Shattered

the left side of the Thunderbird was in much worse condition.
        The van swept in at them again. There was a sudden bang ! so loud that Alex thought they had been hit a fourth time. However, there was no impact with the sound. And, abruptly, the Chevrolet lost speed, fell behind them.
        “What's he doing?” Colin asked.
        It was too good to be true, Doyle thought. “One of his tires blew.”
        “You're kidding.”
        “I'm not kidding.”
        The boy slumped back against the seat, pale and shaking, limp, wrung out. in a thick, almost whispered voice, he said, “ Jesus!”
        

    Seventeen
        
        The town survived despite the inhospitable land in which it stood. The low buildings-whether they were of wood, brick, or stone-had all turned a dull yellow-brown in order to coexist with the merciless sun and the wind-blown sand. Here and there, alkaline encrustations limed the edges of walls, but that was the only variation in the drabness. The main highway - which became the borough's most important street - had been a harsh gray-black line through the desert ever since they had crossed over from Colorado; but now it succumbed to the influence of the town, became dun and dusty. Out on the open land, the wind had scoured the road clean; but here, the buildings blocked the wind and let the dust collect. A soft powder filmed the automobiles, taking the shine out of them. The dust seemed like the hands of the living desert, gradually stealing back this meager plot which men had taken from it.
        The police station, three blocks west along the main street, was as dreary as everything else, a one-story building that was losing the mortar between its mustard-colored stones.
        The officer in charge of the station, a man who called himself Captain Ackridge, wore a brown uniform that fit in with his town and a hard, experienced face which did not. He was six-foot, two hundred pounds, perhaps ten years older than Doyle but with a body ten years younger. His close-cropped hair was black, his eyes darker than that. He held himself like a soldier on parade, stiff and proud.
        He came out and looked at the Thunderbird. He walked the whole way around it and seemed to be as interested in the undamaged angles as he was in the long scars down the driver's side. He leaned close to the tinted windshield and peered in at Colin as if the boy were a fish in an aquarium. Then he looked at the damage on the car's left side again and was satisfied with his inspection.
        “Come on back inside,” he told Doyle. His voice was crisp and precise in spite of the underlying Southwest accent. “We'll talk about it.”
        They returned to the station, crossed the public room where two secretaries were pounding on typewriters and one uniformed, overweight cop was taking a coffee break and munching on an eclair. They went through the door to Ackridge's off ice, and the big man closed it behind them.
        “What do you think can be done?” Alex asked as Ackridge went around behind his neatly ordered desk.
        “Have a seat.”
        Doyle went to the chair that faced the scarred metal desk, but he did not sit down. “Look, that flat tire won't slow the bastard up for long. And if he-”
        “Please sit down, Mr. Doyle,” the policeman said, sitting down himself. His wellworn spring-backed chair squeaked as if there were a live mouse in the cushion.
        Somewhat irritated, Doyle sat down. “I think-”
        “Let's just do this my way,” Ackridge said, smiling briefly. it was an imitation smile, utterly false. The policeman seemed to understand that it was a bad copy, for he gave it up right away. “You have some identification?”
        “Me?
        “It was you I asked.”
        The officer's voice contained no real malice, yet it chilled Doyle. He got his wallet from his hip pocket, withdrew his driver's license from one of the plastic windows, and pushed it across the desk.
        The policeman studied it. “Doyle.”
        “That's right.”
        “ Philadelphia?”
        “Yes, but we're moving to San Francisco. Of course, I don't have my California license yet.” He knew he was on the verge of babbling, his tongue loosened not so much by the residual fear of their encounter with the madman in the van as by Ackridge's penetrating black eyes.
        “You have an owner's card for that T-Bird?
        Doyle found it, held the wallet