THE FIRST THING Kevin Hawkins did on the motorcycle was to cut sharply sideways over the sliver of frost- covered lawn separating two split-level ranch houses. He raced past a few more houses, one of them with an aboveground pool covered by a baby-blue tarp for the winter.
I aimed my old Porsche along the same inland route that Hawkins was taking. Fortunately, the past few days had been cold, and the ground was mostly solid. I wondered if anybody from the houses had spotted the motorcycle and car crazily zigzagging through their backyards.
The motorcycle took a sharp right onto the development road past the last row of houses. I followed close behind. My car Was bouncing high. Then it scraped bottom loudly against the high curb. It thudded hard onto the road pavement, and my head struck the rooftop.
As we approached an intersecting street, the Volvo station wagon and the Lincoln joined the race. A few neighborhood kids who were playing flag football in spite of the miserable weather stopped to gawk wide-eyed at the real-life police chase roaring up the suburban street.
I had my Glock out and the window rolled down. I wasn't going to fire unless he did. Kevin Hawkins wasn't wanted for any specific crime yet. No warrants had been served. Why was he running? He sure was acting guilty about something.
Hawkins leaned the Harley into a steep curve as he downshifted into fourth. I remembered another life and time spent on a fast motorcycle. I recalled its amazing maneuverability.
The rawness of the speed. The feeling when your skin begins to tighten against your skull. I rememberedJezzie Flanagan, and her motorcycle.
Hawkins's bike made a deep, guttural roar as it climbed the hilly road like a ground rocket.
I tried to keep up, and was doing a pretty decent job. Amazingly, so was the Volvo wagon and the sedan. The chase scene was complete madness, though -- suburbia suddenly racing out of control.
Was Jack up ahead?
Was Hawkins Jack?
I watched Kevin Hawkins stretch himself flat over the handlebars of the bike. He knew how to ride. What else did the trained killer know how to do?
He was accelerating into fifth, approaching ninety or so on a narrow suburban road repeatedly marked for thirty-five.
Then up ahead -- traffic!
The bane of our existence was suddenly the most glorious and welcome sight in the world to me.
A traffic jam!
Several cars and vans were already backed up in the direction we were coming from.
A bright orange mini-school bus was stopped in the opposite lane. It was discharging a thin line of children, as it did probably every day about this time.
Hawkins hadn't slowed the cycle much, though. Suddenly, he was riding the double line in the road. He hadn't slowed the cycle at all.
I realized what he was going to do.
He was going to split the stopped traffic, and keep on going.
I started to brake and cursed loudly. I knew what I had to do.
I swerved off the road again, traveling cross-country over more lawns. A woman in a black pea jacket and jeans screamed at me from her porch and waved a snow shovel.
I headed toward where the main road looped down ahead to meet the lane I had been stuck in traffic in only a few seconds ago.
Jeanne Sterling followed in her station wagon. So did the Lincoln sedan. Madness and chaos helter-skelter in Silver Spring.
Was this Jack up ahead? Were we about to nab the celebrity stalker and killer?
I had high hopes. We were so close to him. Less than a hundred yards.
I kept my eyes pinned on the bouncing, speeding motorcycle.
Suddenly, it went down!
The bike slid on one side, sending up a sheet of bright orange and white sparks against the roadway black. A few kids were still walking in a line between the bus and the stopped traffic.
Then Hawkins went down!
He had gone down to avoid hitting the children.
He had swerved to avoid hitting the kids!
Hawkins was down on the road.
Could this be Jack up ahead?
If not, who in the name of God was he?
I was out of the car, holding my Glock, racing like a madman toward the bizarre accident scene. I was slip- sliding on the ice and snow, but I wouldn't let it slow me down.
Jeanne Sterling and her two agents were out of their cars as well, but they weren't doing as well in the slush. I was losing my cover.
