"Nope."

"Let me know if you do ..."

We rounded a curve and caught a little moonlight. Up, over a small hill, going about 50 on a straight stretch. Over the top and down, like a roller-coaster ride.

"Careful ... there's a bridge here somewhere," I said. Just as we flew across it.

"Yep."

He accelerated.

"Watch it, the curves start again really soon ... and be careful, he's gonna be kicking snow, might be hard to see ..."

"I see him ... I see him ..."

So did I. We were just barely gaining on a darker spot about a hundred yards up the white snow-covered roadway. He was hazy or fuzzy or ... of course. The rooster tail of snow I'd just reminded John about. He was picking up just enough from the roadway to make a snowy haze.

"Try not to lose him, but don't f.u.c.kin' kill us, either." I get all fatherly in tight circ.u.mstances.

"Okay."

I picked up the mike. "Comm, Three. Nine is in pursuit of an unknown vehicle, proceeding south on G4X. Vehicle traveling at a high rate of speed ..."

"Ten-four, Three."

Whoever it was was apparently oblivious to our presence. He was p.o.o.ping along at about 40 or so, and we were now gaining perceptibly. But 50 was a high rate of speed for us, considering the snow-packed and icy condition of the road.

If this guy really was using night vision equipment, my plan should work. Get in close, then hit him with all the light we had on the car. It should cause the night vision goggles to "bloom" on him, and he'd be unable to see for a few seconds. His first reaction should be to stop.

"In about a second," I said, "we hit every d.a.m.ned light we got. Top lights, high-beam headlights, spotlight, everything. Just get ready for a hard stop. When I say ..."

"Okay ..."

"Stay with the son of a b.i.t.c.h for another five seconds, we got a chance here ..." We were approaching a fairly sharp curve to the left. "Just before he gets to the curve ..."

"Right ..."

"NOW!"

We both worked switches, John taking the headlights and the spotlight, and me getting the top red and white strobes, and hitting the siren on "yelp" for good measure.

The lights had a dazzling effect on us, as well.

"SLOW DOWN, JOHN!"

Too late. I watched the snowmobile careen off the right side of the road toward the trees, with us right behind him. We hit small stuff, not much bigger than brush, and came to a stop in a large s...o...b..nk. I lost the snowmobile completely, as it went over the s...o...b..nk we stopped in. We didn't stop fast enough to deploy the airbags, but I was sure as h.e.l.l grateful for the seat belts.

I reached over and cut the siren. The snow we'd kicked into the air came thundering back down onto the hood. Then silence. The black night air was filled with tiny red and white flashing snow particles, slowly settling on the windshield.

"Well, f.u.c.k." I looked over at John. He was opening his door.

I tried to open mine, but couldn't manage more than a few inches in the deep snow that had been thrown alongside by our sliding impact. My outside view was considerably diminished by flashing strobes. "Want to kill the lights?" I pushed a little harder, and got about four more inches of opening.

"Sir ..."

"What?" My door seemed to have hit an obstacle.

"Sir ..." said John. I looked up, and in the flashing red lights I could see the outline of a figure in a dark snowmobile suit, helmet with NVGs tilted up, sprawled in the snow at the top of the s...o...b..nk. It wasn't moving.

"Great," I said, "we've f.u.c.kin' killed him ..."

I pushed real hard, and the door opened another three or four inches. I squeezed out, into the knee-deep snow, and approached the supine figure as cautiously as I could. I could hear John crunching through the snow just above and to my left. He'd obviously gotten up on the bank.

"Careful, sir," he said.

"Yep." I could see both hands of the figure, gloved, with the left one out to the side, and the right one almost folded behind. I heard the peculiar steel on nylon sound as John drew his gun. That meant that I was going to have to check the body. I really hoped he wasn't dead.

I took off my right glove, reached down, and worked the zipper at his throat, until I could get my first two fingers inside and feel for a carotid pulse. Strong. Good. I pulled my hand back, and pushed the night vision goggles up onto the top of his shiny black helmet, and carefully tested his visor. It slid up easily, and as it did so, I saw his eyes fly wide.

"Don't move," I said. "You've been in an accident ..."

I took both his feet squarely in my chest. He lifted me a good foot off the ground, and propelled me backward about three. If it hadn't been for the bulletproof vest, he would have broken a couple of my ribs, at least. He'd moved so fast I hadn't even had time to react.

John, on the other hand, cracked off a round right past the guy's ear as he started to stand. He stopped so fast his momentum carried him forward on the bank, and he rolled head over heels down toward me. I rolled to one side, and got to my knees, drawing my own gun as John yelled, "Freeze, a.s.shole!"

A great command, although not designed for "post-shot," and still better late than never. The man in the snowmobile suit froze, all right. He had both knees under him, one hand in contact with the ground, and he was grabbing at his zippered neck. Obviously trying to reach something inside the snowmobile suit.

His hand stopped when he saw my gun in front, and heard John ask a question behind him ...

"Should I shoot now, sir? I got him ..."

"Only if he moves," I said. I continued kneeling in front of the man, pointing my gun at his chest. "Both hands in the air. Slow, but do it."

He did. The visor of his helmet was still up, and I could just make out his eyes in the moonlight. As both hands cleared the top of his head, I rocked back, got my feet under me, and stood.

"Now lay down on your face, like you were going to make an angel in the snow. Hands way over your head ... And turn your face away from me ... That's right..."

He did as I told him, and I saw John put his gun away, and get out his handcuffs.

"Careful, John. Stay toward his hips, 'cause I'm gonna shoot him in the head if he moves. I don't want to get helmet fragments in you."

That was said for the benefit of the suspect, naturally. With his head turned away, he wouldn't have any idea where I was, and could only feel John put the handcuffs on. For a smart suspect, it would be a case of no data, no plan, no action.

The man never moved a muscle.

When John stood up, I told him to open the rear door of the car. He did, and then came back to us. I was taking no chances with this fellow, none at all. He was just too d.a.m.ned quick.

"Roll over, and get to your knees," I said. Not the easiest thing to do when you're handcuffed behind your back, but he accomplished it in one motion. I stepped behind him, removed my gloves, and patted him down. Large lump under the left arm. I knelt directly on the back of his lower legs and ankles, and reached around him and unzipped his suit. He was kind of squirmy, but never made a sound. With me on his legs like that, he had no chance for any leverage.

I reached in, and pulled out a .40 caliber Glock semiautomatic handgun. I dropped the magazine, jacked the chambered round out into the snow, and put the gun in my gun belt.

"Found a Glock," I said to John.

"Cool..."

"Got any more?" I asked, patting his sides. No answer, but no weapons, either. Not as far as I could tell.

"He's probably got a knife," I said to John, "but I can't find it with him kneeling down." Just a hunch.

I reached under his chin, and unstrapped his helmet, and pulled it off his head. Keeping it securely in my right hand, I leaned on his shoulders and pushed myself back to my feet.

"Walk on your knees to the car."

He spoke for the first time. "What?" He sounded exasperated and angry.

"It's either that or be dragged," I said, evenly. "We have rope in the trunk. It's not that far, and the snow's soft. You can do it."

He did, too. I stood on his right, and John stood about twenty-five feet away, at the open rear door of the squad car. He covered him every inch of the way.

When he got to the car, I said, "Just kneel right against the open door there, don't get in. You'll get enough warm air from the door."

No leverage in the snow. Besides, he was likely a lot warmer than we were. I sat his helmet on the roof of the car, and handed the Glock to John. "For the trunk, I think. And you'd better get us some backup," I said. "Good thing we called in the pursuit."

"I'm just glad you were along. G.o.d, I'd hate to explain this all by myself."

The flashing red strobe lights that were left were disorienting, to say the least. In the white environment, things seemed to leap toward and away from you with each pulse.

"Check your temp gauges, make sure the engine isn't overheating..." Snow up under the hood could block the radiator, loosen belts, throw belts, you name it. "If it's okay, keep it running." In this area of the county, the hilltops were a good hundred feet above the roadway, and pretty close, to boot. Radio communications with our 10 watt walkie-talkies would be chancy, at best. I wanted the 100 watt radio in the car available, if I could.

"Yes, Father ..." came from the car. Oops. Let up, Carl. He's able to do all of that.

I got busy thinking. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that the subject in custody was related to or involved with the two murders. None. I was as certain of that as I was of the fact that there was absolutely no real evidence to back me up.

Over my walkie-talkie, I could hear John's side of the conversation with the office. He mentioned that we needed a.s.sistance. That it wasn't an emergency, but that we had a suspect in custody. He promised to keep in touch until help arrived.

He joined me in watching our prisoner. Time to get some information.

"Who are you?"

Silence.

"You got a name?"

Nothing.

"Well, let me put it this way," I said. "Any ID you got is going to be mine as soon as we get that suit off you." In the ensuing silence, I recited his Miranda rights. No reaction. Nothing. "Right." The radio was blaring in the background. "I'll get the radio," I said. I trudged up to the front, and reached in for the mike.

"This is Three, go ahead."

"Three, One is ten-seventy-six. So is Seven. 388 is coming from Wheaton, ETA ten."

"Ten-four, Comm."

"Ten-fifty-one is also ten-seventy-six." That meant that a wrecker was also coming. Well, we needed one, no doubt about that. Unfortunately, that also meant a civilian at the scene, as well.

"Which fifty-one, Comm?"

"Eddie's Body Shop."

If it had to be anybody, I was glad it was Eddie. He was pretty good at keeping his mouth shut.

What we needed was a cover story. Something that most people could be told, something that would explain a chase of a snowmobile, and a subject in custody. We were going to need it in a hurry, too. I could see the faint flashing red lights way back down the valley. Probably Seven. Deputy Gary Oberbrech. Fairly new, and a good officer. He'd need to know some details, but I didn't think I wanted the whole world to know that I had my real suspect. Not just yet.

Two deer broke cover, about ten yards from me, and just about finished me off right then and there. "Holy s.h.i.t," I said to myself, when I got my breath back. "That woulda been cute, Carl. Scared to death by a couple of nervous deer ..."Ah, but yes. That was going to be it. Our cover story. "John!"

"Yeah ..."

I walked back up on the road. "Listen up. Except for Lamar, everybody is told this is a poacher. Got that? We caught a poacher. Use 'poacher' every chance you get. Poacher."

"'Poacher'? Okay, yeah, poacher ... sure."

"Stick to that even if they torture you." I grinned. "Coffee, doughnuts, chocolate bars ... the works. Don't give in. Except Lamar," I added. "Never lie to Lamar."

"Got it." He grinned back. "You know how close we came? I almost ran over the f.u.c.ker, I swear. Another hundred yards of straight road ..."

"Yeah. Close." I clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll bet you scared the c.r.a.p out of him when you touched off that round, too." Bravado has its uses. Oh, yeah.

According to my watch, it was 2310 when we got our suspect to the jail, and field-stripped him down to his dark blue union suit. Three of us, Gary, John, and me. No chances. You gotta take the cuffs off to get 'em undressed. We did find a knife, a Gerber, underneath his bulletproof Kevlar vest, which was also dark blue. He hadn't said a word to that point.

"Pretty well equipped for a poacher," said Gary, dryly.

"Got a wallet here," said John, who was going through the snowmobile suit. He handed it to me. Junior officers will do that, I suspect because they think us older folk would like the privilege of opening the prize, or something. This time, I was glad that he had.

I opened the wallet, and found myself staring at a complete FBI identification set. Photo, doc.u.ment, everything.

I just looked at him for a long moment. He just looked back. Well.

I cleared my throat. "It says here you're Norman John Brandenburg," I said. "That right?"

"That's right."

"And that you're a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation ..."

Both Gary and John stopped their inventory of his gear.

"That's right."

"How do you want us to go about proving that?" I asked. I'd seen FBI identification many times, and this was about as authentic as you can get. Including subtleties like slight wear and scuffing.