Description
Trees blurred green. The lake glittered, silver and iridescent in the sun.
Boston Police Lieutenant Jonas Brant rose in the saddle and pumped, furiously, passionately, as if his life depended on it.
In a sense it did. Or at least lives were at stake. Of that he could be certain.
Late summer. Afternoon. Leaves fluttering in a light breeze, semaphore flags flashing green and white. A sun-dappled road. Warm, luminous light. The air heavy with a thick smell of forest and mud.
He’d been pedaling for more than an hour and in that time his mood had dipped and twisted with the contours of the road. The idea had been simple. Maintain a discreet distance, keep pace, don’t be seen.
And for much of the time, the plan had worked. The man on the bike ahead had seemed to play along, oblivious to the exertions of his pursuer. If he had any notion he was being stalked, he guarded it well. Like cat and mouse, Jonas and his prey seemed to toy with each other, taking pleasure in the endless exchange of surge and counter-surge.
But with time, the game had become one-sided, the man ahead much more adept on the bike, much more at home on the asphalt, much stronger in all senses physical.
Brant tried to keep pace, but with diminishing returns. Sometimes he cursed himself, wishing he’d been stronger, hoping he could maintain the chase for just a few minutes longer. He was losing, tiring, fatiguing. The other man pulled ahead, the reflector on his rear seat post bobbing, taunting until it began to fade.
Brant’s borrowed bike was a Cannondale, a thing of beauty with an elegant black and white carbon fiber frame, a teardrop saddle, forward seat post and Shimano components. The wheels were from Campagnolo, the aerobar was a Scott. A ride made for speed.
Except not for Jonas. Brant was no cyclist.
He was a tall man with average build and close-cropped hair turning gray. His body was that of a runner’s — thick calves and thighs, gangly arms, a powerful torso. He looked like what he was. A middle-aged man, lean and powerful but with a hungry look. An acquired taste.
Still, he’d held pace for awhile at least. An admirable effort, even if ultimately futile. The failed pursuit seemed somewhat of a relief in a way. The last thing Brant needed was to be seen, to have his cover blown so early in the surveillance. And yet it hurt and he was angry.
Brant dismounted, planting his riding shoes firmly onto the gravel surface skirting the asphalt. Field birds warbled plaintively. The rustling of leaves was soothing, like water rushing over rock.
What to think of the day’s effort? He’d played it safe, too safe. He’d need to do better, had to do better. Another day. The afternoon’s shadows were growing longer. The light was fading, dying. Soon, he’d have to head back to the cabin and the lake.
These were the thoughts playing through his head as he stared at a patch of purple and yellow wildflowers. A break in the trees revealed whitecaps churned to froth. Beyond, the sun had slipped behind a broken line of cloud.
Brant inhaled, counted to three and exhaled. Gradually, with effort, his heart rate slowed, his pulse dropped to normal.
He felt it first. A buzz, a tingle at his back, then a chirp as he reached around to the mesh pocket in the borrowed cycling jersey.
“Where are you?” the man on the other end of the cell asked without pause.
“Not far away.”
“But where? You just can’t walk away from an investigation.”
“I didn’t walk away.”
“Sure looks like it to me,” the other man said, his voice harsh, unfriendly.
Gareth Oliver was Brant’s commanding officer in Boston. He was a big man, and loud, well-known to have anger issues and a home life in ruins. While not unexpected, Oliver’s voice had been a violation, an intrusion.
“Are you still there Brant? I’m sending a team to get you. Tell me where you are.”
“I can’t do that, sir.”
“You can and you will. You’re running out of options.”
“I’m not ready to come in yet,” Brant said, steadying his breathing. “I’m following a lead.”
“You’re off the case, Brant. I can’t make myself any more clear.”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Time ran out days ago. The Mayor’s office is breathing down my back.”
“Two days,” Brant repeated, hoping to buy himself more time.
“None of us has two days, Brant,” Oliver said finally after a pause. “I’m pulling Clatterback in. He’s going to crumble like a Chinese fortune cookie.”……………………………………..