We sped past Colonial-style houses, then upscale shops, and finally approached Monument Square. I caught glimpses of the Town House, Concord Inn, the Masons Hall-then a sign for Route 62-another for Route 2.
Our sedan whisked by car after car on the village streets. Brakes screeched around us. Other cars honked, justifiably angry and afraid of the car chase in progress.
Sampson was holding his breath and so was I. There’s a joke about black men being pulled over illegally in suburban areas. The DWB violation. Driving while black. We were up to seventy inside the city limits.
We made it in one piece out of the town center- Walden Street – Main -then back onto Lowell Road approaching the highway.
I whipped around onto Route 2 and nearly spun out of control. The pedal was down to the floor. This was our best chance to get Thomas Pierce, maybe our last chance. Up ahead, Pierce knew this was it, too.
I was doing close to ninety now on Route 2, passing cars as if they were standing still. Pierce’s Thunderbird must have been pushing eighty-five. He’d spotted us early in the chase.
“We’re catching this squirrelly bastard now!” Sampson hollered at me. “Pierce goes down!”
We hit a deep pothole and the car momentarily left the road. We landed with a jarring thud. The wound in my side screamed. My head hurt. Sampson kept hollering in my ear about Pierce going down.
I could see his dark Thunderbird bobbing and weaving up ahead. Just a couple of car lengths separated us.
He’s a planner, I warned myself. He knew this might happen.
I finally caught up to Pierce and pulled alongside him. Both cars were doing close to ninety. Pierce took a quick glance over at us.
I felt strangely exhilarated. Adrenaline powered through my body. Maybe we had him. For a second or two, I was as totally insane as Pierce.
Pierce saluted with his right hand. “Dr. Cross,” he called through the open window, “we finally meet!”
Chapter 126
“I KNOW about the FBI sanction!” Pierce yelled over the whistle and roar of the wind. He looked cool and collected, oblivious to reality. “Go ahead, Cross. I want you to do it. Take me out, Cross!”
“There’s no sanction order!” I yelled back. “Pull your car over! No one’s going to shoot you.”
Pierce grinned-his best killer smile. His blond hair was tied in a tight ponytail. He had on a black turtleneck. He looked successful-a local lawyer, shop owner, doctor. “Doc.”
“Why do you think the FBI brought such a small unit,” he yelled. “Terminate with prejudice. Ask your friend Kyle Craig. That’s why they wanted me inside Straw’s house!”
Was I talking to Thomas Pierce?
Or was this Mr. Smith?
Was there a difference anymore?
He threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was one of the oddest, craziest things I’ve ever seen. The look on his face, the body language, his calmness. He was daring us to shoot him at ninety miles an hour on Route 2 outside Concord, Massachusetts. He wanted to crash and burn.
We hit a stretch of highway with thick fir woods on either side. Two of the FBI cars caught up. They were pinned on Pierce’s tail, pushing, taunting him. Had the Bureau come here planning to kill Pierce?
If they were going to take him, this was a good place-a secluded pocket away from most commuter traffic and houses.
This was the place to terminate Thomas Pierce.
Now was the time.
“You know what we have to do,” Sampson said to me.
He’s killed more than twenty people that we know of, I was thinking, trying to rationalize. He’ll never give up.
“Pull over,” I yelled at Pierce again.
“I murdered Isabella Calais,” he screamed at me. His face was crimson. “I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to stop. I like it! I found out I like it, Cross!”
“Pull the hell over,” Sampson’s voice boomed. He had his Glock up and aimed at Pierce. “You butcher! You piece of shit!”
“I murdered Isabella Calais and I can’t stop the killing. You hear what I’m saying, Cross? I murdered Isabella Calais, and I can’t stop the killing.”
I understood the chilling message. I’d gotten it the first time.
He was adding more letters to his list of victims. Pierce was creating a new, longer code: I murdered Isabella Calais, and I can’t stop the killing. If he got away, he’d kill again and again. Maybe Thomas Pierce wasn’t human, after all. He’d already intimated that he was his own god.
Pierce had out an automatic. He fired at us.
I yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, trying desperately to get us out of the line of fire. Our car leaned hard on its left front and rear wheels. Everything was blurred and out of focus. Sampson grabbed at the wheel. Excruciating pain shot through my wrist. I thought we were going over.
Pierce’s Thunderbird shot off Route 2, rocketing down a side road. I don’t know how he made the turnoff at the speed he was traveling. Maybe he didn’t care whether he made it or not.
I managed to set our sedan back down on all four wheels. The FBI cars following Pierce shot past the turn. None of us could stop. Next, came a ragged ballet of skidding stops and U-turns, the screech and whine of tires and brakes. We’d lost sight of Pierce. He was behind us.
We raced back to the turnoff, then down a twisting, chevroned country road. We found the Thunderbird abandoned about two miles from Route 2.
My heart was thudding hard inside my chest. Pierce wasn’t in the car. Pierce wasn’t here.
The woods on both sides of the road were thick and offered lots of cover. Sampson and I climbed out of our car.
We hurried back into the dense thicket of fir trees, Glocks out. It was almost impossible to get through the underbrush. There was no sign of Thomas Pierce anywhere.
Pierce was gone.
Chapter 127
THOMAS PIERCE had vanished into thin air again. I was almost convinced he might actually live in a parallel world. Maybe he was an alien.
Sampson and I were headed to Logan International Airport. We were going home to Washington. Rush-hour traffic in Boston wasn’t cooperating with the plan.
We were still half a mile from the Callahan Tunnel, gridlocked in a line that was barely moving. Grunting and groaning cars and trucks surrounded us. Boston was rubbing our faces in our failure.
“Metaphor for our case. The whole goddamn manhunt for Pierce,” Sampson said about the traffic jumble, the mess. A good thing about Sampson-he gets either stoic or funny when things go really badly. He refuses to wallow in shit. He swims right out of it.
“I’m getting an idea,” I told him, giving him some warning.
“I knew you were flying around somewhere in your private universe. Knew you weren’t really here, sitting in this car with me, listening to what I’m saying.”
“We’d just be stuck here in tunnel traffic if we stayed put.”
Sampson nodded. “Uh-huh. We’re in Boston. Don’t want to have to come back tomorrow, follow up on one of your hunches then. Best to do it now. Chase those wild geese while the chasing is good.”
I pulled out of the tight lane of stalled traffic. “There’s just one wild goose that I can think to chase.”
