Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

of police in black riot uniform moved toward the protesters, banging batons on shields, trying to be as intimidating as possible.
    Streetlamps and lights from police vehicles lit up the protesters’ faces. A man threw a punch at Robyn Goodhaugh. Blood streamed from a cut on his forehead, and his face was contorted with rage. She staggered back, but didn’t fall, and a man dodged in around her to deliver an uppercut to the bleeding man’s jaw. They clashed and twisted and turned, pulling at each other’s clothes, scratching at faces, like dancers gone mad. Goodhaugh charged toward the TV camera.
    On the radio, Sergeant Peterson was yelling for Smith and Evans to state their location. She didn’t know what to say.
In the street
?
    She began to back away. Leave this to the people with the right equipment. “There’s the cop bitch,” someone yelled. “Get her.”
    Were they talking about her? Smith saw people she knew. People she passed on the street every day, who shopped at the Safeway or Alphonse’s Bakery, and greeted her with a smile. But most of them were strangers, outside agitators. Like Brian Harris.
    As if she’d conjured him up by the force of her own thoughts, he was there, standing behind a fat man in a sleeveless T-shirt. The fat man screamed at her. But Harris just stared. Through eyes as blank as the bottom of the Kootenay River.
    She spoke into her radio. “I’ve got the leader in sight.”
    “Describe him.”
    “Blue shirt, blue ball cap. Standing no more then ten feet from me.”
    “Someone’s coming your way. Point him out and then retreat, Smith. You’re not wearing control gear.”
    Harris lifted his right hand and curled his index finger, moving it back and forth, beckoning her.
    Screw him; she wasn’t looking for a fight. She turned. Time to retreat.

Chapter Twenty-eight
    Jane Reynolds had been a pacifist and anti-war activist all her adult life. One of the first women in North America to make full professor of physics, she’d raised three children while mentoring hundreds, perhaps thousands, of young people. She’d joined the ban-the-bomb movement in the ’50s, and traveled throughout the States in the ’60s protesting the Vietnam War. In the ’80s the family lived in England for a few years while Jane was a visiting professor at Cambridge. She went to Greenham Common as much as possible, in support of the women protesting the nuclear weapons based there. She was comfortably retired now, her husband long dead, her children scattered across the continent. Her health was poor, and not getting any better. But her passion for the peace movement still ignited her life.
    Someone knocked into her; she stumbled on the worse of her two bad knees and her glasses fell off. She didn’t dare try to lower herself to the ground to feel around for them. She peered myopically into a blur of sound and movement. She’d heard Lucky’s voice a few moments ago telling everyone to retreat. “Lucky?” Jane cried. “Barry, Michael, where are you?”
    People were screaming in anger or yelling in fear. A steady
thump, thump
came from the left; a bullhorn called everyone to disperse. A body bumped into her from the right; she would have fallen had not someone been in her way and inadvertently kept her upright. She didn’t know which way led to safety, or to her side of the fracas. If there were sides any more. She was turned around, confused. People were running in all directions. She realized, to her horror, that she was crying. She cursed under her breath—but only at herself. For getting old. Feeble and helpless. This wasn’t the first demonstration she’d been in that had turned violent. She’d been in far worse situations. But back then she could see what was going on, and she could count on her strong, quick body to take her out of the way of danger. Embarrassed, humiliated, angry, in pain, she cried even harder. She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue and wiped at her face. It came away streaked with blood.
    A deep voice reached her out of the wall of noise, and a large hand touched her arm, pulling her out of her circle of chaos. She blinked up at him. It was young constable Evans.
    “Come with me, ma’am, please.”
    “Never thought I’d have to be escorted away from a protest.” She allowed him to take her arm.
    A space cleared in front of them. Lucky’s daughter, Moonlight, was only a few feet away. “Smith,” Evans called. “Let’s get the hell out of