I pass through the high-beams in front of the black grille to the other side. In my favourite cop shows the bad guy is hand-cuffed and goes in with bobbed head, all out of balance before he's lost from view behind white metal and blackened glass. But apparently I don't warrant that. The officer in front opens the door, no different than being offered a ride in a taxi, but behind me every curtain twitches. This isn't some inner-city dive. It's leafy suburbia and the cops only come to check out errant house alarms and the odd actual break in. The damp evening disappears with the slam of the door. Everything is black inside; black seats, black floor, and a black metal bars between me and the officers. It's not a fast run with flashing lights, just a slow ride to be questioned. The officers call in a status report to their radio and show not the slightest interest that I'm even there. No small talk. I'm just a parcel for delivery.
In the twilight a glimpse of any ghostly sedan would send Ryan's heart rate higher. The white body work was always the first warning flash, even in the pools of yellow street-light they glow, advertising themselves. Without the accompanying cop car lights on top he would instantly dismiss it and carry on. He had much to do, customers to get to, business was brisk. But if it had that lumpy rectangular outline on top he would dip his head to the sidewalk and continue walking, even if that meant going right past his next rendez-vous. Once it passed he would wait a few minutes before resuming his route. It paid to be careful, clients scared more easily than he did.
Skylar turns the radio up, jiggling up and down to the beat. The highway yawns wide before her with only a light smattering of traffic. It's eight thirty, meeting starts at nine. Not being on time is going to upset Rita and without her blessing she can kiss her ambitions to lead a new division goodbye. Soon she's on track, passing, under-taking, weaving, punching the gas pedal. From behind there is a sudden blast from a siren and a police cruiser appears in her mirror, the red and blue lights flashing brightly in the gathering gloom of the summer evening. "Shit." She pulls to the side, comes to a stop and waits for the officer to get out and make his approach, flashlight in hand. How fast had she been going anyway? One twenty? One thirty? Damn it. The minutes drag on slowly and her heat rate is faster than it's ever been. If he checks the trunk she's not seeing the light of day until she's thirty-five. Then the officer climbs out and rests her notepad on the black trunk...
The blue and red lights are little more than smudgy illuminations in the slanting rain. But beneath their glow is the white bodywork of a police car. It's yellow-white headlights spotlight the dense hedgerow to the side of the lane where the tail-lights sit unusually high off the ground and tipping upwards into the night sky.
Travis slumped on the old brick wall, his hand held up like he was catching faeries. He thought the flashing blue lights of the cop car was an extension of the rave lights, all he kept asking was, "Where d'music go, Dot?" Holding his frigid hand I gave him a tug and we began to walk over the fall leaves. The white hood crept along side us, headlights piecing the night. I held my breath, eyes fixed unnaturally ahead, ignoring the un-ignorable right next to us. Travis craned his head around, "Oh, pretty! Me want ride!"
"No, Travis, you don't want a ride. We're nearly there." That's when he put on the siren just for a second and stopped, flashers still on.
The cop car is a subtle as a freshly popped zit and just as welcome. It sits squat to the rain washed tarmac, its black paint sun-bleached with age. If this wasn't such a very bad time I'd admire it as a classic, talk sports team with the cop. Not today. Time to turn tail down the alley way, make like the noon time shadows.
A police car comes screeching down the hill, a knight in his white charger, black tires squealing on the grey as he skids to block the street. He doesn't yet know it but the kidnappers have chosen this street and this will be the defining moment of his life. In seconds he's behind his vehicle, black vest stark against the white paint, weapon drawn. His radio crackles a quick warning before the dark sedan flies into view.
Under the morning dew, pale in the watery light is a police car. Travis walks slowly closer, his eye drawn to the grey bullet holes that mar the sides in a streak. This wasn't done by a rouge burglar with a pistol, only a machine gun could make such tracks. The tires on the near side are both burst causing the cruiser to list like a sinking ship. On top the blue lights are shattered and the headlamps still shine weakly onto the scared asphalt ahead. What's most odd is how the vehicle still sits on the street, untaped, unguarded, evidence free to wash away in the next rain shower.