator. We'll send some other units to help.” He studied the wall map. The cruiser was positioned only about four kilometres from where the highway 416 merged with the much busier Queensway that drew local traffic as well as long distance traffic into the city's core. In the middle of the day, all the lanes would be crowded, and a high speed pursuit along the Queensway would put countless lives at risk.

The duty inspector put the Tac supervisor on hold and joined Green at the map. He immediately relayed the information to all available units in the west end, with orders to intercept and contain the Navigator if possible.

“Tell the Tac Team that our boy in the Mustang will probably be coming into the station off the Queensway in about ten minutes,” Green said. “We have a unit in pursuit, but have them clear the area and work out a plan to secure him, and the driver of the Navigator in case the unit can't apprehend him en route.”

“Mike!” The shout came from Green's cell phone, which he'd forgotten. Sullivan was still on the line. “What's going on?”

Green filled him in with three terse sentences.

“We're coming down Main Street,” Sullivan said, “only about a kilometre away.”

“Stay clear of the Metcalfe-Queensway area, Brian. We've called the Tac Team to control it, but I'm not sure what the hell is going to happen.”

By this time, half a dozen senior brass had piled into the Com Centre, as well as the Tac supervisor, who was conferring urgently with the duty inspector. Both were snapping orders into their radios. Green left the coordination of the take-down in their much more capable hands and snatched up a radio.

“I'm going down to check outside.” The Tac supervisor scowled at him, but Green ducked through the door before the man could order him to stay the hell away from his operation.

When Green exited the large glass front doors of the station, the afternoon sun was baking the asphalt, and a parched wind buffeted the trees. He hurried along the side of the building towards Metcalfe Street, scanning the area. Police cruisers were peeling out of the underground parking lot. Two swung around the front of the building to cut off the entrance, and three raced towards the Queensway. Red lights strobed the pavement, and sirens screamed.

In the background, his radio crackled with continuous conversation as officers took up positions and reported in. The Tac team was still not in sight, but Green suspected they were already suited up and heading for the rooftop and corners of the station.

“3107 to Central,” snapped a female voice Green recognized as the Hunt Club unit in pursuit. “I have a visual on the red Mustang up ahead, heading east on 417 just before the Parkdale exit.”

“Central to 3107, copy that,” came the response, which Green assumed was the duty inspector. “How far back are you?”

“Just past Carling.” Almost half a kilometre behind, Green thought. Too far!

The Parkdale exit was less that three minutes' drive from the station at the speed Riley was going. The duty inspector must have read his mind. “What about the Navigator?”

“Right on the Mustang's ass,” the unit replied. “Maybe fifty metres back.”

“Step on it,” Ford said. “But don't put on your lights and siren till you're a lot closer.”

Jesus Christ, Green thought with horror. The bastard's worrying about legal technicalities when we've got two civilians blasting full-tilt down a crowded highway. They're going to come screaming off the Queensway at the Metcalfe exit, straight into the dense, stop-and-go traffic of downtown.

“Get cruisers to hold back regular traffic on Isabella and Catherine Streets,” he yelled into the radio, not bothering with call signs or radio procedure. The two roads ran along either side of the Queensway, serving as collector lanes. “And get a cruiser ready to cut off the Navigator on the ramp once the Mustang goes through.”

“Already ordered,” came the dry reply from upstairs.

By now, Green could hear insistent honking on the elevated expressway and the blast of sirens as cruisers raced into position. He ran along the side street towards Metcalfe Street, which bordered the back of the station. His eyes were glued to the Queensway which ran overhead just beyond Catherine Street on the opposite side of the station. He could see nothing, but the honking drew nearer, and he knew that any second, the Mustang would come racing down the ramp, under the Queensway and up Metcalfe towards him.

A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. He glanced up the side street that intersected Metcalfe straight ahead. Two figures were approaching from Bank Street on foot. Women. No, girls. One with bedraggled blonde ringlets and the other...

He froze. What the
fuck!
Hannah! She was hurrying with her head bowed, leaning into the wind. Straight into the path of danger.

“Hannah, stop!”

The traffic roared, and the sirens screamed. Hannah didn't even look up. Green began to run, waving his arms. “Stop! Stop!” He heard the screech of tires as he reached the intersection. Glanced left. Saw a red flash as the Mustang careened around the corner and spun onto Metcalfe, fishtailing. Green sucked in his breath. Why the hell hadn't the kid pulled over!

Hannah and Crystal stepped off the curb, oblivious. Green screamed again, and Hannah raised her head. Her eyes locked his. Widened in recognition. She stopped in the middle of the street.

Green glanced at the Mustang and saw Riley wrestling with the steering wheel. Saw his jaw drop as he spotted the girls in his path. He slammed on his brakes. The car began to spin. Tires shrieked, and smoke billowed into the air.

“Back!” Green screamed. Hannah grabbed Crystal and turned to run. Fifteen hundred kilograms of red metal hurtled past Green and hit a lamppost with an explosion of metal and glass. The impact sent hubcaps, glass and chunks of fender flying. The car continued to spin, metal tearing and rubber screaming until it skidded to a stop on the green lawn of the Museum of Nature. An eerie hiss descended on the wreck.

Hannah lay flat against the far curb. As Green raced across the street towards her, she lifted her head. Relief coursed through him. By the time he reached her, she was struggling to sit up.