mountainside east of Silver Strike Reservoir.
As he had told Claire, the snow that had been threatening all day had begun to fall, plump fluffy flakes that might look like something off a postcard but played hell with road conditions. Welcome to April in the Rockies.
At least there was little traffic in either direction up the canyon. He was still about two miles from Harry Lange’s place when his dispatcher’s voice crackled through his radio. “Chief, be advised, suspects are believed to have left the premises of the vacation cabin and are now on Silver Strike Road, heading back toward town.”
Which meant they would be coming right at him. He might have missed catching them in the act, but he could still possibly nail them with stolen items from the vacation cabin and then link them to the Main Street break-ins.
“Ten-four, Tammy.”
He wheeled his department SUV around, grateful for all the years he’d driven the mountain back roads and byways around town. This was the only road out of Silver Strike canyon, which dead-ended at the ski resort. The suspects would have to pass him eventually on their way back to town.
He pulled into a turnoff shielded from view from the road by a large pine, then shut off his headlights and killed the engine, lurking in wait for them in the cold.
Normally he hated waiting for anything. His natural impatience, he figured, a consequence of being the youngest of six and the only boy in a house with only two small bathrooms. Seemed like he’d spent half his youth waiting for somebody to finish blow-drying hair or soaking for hours in a bathtub or writing a novel or whatever the hell they did in there.
This was a different sort of wait, just moments before he expected to apprehend a suspect, and he never minded the anticipation.
The suspects in question didn’t give him much time to savor the hunt. Only maybe a minute passed before he heard the rumble of a powerful engine in the cold night, then a dark extended-cab pickup passed him, fast enough that he could nail them for speeding if he couldn’t find any other obvious evidence of criminal wrongdoing.
He waited until they took the next curve before he pulled in behind them. He eased closer and despite the snow that seemed to have picked up in the fifteen minutes since he left the school, he had a clear view of the vehicle, a late-model three-quarter-ton Dodge Ram with a lift kit and a roll bar.
He called in the license plate, still following at a sedate pace.
“Affirmative, Chief. That vehicle is registered to…um, Mayor Beaumont.”
Oh, crap. Riley considered his options. He’d just left the mayor and Mrs. Beaumont at the Spring Fling, so neither could obviously be behind the wheel. What if their pickup had been stolen?
“Don’t the Beaumonts have a teenage son?” he asked on a hunch.
“Yeah. Charlie. Seventeen or so, and a wild one, from what my girls say.”
Charlie, you are in some serious trouble. He was close enough now that he could nail the little punk. He hit his flashing lights and accelerated.
For a moment, he thought it would be easy. After a few seconds, the pickup truck started to slow to around twenty-five miles per hour and Riley tried to focus on driving in the snowy conditions instead of the excitement pounding through him.
The truck didn’t immediately stop, but Riley assumed Charlie Beaumont was looking for a good place to pull over on this fairly narrow road, with the mountains to their right and the reservoir a dark and sullen void across the oncoming lane to the left.
After perhaps two minutes at the slower pace, suddenly the pickup shot forward, fishtailing on the now icy road.
Shit. The idiot was a runner. And under these conditions, too.
He accelerated to keep pace while he picked up his radio again. “Suspect is fleeing. Unit in pursuit. Requesting backup. How far away is the sheriff’s deputy?”
A male voice he didn’t recognize answered. “Just approaching Silver Strike Canyon, Chief.”
“Set up a roadblock at the mouth of the canyon. Don’t let anybody in or out.”
As soon as he spoke, he spied headlights heading toward them in the other direction from town and his insides clenched. Too damn late. Somebody was already coming this way. Possibly more than one vehicle.
As much as he wanted to catch the little punk who had run roughshod over his town—no matter how powerful his father might be—Riley had to consider the safety of pursuit when innocent civilians might be in danger. He had to stop the chase before someone was hurt. He would just have to keep his fingers crossed that the sheriff’s deputies could set up the roadblock at the mouth of the canyon in time. Even if the kid slipped through, he knew where to find Charlie Beaumont.
Riley eased back and turned off his flashing lights to let the kid know he was curtailing pursuit, but the driver of the pickup, probably juiced up on adrenaline and heaven knows what else, didn’t seem to care. The vehicle was still moving dangerously fast, especially on a curvy canyon road in the dark with those big fat snowflakes falling steadily.
After that, everything happened in a blur. At the next curve, Charlie swung too wide, too fast, and veered into the other lane—directly in the path of the oncoming vehicle.
Riley saw headlights flashing crazily as that driver veered to the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision. He held his breath, hoping the other driver would be able to maintain control. For a second, he thought the other vehicle would make it safely back onto the roadway, but he didn’t even have time to offer up a prayer before the vehicle somehow found a gap in the guardrails along the reservoir and a moment later the headlights soared over the side.
“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit!”
Riley hit the brakes and felt the patrol SUV’s tires slither to gain traction. He turned into the skid and fought to regain control…and as he did, he vaguely registered the headlights of Charlie Beaumont’s pickup were nowhere in sight. How had he escaped so quickly?
He picked up the mic and yelled for the sheriff’s deputy to hold the roadblock and for the dispatcher to send emergency vehicles, that he had a vehicle possibly in the water. Without waiting to answer questions, he grabbed his waterproof flashlight and a crowbar from the trunk, then raced to the edge of the slope.
Snow stung his face, but he barely noticed as he scanned below into the dark water. Finally his flashlight picked up the shape of the vehicle about twenty feet from shore. It hadn’t rolled, a good sign, but it was leaning nose-down toward the driver’s side, submerged in water up the bottom of the windshield.
Riley made his way down the snow-covered slope as quickly as he dared, sliding a little as he went. He was nearly to the bottom when he heard a voice from above, barely discernible over the wind.
“What can I do?” a man called from the road. “Need me to call for help?”
He didn’t recognize the voice and couldn’t make out the man’s features from this angle. “I’ve done that already,” he shouted back. “Keep an eye out and direct the ambulance.”
Until he had a chance to assess the scene, he didn’t want another civilian down here for him to worry about.
“Should
