Page 73 of On Fire

Chapter Twenty-One

Dave Keller

I had worked some shifts in a row, not usually my style, but I had to pay back my guys. And gals. Devon would kill me. I had to explain once that I use ‘guys’ inclusively. I’m old.

The landline goes off right next to my head at five-thirty p.m. on the dot. I grab the receiver with drop dead precision. I’ve never fumbled it. “Yeah.”

“We got him. He’s heading south on 131 but on the inland side about three miles south of Union. A chopper is trying to get a lock on him. We’re going to need a hook and ladder just in case, ambulance, and a truck.”

“You got it.”

“But wait for Carlson’s call before you move in. We need to make sure Graham’s contained.”

I dress in a minute, call my unit. McKinley answers. “Chief. We got this.”

“I know you do, but I have to be there.”

Unit C is on this evening and that includes Devon.

I live three minutes from the station so when I arrive, the doors are just going up. Devon and McKinley are waving guys to stations. I know it’s a mistake, but I can’t help myself. She spins around as I approach, grabbing an extra jacket and I start to open my mouth.

“Don’t even say it,” she warns.

“This is a bomber, Devon. We’ve all been trained. But even the bomb squad in Rockland has never had to deal with a real bomb.”

“Not happening,” she says and then that tiny non-nonsense face of hers goes soft for a moment.

“That guy grabbed Nic. He’s family. I want to be there. I have to be there, Keller.”

That’s exactly what I’d said earlier. I recalibrate for a moment before climbing in the engine. “You’re riding shotgun then.”

΅

Listening to the car chase as we fly north up Route 131 is surreal.

There are a dozen squad cars involved. Protocol is they will force him off the road. My vehicles are parked on an access road just north of Route 1. The fear is that if he gets to Route 1, Graham could do a lot of damage. Summer traffic is heavy.

Devon points. “Lights.”

Flying down the road at about eighty is a light brown minivan and behind it, a stream of cars. At this speed they have about two minutes to stop him.

Suddenly, one of the cars accelerates quickly and starts to edge the van over, trying to force him off the road.

Movies lie. It only takes one clip of his fender to send the van skidding in a one-eighty and in a ditch. The police slam on brakes, keeping at least thirty yards between them and the van. Then everyone just sits. The bomb squad pulls up at the rear.

But no one moves, no one gets of out any vehicle.

“What’s happening?” Devon asks.

“He may have a bomb. So, they’re waiting.”

I can’t remember if a shot is fired or not. A crack of percussed air explodes, and the van is suddenly engulfed in flames. Broken glass and shrapnel fly. A piece even hits the engine.

That’s our cue. I press on the gas pedal. Anything could be in that minivan, and we have to get the fire out before it blows too.

We scoot from the access road to the explosion site in less than fifteen seconds. At the same time, men and women are exiting cars and the bomb squad begins to make their lumbering way through the chaos.

Devon, McKinley, Damian, and Matt are using chemicals and water on the van. We can’t use fire blankets—the usual extinguisher for car fires—too risky with possible inflammables on board. I check lines and then run around to the other side to spot flames that might have been thrown. Grass and shrubs are super dry this time of year.