by Matthew Dunn
“Fifteen minutes.”
I boarded the train. My gut was in knots of anxiety. I felt like I was on a covert job.
I had to put fear to one side. My absolute priority was staying alive. I knew that if the shit hit the fan, I’d stop anyone who tried to capture me. That wasn’t bravado. It was what I’d been trained to do. For some reason, I was exceptionally good at it.
That was no consolation. If I went up against Philly PD, I’d win the battle but not the war.
And it was highly probable they knew I’d just gotten on the train.
The two NYPD squad cars and Kopański’s unmarked car stopped outside 30th Street Station. Inside each car was an officer from Philly PD.
Kopański said to the Philly cop in his car, “You and your colleagues use our cars to parallel the Amtrak route.” He tapped the radio set he’d been loaned by O’Shea. “I’ll let you know any updates.”
He, Painter, and the NYPD cops entered the station.
The train had been moving for ten minutes.
Windows in the train car were steamy because of the cold air outside. I was exhausted, yet alert. I stood in the aisle; the car was packed due to the cancellation of a previous train. Passengers were irritable, swaying with each movement of the train. Most of them were likely fantasizing about getting back to their homes for dinner.
My back hurt, and my stomach muscles felt like a rolling pin was being moved over them.
Every smell hit my nostrils—musk, a man wearing too much Dior Sauvage eau de toilette, the stench of saccharine candy, and vomit from a child who’d overindulged in Philly’s finest cheesesteak. Most people were silent or talking in whispers. But a huge woman with a shock of frizzy hair was louder, berating her husband about the stupidity of going to Philly in this weather. I listened to everything around me, in case someone said, “That guy over there—doesn’t he look like the man on the news?”
But people didn’t notice me. They were consumed by their own thoughts. For now, I was anonymous.
My train ticket was to Roanoke, Virginia; from there I’d travel twenty miles to see the twins, the Granges, and Faye Glass. By now, they’d know I was a wanted man. They deserved to hear from me that I was innocent, but I had to stay on the run to clear my name and find out who was the real culprit. Then, I would return to them and take the boys to their new home. In the meantime, I had to make sure they were okay. The Granges’ age worried me; so too did Faye Glass’s state of mind. Almost certainly she had PTSD thrown into the mix of grief. After all, this was a woman who had discovered her murdered sister’s body.
I tensed. Something was happening at the head of the car, though I couldn’t see what. Two men were speaking, their voices authoritative yet unclear in the clatter of the train. Passengers were trying to move, as if to make space for the men, though it was a devil of a job given the crammed conditions. Then I saw them—a uniformed cop and a tall man who was undoubtedly a plainclothes detective. They were issuing commands to passengers, looking at the faces of males, talking to them before moving on.
I turned and pushed my way toward the other end of the car, muttering in an American accent that I needed the bathroom. People were cursing at me in annoyance. I entered the next car, desperately trying to recall what time the train arrived at the next stop and whether I’d have time to jump off there before the cops behind me completed their search. Whether the presence of the police on the train was random or connected to a reported sighting of me didn’t matter.
I just couldn’t allow them to get anywhere near me.
Kopański moved as quickly as the packed train would allow him to, the NYPD uniformed officer by his side. They’d reached the station with only minutes to spare to board the train from the crowded platform where the man resembling Cochrane had been seen.
Painter’s decision not to send Philly cops to 30th Street Station had been justified by what the detectives had seen when they arrived at the Amtrak hub. The crowds there and the number of exits would have probably resulted in Cochrane vanishing if they’d swamped the zone with uniforms. But the train was a closed environment. If Cochrane was on here, Kopański would find him. He moved onward, his hand close to his gun.
I kept my head bowed low as I squeezed my way between passengers in the next car. But then I stopped dead, as if I’d been poleaxed.
Ahead of me were another uniformed officer and a female detective.
Thyme Painter studied the faces of every man around her. She and her uniformed colleague had started at the rear of the train, Joe and his colleague the front. She was getting toward the center of the train and knew that Joe would be doing the same from the other direction. She grabbed the uniformed officer’s arm, twisting him away from the man he was talking to. The cop followed her gaze. At the far end of the car a tall man was staring right at them. No doubt, he looked exactly like the man in Will Cochrane’s passport. Both officers pulled out their guns and barked at everyone to get down.
I spun around and ran, forcing people out of my way, knowing that my situation was desperate. People around me were screaming, darting looks at the encroaching cops and at me. I yanked on the emergency Stop lever. Nothing. I did so again. The train kept moving. Damn. The cops had predicted this possibility and told the driver to ignore emergency activations. God knows how they’d managed to get the driver to agree.
I put more space between me and the female detective, but now could see the tall male detective coming from the other direction, shouting orders at people, a large pistol in his hand. Some people were dropping to the floor; others remained upright or in seats. A gunfight remained way too risky. But I was trapped. I clambered over bodies to reach the door.
Locked.
The window could slide open, but was not large enough for my big frame to squeeze through. That left only one option, though I had to decide whether it meant the big male detective and his male colleague or the easier option of the woman and her male colleague. I decided on the former, but had to move quickly before the four cops converged.
“Officers,” I called out as I raised my arms in the air and moved toward them.
The male detective and the cop pointed their weapons at me halfway down their car, their safeties off though fingers not on triggers.
“I’m guessing you think I look a bit like that guy in the news.” My accent American, I tried to look nervous. “It’s been worrying me all day that I look like him.” I kept walking toward them, passengers climbing over each other to get out of my way and the line of fire.
“Stay where you are! Get on your knees.” The detective had his gun pointed at my head.
I ignored him, hoping my actions would seem like they belonged to a dumb nervous idiot who’d never confronted armed police before.
“I said, stay where you are.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. But I’m putting myself in your hands so you can clear this up and find the real murderer.”
“Hands behind your head! On your knees!” The cop next to the detective crouched, ready to fire.
“Steady, Officer.” The detective was motionless. “Think about collateral.”
I was now five feet from them. I put my hands in front of me. “Here. You can cuff me. I’m no trouble.”
Four feet.
The detective took two steps forward.
“On your fucking knees.”
“Okay, okay.” I lowered myself, hands again held up. The action seemed to settle the concerns of the uniformed cop, who moved closer.
It all happened in less than two seconds.
I sprang forward, grabbed the detective’s gun, twisted it so that the detective’s wrist was in agony and he was unable to resist, kicked him in the stomach with sufficient force to lift him off his feet and send him crashing into the other cop, then stamped on the uniformed officer’s belly and chest.
Neither could do anything other than writhe in pain.
I glanced back down the car and saw the female detective and her c
olleague desperately trying to force their way through the panicking passengers. I pushed my way toward the front of the train, brandishing the handgun I’d taken from the hotel room, people around me screaming and hugging each other. I spotted the conductor who’d come through the train earlier, in a car full of people who were oblivious to what had happened farther back in the train.
Feeling shitty for doing so, I placed my gun against the conductor’s temple, dropped my fake American accent, and told him to walk fast to the front of the train and the locked compartment containing the driver.
“Open the door.”
The man tried to object.
“Open it or I’ll shoot your kneecaps.”
The conductor’s hands shook as he picked out the correct key from a bunch and unlocked the door.
He was about to open it, but I stopped him from doing so. “Back there are four cops, two in uniform. They’ll be heading this way fast. For the safety of this train, I need you to stop them.”
“Why would I?”
“Because if I spot the cops, I’ll put a bullet in the head of the driver. Then I’ll fiddle with the controls to try to stop the train. Thing is, I know nothing about trains. I’m likely to crash the thing.”
The conductor nodded and headed off.
I entered the driver’s cab and placed my gun against the driver’s neck. “Stop the train and let me off.”
The driver tried to turn to face me.
I shouted, “Eyes front. Do it now.”
“It’s not that easy”—the driver’s voice was trembling—“to make an unscheduled stop. There are safety issues if—”
“Stop this fucking train or I’ll pull the trigger and do this myself.”
The driver’s face was sweaty as he brought the train to a screeching, grinding halt. He leaned across and opened his door. “There, it’s stopped. Please, mister, don’t . . .”
I jumped onto the gravel and raced as fast as I could into the stormy afternoon.
The four cops got off the train seconds after Cochrane had alighted. Cochrane was sprinting into the woods. Kopański and the uniformed cops immediately dashed after him.
Painter was on her radio to the three drivers of their vehicles. “We’re near Chester. Pick us up. We’ll give you a precise location once we get a landmark.” She called Captain O’Shea.
Kopański and his colleagues raced into the woods, guns in hand. They’d lost sight of Cochrane, but he was only a hundred yards ahead of them when they’d last seen him. They were spread apart, but not too much in case Cochrane got the drop on one of them. If that happened, they’d need to work as a team to restrain him or put a bullet in his head.
The trees were dense, visibility made worse by rain and black clouds.
While running at full speed, Kopański called to his colleagues, “You spot him, you shoot him in the leg.”
Dodging between trees, I was running as fast as I could, changing direction, not daring to look back. The last time I’d seen the three cops was when they were sprinting over the field adjacent to the train, just as I’d entered the forest. They were on my heels. And I was in no doubt they’d shoot me in the back rather than let me escape.
I had no idea where I was. Had no plan. Nothing was in my head apart from putting distance between me and my pursuers. My backpack bounced against me. Breathing was fast and excruciating. My legs were in pain. My eyes were wide as I searched for a way to shake off the cops.
I exited the forest. No cover ahead of me. Just open land, a road, and beyond that, houses. Double back into the forest and try to lose them there? Or risk going ahead?
I spotted a car driving to the left of me. One driver inside. No one else. The road was fifty yards ahead of me. If I moved like fury, there was just enough time. I ran across the open grass, all the time expecting a bullet to enter my spine.
I reached the road, stood in the center, and faced the oncoming red vehicle. Whipping out my gun, I pointed it at the driver when he was ten feet away from me. Fear was all over his face as he screeched to a halt, right in front of me.
I ran to his side, gun trained on his head, opened his door, and barked, “Slide across to the passenger side. Now!”
“Please don’t—”
“Now!”
He did as he was told.
I got in the driver’s seat, put my foot to the floor, and said, “If you stay still and do nothing, you’ll live.”
Kopański and his colleagues ran out of the forest. On the road ahead of them, they saw Cochrane enter a red car and race off.
“Get the plate number!” Kopański ran full tilt toward the road, his colleagues by his side. They reached the road just in time to read the plate. One of the cops raised his gun to fire at its tires, but Kopański put his hand over the man’s gun. “He’s got a hostage. Too dangerous.”
Cochrane made a turn and vanished from view.
The detective asked, “Where are we?”
The New York cops had no idea.
Kopański ran to the nearest house and banged on the door. An old lady answered. Twenty seconds later, he was back on the road and on the radio to Painter. Gasping for breath, he gave her the plate number and added, “We’re on West Sixth Street in Trainer. Pick us up here. And we need a helo in the air.”
Painter told him that she’d already got O’Shea to get one close to their zone.
Everywhere around me was alien.
The car owner was in his mid-thirties, Caucasian, dressed casually.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Pete . . . Pete.”
“Okay. Listen, Pete. Stay calm. I don’t know this area. I’m betting you do. I need to get onto a major highway. You’re going to direct me.”
“Don’t hurt me!”
“I won’t if you do what I say.”
Pete pointed. “Take this turn right. It’ll take you to I-95.”
“It’ll take me south?”
“South and north. Depends which on-ramp you take.”
“I want south. You’re going to get me there.”
The car was a performance-model BMW. But its color meant we’d stick out like a sore thumb.
Within five minutes we were on 95. Signs told me it would take me to Baltimore. I doubted I’d make it there.
The three NYPD cars picked up Kopański and his colleagues on West Sixth Street. In his unmarked car, Kopański took over driver duties. Painter was by his side, the Philly cop now in a squad car.
As the detectives and their two squad car escorts raced in the direction they’d last seen Cochrane, Painter spoke on her radio to the Philly cops, “Cochrane was heading south. We have to assume he’s still headed in that direction. What’s the quickest route?”
The Philly cop radioed back, “I-95.”
“All right. Get us onto 95.”
“Will do,” the officer replied.
Another voice came over the radio, giving his Philadelphia PD call sign. “We’ve got a visual of you.”
Painter glanced up. The police helicopter was close by. Into her mic, she said, “We’ve lost him. Our best hunch is he’s southbound on I-95. Go ahead of us and focus on that area.”
The chopper veered off in the direction of the main highway.
The Philly officer in the lead car was giving his driver directions. Within minutes, the convoy was on I-95, at breakneck speed as they wove in and out of different lanes.
I rapidly changed gears, glancing in my wing mirror, driving way over the speed limit.
“Where are we going?” asked Pete.
“Anywhere but here,” I answered.
Pete was a mess, and I didn’t blame him. My gun was on my lap, pointing at him. I wouldn’t use it. But if he tried to reach for it, I’d be quicker. The gun would be pointing at his head and I’d make sure he was certain I was prepared to pull the trigger. I felt sorry for the guy. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But it was the right time for me.
I cha
nged lanes at speed, annoying other drivers who beeped their horns at me.
“Fuck,” I muttered. I could hear a helicopter. Had to be cops.
Things had just gotten a whole lot worse.
“We got him.” The voice on the radio belonged to the helo pilot. “Good call to check the 95. He’s heading south, as you predicted.”
Painter tried to decide what to do. If she ordered that a police barricade be constructed ahead of Cochrane, traffic would grind to a halt. Cochrane would drag his hostage out of the car at gunpoint and flee on foot. Or he might start shooting. There’d be casualties, and some of them could be civilians. The chopper could hover low over the highway, trying to block his path. But that could panic him into swerving and causing an accident. If he was able to get out of his car, the same thing would happen. Gun to his hostage’s head. Escape the highway on foot.
She said to Kopański, “Joe—I’m thinking we play this cool.”
“Me, too.” The detective was keeping pace with the squad car in front. “Let’s tail him. Hope he leads us to a place where he abandons the car and hostage. Then we take him down.”
Painter got on her cell to O’Shea and gave him updates. “We’ve got to be very careful. Can you get on the phone to all police commanders and sheriffs between here and Baltimore? I don’t want one of their patrol cars spotting Cochrane breaking the speed limit and trying to pull him over. He needs to be left untouched.”
O’Shea agreed to get on it.
The helicopter pilot said, “He’s slowing down. He’s hit a bottleneck. Traffic’s clearer after that. Ah—I’ve got a visual of you guys. You’re about eight hundred yards behind.”
Kopański said to Painter, “I can’t see a good outcome from this, as things stand.”
Painter agreed. With the helo sticking to Cochrane, the hostage’s life was in serious danger. “It’s damn risky.”