Whirlwind

by David Klass

  He leans forward. “Are you confessing?”

  “No, I don’t know anything.”

  “What were you doing outside her house tonight?”

  “Coming to see her. I thought she might be home.”

  Chief Parker studies my face. “Her father says you were hiding in the shadows.”

  “I hadn’t seen her in months. I was trying to decide whether it was a good idea to come back. What happened to her? Is she dead? Hurt? Missing? Please tell me.”

  “So you don’t have any answers?” the chief asks.

  “No. None.”

  “What about your parents? Any answers there?”

  “None that you would believe, sir.”

  “Try me. You were a good kid once.”

  “Still am. But there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  He stands. I’m still sitting. Never realized how big he really is. Towers over me. He’s winding something around his right hand. Looks like a dark towel.

  “Twenty-three years I’ve been a cop and you can count the number of times I got rough with a prisoner on the fingers of one hand.” As if to demonstrate his point, he holds up his right hand and folds down fingers one by one. “But sometimes you have to do things you find repugnant.”

  His right hand is now a fist, big as a cantaloupe, the knuckles cushioned by a dark wrapping. “Don’t make me hit you,” he says. “Talk. What happened to your dad?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t around to see—”

  His fist slams into my stomach. I gasp and sink to my knees. He hauls me up by my hair.

  “Your ma was a nice lady. Who cut her up and torched your house?”

  “The Dark Army.”

  “What?”

  “Mutants, cyborgs, and chimeras from the future.”

  He squints at me, red-faced with rage. Another punch. Right in the testicles. I fall over on my back and writhe on the floor. Tears of pain faucet down my cheeks.

  Even with my hands cuffed, I could fight back. Eko taught me enough martial arts moves so that I could probably turn the tables on the chief. Kick him unconscious. Take his keys. Free myself. Make a break for it. But what would be the point? I deserve this beating. I’ll take it like a man. And when the FBI come, they can put me in thumbscrews. I’ll take that, too.

  What is it about you pathetic humans, that you not only march meekly to the slaughter, but find ways to justify the executioner as the ax is falling?

  Familiar canine telepathic voice. Shocks me even as I writhe on the floor in agony. Gisco! I’m glad that he’s alive, but I’m in enough of a mess as it is. Trapped and betrayed by the parents of my sweetheart. Beaten by the father of my football teammate. Not to mention punched in the testicles, and soul in torment.

  Please go away, I tell Gisco telepathically. You only bring trouble, and I’ve got enough of that as it is.

  How can you say such a thing, old bean? There’s a special bond of love and thrust between a boy and his dog.

  The last time I saw you, you promised you would never, ever leave me, no matter what. And then you instantly blinked out and vanished into thin air.

  Hardly my fault. But we can sort all that out later. The salient fact is that we’ve got to escape right now.

  Dog using fancy SAT word. Where is he, anyway? How did he get inside this police station?

  Chief Parker hauls me up by my shirtfront, choking me. “Are you gonna start talking or do you need more?”

  I look back at him. Shake my head slightly from side to side. More. His fist slams into my rib cage. Knocks me across the cell into the stone wall. I bounce off hard and bang my head on cell’s toilet. Almost black out.

  Fight back! Get his keys. I’ll help you escape.

  Why would I want to do that? Give me one good reason.

  I’ll give you two. First, he told you the FBI’s coming. They’re about to pull into the parking lot.

  That’s a good reason?

  It’s not really the FBI, lamebrain. It’s the Dark Army. If they take you into custody, it’ll be the slow neural flay.

  What’s the other reason?

  Sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but the Dark Army already took your friend P.J. She’s at their mercy. If we don’t find her, there’s no telling what they’ll do to her. Time is of the essence. You’re the only one who can save her.

  Chief Parker reaches down and grabs a shock of my long hair. “You really need to visit a barber,” he says. “Or maybe I could just pull it out for you.”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “I’ve had about enough of this.” I pull loose from his grip.

  “Oh, is that right?” He steps forward.

  I spread my feet to the width of my shoulders, settling into a fighting stance. “Yes, sir,” I tell him softly. “More than enough.”

  5

  I turn sideways to present less of a target. Circle slowly, feet never leaving the ground. Somewhere between ballet step and boxer’s shuffle. Forward and to the side.

  “C’mere, you lying punk,” Chief Parker growls, and reaches out for me.

  I let him grab me and then twist my body and use his weight and forward momentum to throw him. He’s a big man and he goes down hard. Gets up surprisingly quickly. “So you learned a few tricks? I’ll fix you, you bastard.”

  He throws a right hook that could tear my head off. But it doesn’t connect. I run away from it to rear of cell, jump and kick off stone wall, and somersault back behind him. He spins around, mouth wide open. Never saw anything like that before. “What the hell?” he gasps.

  I don’t want to torture him so I end it quickly. Leap up off the left leg. Straight snapping kick with the right. Ball of foot catches him on point of chin. Snaps his head back. He collapses like a sack of potatoes.

  I grab his key ring. Snap the cuffs open. Hesitate. Unclasp his gun belt. Hope I don’t need it. Never wore a gun in a holster on my hip.

  First time for everything. Surprisingly heavy.

  I unlock the cell door and head out. Through the empty cell block. There are overhead cameras. Chief Parker must have turned the surveillance system off when he came to persuade me to talk.

  Unlock the metal door at the end of the cell block. Hurry silently through a dim hallway. Pass an empty side room. Glance in. Changing room! Uniforms hanging on pegs.

  Two minutes later I’m dressed like a Hadley cop. Blue pants and shirt. Black shoes. Long hair tucked inside a police cap.

  Jack, we’re running out of time. I can feel them coming.

  Uh-oh. Me too. Prickles of cold all over my skin.

  I head out into main station area. Pick up a file and hold the papers in front of my face. Pretend to be reading them intently. Police cap tilted down over eyes.

  Half a dozen people there. Dispatcher answering phones. Two young cops at coffee machine discussing the Knicks’ dismal season. Female cop and dog control officer trying to wrestle a rhino into big cage. “He doesn’t have any tags and there’s no sign of a collar,” the female cop is saying. “He seems well taken care of, but I don’t know what his owner was thinking, letting him out like that.”

  “Maybe the owner was thinking he eats too much,” the dog control officer suggests. “A dog like this can eat you out of house and home.”

  No, not a rhino. Gisco! He infiltrated the police station by getting himself picked up by some kind of suburban pest sweep. Now they’re trying to lock him away. Then, no doubt, off to the pound.

  “I like small dogs,” the lady cop offers. “Chihuahuas. Toy poodles. Nothing bigger than a retriever.”

  “Anything would seem small next to this four-legged tub of lard. Look at his legs! Like tree stumps! And his tail! Like a dust mop!”

  “At least he’s well behaved. Come on, Jumbo. Into the cage.”

  Call me Jumbo again and I’ll bite your ears off.

  Chill, Gisco. She’s right. You have put on a few pounds since I last saw you.


  Big dog swivels his head in all directions, looking for me. That’s muscle tone. No need to insult me. Where are you?

  No insult intended. But for a dog that vanished into thin air, you’re now looking rather substantial. I’m the guy in the uniform that doesn’t fit.

  Oh, yeah. I should have recognized you by your smell.

  You’re no rose garden yourself.

  The aroma of a healthy dog is one of the world’s finest smells. It has a complex bouquet, like a fine wine.

  Or a shallow latrine.

  How dare you?

  Just telling the truth and … Gisco, let’s get out of here! The Dark Army!

  Sure enough, two tall men in blue jackets and khakis hurry through the front door. Both wearing sunglasses.

  Gisco backs into the cage.

  I step into a corner and pretend to read my file. Watch them out of the corner of my eye as they flash I.D.’s and demand, “Where’s Chief Parker?”

  “In with the prisoner,” the dispatcher tells them. “Scott or Glenn, wanna take these gentlemen to the cell?”

  The two young cops are excited to have FBI agents in the station. Lead them away down the hall.

  I look up from the file in time to see Gisco plow forward, busting the wire cage door like it was spaghetti. The dog control officer tries to grab him. She’s a big woman, but he shakes her off like a flea. The lady cop pulls out a stun gun. “Back in the cage, Jumbo, or I’ll deep-fry you.” He doesn’t waste time dodging, just runs into her and right through her. She fires the stun gun as she’s falling and shoots the dog control officer.

  There’s shouting. Screaming.

  Dispatcher runs to try to help.

  Alarms sound. Lights flash.

  “FBI agents” and two policemen hear the commotion. Their footsteps pound back down hallway.

  I slam door to block them. Barricade it with desk.

  Gisco and I dash out the door of the station. Cold night air.

  Should we run for it?

  No chance. They’ll be after us in seconds. We need some wheels!

  As if on cue, a police car zips up. Young policeman inside. My God, I know him. Zach Mills. Used to play football with him, when I was a freshman and he was a senior. He sees my uniform. I stand in the shadows and hope he can’t see my face. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Prisoner trying to escape! They need help inside.”

  Zach always had quick reactions. He’s out of the car in a flash, running for the station. Unfortunately, he’s taken the car keys with him.

  Know-it-all dog seizes control. It’s not difficult to hot-wire one of these primitive vehicles. Hop in. Reach under the dash. Find a black wire and a red wire. Rip them out from the steering column and wind them together …

  A few seconds later, we’re ready to go. I always wanted to drive a police car. Peel out. Turn on the lights. Flashers. And the siren. This is cool!

  You’re going the wrong way.

  This is my hometown, snout face. Don’t tell me where to go.

  They’ll put out an all-points bulletin. Get cars from neighboring towns. Block all key roads.

  You’re exaggerating. That stuff takes time.

  Turn on your radio.

  I switch it on.

  Excited voice of dispatcher. “ … Suspects are fleeing in a Hadley police car, license plate B25897. They are considered armed and extremely dangerous. Suspects last seen at Hadley Station, heading south on McDermott. New York State Police issuing all-points bulletin. Chopper 47 now airborne …”

  I turn off radio. Okay, you made your point. How do we get away?

  Sirens blare behind us. In front of us. Spotlights sweep the streets. There must already be a dozen cars out looking for us. They’re closing in!

  One chance. The river: And step on it.

  6

  Back roads to Hudson. Breakneck speed. Screeching around curves. Streaking down straightaways.

  Police car handles well. Lights and flasher illuminate winding tarmac sloping to dark river.

  Crest a hill. See lights up ahead. Roadblock.

  Watch out, Jack.

  I see it. That’s why I turned off onto this road.

  This is a road?

  More like a dirt trail. Down to a private swimming beach. Only local kids know about it. I used to come down here with P.J.

  Sorry about P.J.

  How do you know the Dark Army took her? Have they hurt her? Do you know where she is? Why would they go after her? She’s just a normal American girl.

  All excellent questions. But there are two good reasons why we might want to discuss them later. First, there’s a police helicopter heading our way.

  Sure enough, I see the chopper. Flying in circles, its spotlight bathing trees and rooftops in a streaming golden halo. Okay, what’s the second reason?

  Dog sounds nervous. We’re about to go off a cliff.

  Up ahead, the trail we’re following disappears into blackness. That’s not a cliff, I explain to Gisco. Just a very steep descent to the river.

  Dog is not calmed by my explanation. In fact, he sounds terrified. You’re sure you’ve gone this way before?

  Dozens of times. Hold on, my furry friend.

  Dogs can’t hold on. We don’t have fingers!

  Whose fault is that?

  Down we go. Police car bumping, thumping, spinning, crashing over rocks and mud. Always walked down this trail, picking my way. Never drove down it before. Come to think of it, it is a lot like a cliff.

  Gisco is hunkered down so low on seat, it appears that he’s trying to crawl inside the upholstery. Why did I trust you? You’re going to kill us!

  Car careens over a rough patch. Gisco attempts to scrabble still lower in his seat. He reminds me of a soldier during an artillery attack, trying to dig a subbasement to his foxhole. I can’t even see his head. It’s buried under his massive shaking forelegs.

  We’re almost down the hill, Gisco, I reassure him. There’s no need to be so scared.

  Me? Scared? Hah! Fear is something I conquered in my puppyhood. He peeks up from between trembling paws.

  Just then, we hit a monster bump. The front hood bucks skyward, the car teeters for a second on its rear wheels, and then we start flipping madly, end over end.

  I hear a loud yelp of canine fear and pain.

  Sparks shoot. Glass shatters. Metal grinds rock.

  I am hurled sideways into Gisco. He is spun upside down and wedged against a side wall. We’re all tangled up with each other. My right arm is bent around his hind legs. I spit out what tastes like a noxious whisk broom. It’s Gisco’s tail, which ended up in my mouth.

  Yuck. You okay, Gisco?

  No. Call a team of surgeons. I am seriously injured. Bones cracked. Organs ruptured. Can’t move a muscle.

  This might be a good time to heal quickly and get out.

  Why is that?

  The helicopter must have spotted our crash. Here it comes! The Dark Army won’t be far behind! Gisco?

  Somehow the big dog has pried the door open and he’s already sprinting toward the river. I spot his dark shape galloping across the tree line, with the girth of a hippo and the gait of a racehorse. For a dog with cracked bones and ruptured organs, Gisco’s covering ground fast.

  I squeeze out the door and follow, just as the police helicopter bursts over treetops. The bright search beam sweeps down on the car wreck, and frames it in a silver circle whose perimeter jiggles as the copter hovers.

  I sprint after the dog across rough terrain in darkness. Dodging trees. Leaping rocks. A few hundred yards ahead, moonlight burnishes the dark band of Hudson.

  Swish, swish of night breeze in tall grass. Musky smell of river mud. Angry whine of mosquitoes. No, wait, there are no mosquitoes when it’s this cold!

  That’s the whine of motorcycles speeding our way!

  The Hadley police don’t have motorcycles. And even if they did, they couldn’t possibly have responded to the car wreck so qu
ickly.

  The same Dark Army motorcycle assassins who killed my father! They monitored the police band and learned about the car crash as the helicopter reported it.

  Now they’re coming for me!

  7

  Hudson River a hundred yards away. But it’s not a level football field. We’re talking about trees and rocks, bushes and bracken, on a steep, dark, sludge-strewn slope.

  Luckily, during my days on the Outer Banks, Eko taught me how to run in low visibility. I remember the countless marsh channels we raced through side by side, with only the stars to light our way. At first I could barely trot three steps without getting clobbered by an overhanging branch or tripped up by a hole in the muddy bottom. Eko taught me to sense my surroundings, to feel rather than to see.

  I’m using that training now. Vaulting over thorn bushes that reach like witches’ hands, grasping at me with talon-like fingernails. I skirt weed patches that try to toss green lassos around my ankles. Rocks and boulders do their shadowy best to block me, but I zigzag around them.

  I catch up with Gisco and pass him. Come on, let it all hang out. This is the final sprint.

  Large dogs are not known for sprints. Trotting with dignity is more my style. But we’ll make it. Don’t worry.

  I’m worried. Motorcycles zooming after us. They sound like angry hornets closing in, with stingers bared.

  We reach the mud cliff above the rippling water. Start picking our way down. Hard to get footing.

  Big dog tiring badly. Huffing and puffing. Sorry. Can’t make it. You go on without me. Boat anchored offshore. Actually not a boat. No time to explain. Good luck, old bean.

  Come on, fur ball, you can’t give up now. Roll yourself down this hill if necessary.

  Gisco stops, gasping air. Can’t do it. It’s over.

  I stop next to him. Steep mud cliff. Rotund dog. Motorcycles racing up behind us. Only one thing to do.

  “You’ll thank me for this later.” I grab his shaggy coat and throw him forward with all my strength.

  Gisco tumbles wildly down the mud cliff, building speed. He’s somersaulting snout over tail, faster and faster, unable to stop. Flattens ferns. Bulldozes bushes. Decapitates a willow tree. Cuts a wide swath as he hurtles down over pebbles and through river mud.