CHAPTER 1

Sheriff Cole Grayson watched the black van coming hell-bent forelection up the highway toward him, firing up the engine on hiswhite Crown Vic. He flipped on his siren and blue strobe light-baras the vehicle whipped past, the cruiser's rear wheels slingingdirt onto the pavement. He accelerated until he was close behind,filling the rear view mirror of the driver ahead.

Cole saw that he was drafting a late model Ford with tintedwindows, a dented back bumper, and an obscured license plate.The darkened glass prevented him from studying the personbehind the wheel, but he had gotten a quick look earlier throughthe clear windshield of the approaching vehicle and knew hisquarry.

A straight stretch of road gave Cole the opportunity to radio hisdispatcher. "Tammy, I'm in pursuit of a black Ford van with dark-tintedglass that fits the description of one stolen off a used car lotin Martinsville. I'm glued on its bumper heading north on Route301 toward West Virginia, now passing the turn off to CourtlandSprings.

"It looks like a 2010 commercial model with Virginia plates,but I can only make out three of the numbers, 648. The tags areprobably lifted off another vehicle. The driver is a young African-Americanmale wearing a dark blue hooded sweatshirt."

"Is he a good enough driver to haul moonshine in FranklinCounty?'

"Pretty close. But he looks like a scared dude who's probably waytoo screwed up for your people to hire for the family business.Don't forget that this conversation is being recorded, Ms.Ewell."

"I copy that. I'll notify the Virginia and West Virginia StatePolice that a high speed pursuit is in progress and request roadblocks ahead. Be careful!"

He continued to tail the van along the winding two-lane road upPainters Mountain, trying to stick close, hoping to get a betterlook at the driver through the tight turns. He had not learned agreat deal more at the critical moment the two vehicles entereda blind curve and encountered four massive Black Angus steersstanding in the road ahead, calmly regarding them, their twotons of prime beef blocking both lanes.

The sheriff watched as the van driver laid on his brakes, makinga sharp turn off the pavement onto the right shoulder of the road,losing traction in the gravel and spinning around in a full circlebefore sliding through a patch of briars, nose-first into a drainageditch.

Cole braked hard in a desperate attempt to slow before veeringaway from the cattle and following the van from the highway.But the Crown Vic was still carrying too much speed for himto maintain control when he hit the shoulder, and he skiddedsideways through the dirt and weeds into the ditch, stopping onlya short distance from his quarry.

The driver of the stolen vehicle made a futile attempt to restart hisengine, then opened the door and bolted, vaulting the rail fenceand starting across the cleared pasture, on a dead run toward awooded ridge ahead.

Cole jumped out of the car holding his .40 Glock at his side,shouting, "Stop! You're under arrest!" He watched the mancontinue on, running with a sprinter's speed.

"Hold up or I'll shoot!" he yelled in exasperation, not botheringto raise his pistol.

He followed his man over the fence, ripping the seat out of hispants on a rusty nail, hauling it through the broom sedge in highgear, but quickly running out of gas and gasping for breath afteronly a short distance. The fugitive kept going until he reached thefar side of the field, jumping the fence and disappearing into thetrees.

Cole shouted out a last time in frustration, "I could have shot you,punk!" He lowered his voice, realizing the man was now likely tobe out of earshot, adding for his own satisfaction, "You won't geta pass the next time."

The sheriff walked back toward the road, crossing the fence andjumping the ditch to reach his car, quickly getting on the radio."Tammy, I'm over near Slate Bank on 301. The young guy I waschasing wrecked the van and has taken off on foot. I could havestopped him, but I wasn't about to cut down on some unarmed,scared looking kid."

"Can you give me the complete license tag number?"

"First things first. Tell Jake and Tank to get over here on thedouble and bring the dogs. We've only got a few hours beforedark.

"The guy we're looking for runs like a track star, and he got awayup into the side of the mountain. Put out the word that he's anathletic black male about six feet tall, around one-seventy. Youalready have the rest of his description.

"I'm getting ready to check out the stolen van right now, and I'lltry to make out the plates for you. After I finish going over it,we'll need a wrecker to tow it back into town. The front end lookslike it's torn up way too bad to run.

"And call Jack Gunther in Slate Bank. Tell him some of his beefcattle have gotten out onto the highway again, and that I'm goingto be sending him the bill for getting the front end aligned on thecruiser."

Cole slipped on a pair of gloves, and walked over to the van.The front compartment offered few surprises, except for a halfsmoked joint in the ashtray, and a cheap pair of work gloves lyingon the floor.

But upon opening the rear door he knew that he had hit thejackpot. Spread before him was equipment that could only beused for one purpose: making crystal meth.

The pungent smells of ammonia and ether assailed his nose,causing him to step back He could see a haphazard array ofdrug paraphernalia including pails, jugs, a measuring cup andfunnels, rubber tubing, coffee filters, cheesecloth and towels, evena propane stove and ice chest. Keenly arousing his curiosity weretwo brand new Nike gym bags stashed to one side.

Cole returned to his truck and picked up the radio. "Tammy,back again. Cancel that call for a wrecker, and put in a call to theState Police in Salem. That stolen van is a mobile meth lab, andwe need their hazmat technicians out here to investigate.

A short time later, Deputies Jake Johnson and Tank Krupskidrove up in a Courtland County Sheriff's Department pick-uptruck, unloading two excited German Shepherds, Greta andBeau. They had leashed the dogs and were conferring with Colewhen a Virginia State Police cruiser pulled in behind, and threetroopers joined them.

Cole recognized the senior officer as Lt. Tom Bowman, aman he trusted to have his back when needed. He was eagerto hand the investigation of the stolen van over to the StatePolice, knowing that there was a complex protocol for dealingwith methamphetamine production sites which required aPhiladelphia lawyer to assure compliance.

He was far more interested in getting up into the side of PaintersMountain with Jake, Tank, and the two dogs to pick up the trailof the escapee. But Cole was curious to learn one thing before heleft: what was in the gym bags.

Tom Bowman was obviously equally anxious to find out the samething, slipping on a pair of gloves to gingerly retrieve both bagsfrom the van. He unzipped the first one to reveal rubber-bandedbundles of twenty, fifty, and hundred dollar bills. One of the StatePolice troopers let out a whistle, exclaiming. "We must be lookingat more than a hundred grand!"

The second bag was filled with small packages wrapped in opaqueplastic, making it impossible to see the contents. Tom dug a knifefrom his pocket and carefully slit one of the wrappers, exposing ahandful of small ice-clear crystals.

"Just what we suspected," he muttered. "There's a lot of crystalmeth here, and I'm guessing that if you were able to sell it on thestreet, you'd have enough money to fill another bag."

Cole asked Tom, "Now that we know what our fugitive washauling, is it OK if my deputies and I leave you to handle this sowe can go after him?"

Tom cut his eyes upward and responded with a sardonic grin,"Why not? Everybody ducks out and leaves the dirty work toSmokey."

"Get the dogs, and let's clear out of here before Lt. Bowmanchanges his mind," Cole directed his deputies. "I'll show youwhere we can pick up our escapee's trail on the other side of thefield."

"Hold up one minute, Sheriff, before you hightail it out of here,"Tom called out. "I was summoned to Arlington last week for ameeting of Virginia State Police and Federal DEA officials.

"All state law enforcement personnel are going to get a VSPcommunication about the growing problem with local productionof this stuff. I don't care whether you call it crystal meth, crank,ice, speed, whiz, or any of another half-dozen names, it's creatinga hell of a problem. Almost all of the heroin and cocaine, and alot of the pot we interdict is smuggled in from Mexico, but methis usually made in hometown USA.

"We believe that a lot of it is manufactured in rural areas likeyour jurisdiction, bucolic Courtland County. Kind of surprisingthat shit produced out in the boondocks ends up in the hands ofdrug users all over the place, but that's what's happening."

"I get the message," Cole replied. "We'll step up our efforts to getcrystal meth off the streets in Virginia. Now my men and I needto get up in the hills and track down our man. Maybe he'll giveus some leads on the local drug business."

"Good luck," Tom called out as Cole and his deputies turned toleave. "Don't let your conscience bother you about leaving mehere holding the hazmat bag."

The sheriff led the way over the fence ahead of his men, Tankobserving, "It's a good thing deer season hasn't opened, boss.With your underwear poking through those torn britches, somehunter might mistake you for a white-tailed deer and shoot you.You're quite a sight."

Cole didn't bother to turn around, countering, "If you don't likethe view, son, you can look the other direction. I never told youor anyone else that I auditioned for the Chippendales."

CHAPTER 2

Buddy Grayson heard the hall bell clanging at three-thirty tosignal the end of classes for the day at New Court Middle School,getting up from his desk to jostle with other students through theclassroom door onto the concourse leading to freedom.

His sixth grade classmate and best friend, twelve year-old MikeyDillon, caught up with him as he reached the door and both boysdashed over to bungee school books onto luggage racks, rollingtheir bicycles out of the school's iron pipe stand, quickly headingfor the outskirts of town.

Buddy felt the cell phone in his pocket vibrate, pulling his bangedup bike off the road to take the call, hearing the friendly voice ofhis dad's dispatcher, Tammy Ewell.

"Buddy, your father wanted me to let you know he's going tobe late getting home this evening. He and two of his deputiesare still up on Painters Mountain tracking a fugitive towardWaiteville. He doesn't want you or Mandy worrying about him—goon down to the Dairy Queen and get a cheeseburger when youget hungry."

Buddy slipped the cell phone back into his pocket and pulledback onto the pavement. "That was the dispatcher over at thecourthouse telling me Dad's not going to be home for dinner. Shesaid he's hunting down some criminal on Painters Mountain."

"Your father sure has an exciting job, running around up inthe hills chasing crooks," Mikey commented. "All my old mandoes is run a one-hour dry cleaning store. His idea of excitementis finding a couple of quarters somebody left in their pantspocket."

"Yeah, but your father isn't likely to have some mean drunk pointa gun at his head and threaten to shoot him while he's trying tobreak up a fight between the dude and his old lady, like Dad didlast year.

"Dad got shot in the leg trying to help arrest a couple of fugitivesback when he was working for the FBI in Washington, and Ican still see him limping when he first gets up in the morning.Finding quarters in somebody's dirty clothes might be all theexcitement you want when it comes to your family."

"You never told me your father got shot when he was an FBIagent."

"I don't like to talk about something as scary as having somebodytry to kill your dad. I've had nightmares about that."

Mikey thought over the risks involved in law enforcement,silently agreeing with his friend about the advantages of runninga dry cleaning business, then changed the subject. "Let's go overto your house and do some more work on our raft."

Buddy never missed a chance to give his friend a hard time andquickly seized the opportunity to strike again, knowing thatMikey had a secret crush on his pretty fifteen year-old sister.

"You sure seem to enjoy spending your free time after schoolworking in my garage. Maybe when Mandy comes home fromschool you'd like to ask her if she'll come out and help you naildown the deck boards."

Mikey knew that his friend had seen right through him, replyingred faced, "It would be OK with me if she wanted to. She probablyknows a lot more about sawing and nailing boards than herdumb brother. You can't tell the difference between a hammerhead and a handle."

"And you don't know your butt from a hole in the ground,"Buddy countered, shifting his bike into a lower gear to accelerateaway from his friend.

"Race you to the house. My sister's probably there right now,looking out the window for you."

* * *

Mandy changed into her practice uniform of blue shorts, whiteNew Court Rockets—Girls JV Volleyball t-shirt, white socks, andsneakers. She pulled her red hair back into a ponytail, glancing atthe locker room mirror as she hurried to the gym.

The reflected image was a reminder that a growth spurt hadpropelled her to a height of five-nine, the same height as hermother, Jennifer. Or rather, the same height her mother had beenless than three years earlier when an aortic aneurism had snuffedout her life in the blink of an eye.

The recollection of her mother's sudden death while driving homefrom work on an ordinary day, and all of the surreal events thatfollowed, hit Mandy like a blow to the stomach. It was enough totake her breath away, and she silently slumped down on a bench,her eyes filling with tears.

Norma Patton had been standing by in the gym watching herjunior varsity volleyball team assemble, waiting on the twelfthand last player to report. After several minutes, she impatientlyheaded back through the door into the locker room, spottingMandy sitting alone, seemingly making no effort to join herteammates.

Norma did not try to conceal a coach's annoyance with a playerreporting late to practice. "Are you planning to join us, or are yougoing to sit here all afternoon while the rest of the squad standsaround waiting on you?"

Mandy quickly stood, quietly replying, "I'm sorry, coach," whilecarefully keeping her back turned.

Norma detected a break in her voice, and realized that theteenager had not been idly daydreaming. She crossed the lockerroom to face her youngest team member, spotting the dampcheeks. "What's wrong?" she asked softly.

The kindness in her voice pushed a button, and Mandy broke intotears. Norma put her arm around the young girl, sympatheticallysuggesting, "Let me ask Kelly and Kim to take over and getpractice started. Then, if you would like, we can talk privately inthe conference room."

The two walked side-by-side to the vacant office, closing the doorbehind them, silence enveloping the room as they sat facing eachother. "Is there anything you'd like to talk over with me?" Normainquired, drawing on her experience in counseling students. "Ifsomething's bothering you, and you'd like to air it out with asympathetic friend, you'll find that I'm a good listener."

Mandy hesitated, and silence again cloaked their small quarters.Then she began to speak in a voice so soft that Norma had tolean forward to make out what the girl was saying, her first wordscapturing Norma's full attention.

"I'll never get over the way Mom died, without my even havingthe chance to tell her goodbye.

"We were living in Arlington. I was twelve years old and inthe sixth grade. Buddy was in the third grade. Dad and Momcommuted to government jobs in Washington.

"I remember everything so clearly about that awful day. Momgave me money to buy lunch, and she waited to talk to me beforeshe went off to work.

"I was so wrapped up in my own little world, talking witha friend on my cell phone, that I didn't stop to speak with herbefore she left. She kissed me on the forehead and walked away,turning around with a smile as she went out the door. That wasthe last time we were together. I never told her I loved her."