Heat Lightning

easy, or I will personally kick your ass.”
     
 
HE BURNED PAST Cut-Foot Sioux Lake, past Squaw Lake, made the turn at the Alvwood crossroads on Highway 13, which became 30 when he crossed the Beltrami County line, headed into Blackduck. Blackduck slowed him down, but he got through town, eating a sandwich from his cooler, drinking a Coke, paging through his Minnesota atlas, onto Highway 72 going straight north . . .
    Worried some more: he was getting close, and nobody had seen Bunton or the van. Maybe they had ditched in a cabin somewhere, or back in the woods, waiting for nightfall to make the final run in.
    Phone rang. Whiting: “Got them. Spotted them. They’re ten miles out of Mizpah. Running to beat the band, heading toward Ponemah ...”
    “Let me look, let me look . . .” Virgil fumbled with his maps. “Who we got on him?”
    “DNR guy, but he’s pulling a boat, he’s not gonna run them down,” Whiting said.
    “Ahh, I can’t read this map,” Virgil said; he was going too fast to track across the map pages.
    “Where are you?”
    “Uh, Highway 72, I went through Blackduck five minutes ago.”
    “Let me look on our maps . . . Okay. You’re gonna come out right on top of him,” Whiting said. “Let me give you a radio channel, you can talk to the DNR guy, and I’ve got a sheriff’s deputy I can pull down there, I think.”
    They found a mutual radio channel and Virgil got the DNR guy, who was shouting into his radio, “Man, they’re pulling away from me—they aren’t stopping, they got the best part of a mile on me, I just passed Hoover Creek, we’re not but five miles out of Kelliher . . .”
    Virgil was six or seven miles out of Kelliher; Jesus, it was going to be close. And Virgil was cranked. What nobody ever told the civilians was, a good car chase was a hoot, as long as you didn’t get killed or maimed, or didn’t kill or maim any innocent civilians.
    Sheriff’s deputy came up. “I’ll be in Kelliher in two minutes. Where is he, where is he?”
    “We’ll be there in one minute,” the DNR cop shouted. “I can see it, goldang it, he’s just about there, and with this boat, I’m all over the place.”
    Bunton’s van busted the intersection—never slowed. Virgil saw lights coming both from the east and the north, and said, “I’m a minute out, guys, let’s not run over each other. . . .”
    The sheriff’s car made the turn, then Virgil, with the DNR guy trailing. The deputy called, “We’re about twenty miles off the res, depending on how he does it. We’re asking for help there, but they’re not too enthusiastic.”
    “So we’re gonna have to push him off before he gets there.”
    The van was holding its distance, but Virgil closed on the deputy and said, “Let me get by here. If there’s a problem, we can let the state pay the damage.”
    The deputy let him by, and Virgil slowly pulled away from him but hardly closed in on the van. Two minutes, three minutes, and then the van made a hard bouncing left, and Virgil almost lost the truck in the ditch, had to fight it almost to a complete stop before he was okay, and then he punched it and they were off again, and the deputy called, “Okay, there’s only one way in from here, you got a hard right coming up, but if we don’t get close before then, he’s gonna make it across the line.”
    Virgil let it all out, traveling way too fast, right on the edge of control, and began closing up on the van. Another two minutes, three minutes, and now he was only a hundred yards behind, freaking out, when the van suddenly slowed again and cranked right. Virgil was ready for it, and came out of the turn less than fifty yards behind.
    “Got another left,” the sheriff’s deputy screamed, and Virgil and the van went into the hard left and the deputy shouted, “They’re almost there.”
    Up ahead, Virgil could see a truck parked on the side of the road—not blocking it—and two men standing beside it, safely on the ditch side, looking down at Virgil and the van. That, Virgil thought, must be the finish line.
    He hammered the truck, closing in, and the van swerved in front of him, but Virgil saw it coming and went the other way, and with a quick kick he was up beside it, and he looked over at the other driver, who seemed to be laughing, pounding on the steering wheel, and Virgil said, aloud, “Fuck it,” and he moved right and as they came up to the parked truck he leaned his truck against the van and the van moved