Wolves and Angels Read Free

the hell do you mean, ‘contraption?’”
    “It was shiny, and it had wheels,” Saari said, scratching his neck hesitantly. “Like a wheelchair or something.”
    “Not a rocking chair?” Sopanen guffawed, irritating Saari.
    “Let’s turn back and check it out.”
    Sopanen shook his head in disgust. “Not worth the trouble. How about being content believing it’s a shopping cart lifted from the corner store. Drunk kids always ride them around the neighborhood.”
    They argued for a few more seconds, until Sopanen sighed with demonstrative condescension. “Well, let’s go look then, so you don’t lose any sleep tomorrow.”
    He lifted his foot off the gas pedal and glanced in the rearview mirror . “We’ll flip a U-ey here as soon as that bike passes.”
    Saari could also see the motorcycle in his own mirror.
    The rider was slowing down in sync with Sopanen, and then suddenly swung back the way he had come.
    “Uh-oh, is he heading back to take a look at your mysterious beer cart too?” Sopanen laughed dryly. The tires squealed as he made a sudden U-turn on the wet asphalt.
    Saari didn’t bother responding to Sopanen’s ribbing. He looked bitterly at the bike in front of them—it looked like a 500cc. At that same moment, the motorcycle accelerated, and Sopanen forgot about his role as wise-ass.
    “Why’s this dude in such a hurry all of a sudden?”
    “How do you know it’s a dude?” Saari was still sulking. “It could be a girl in that helmet just as easily.”
    “It’s a dude. Mark my words...”
    Sopanen left his sentence unfinished when the motorcycle swung onto Arkkiteh ti Street . The driver crouched down over the motorbike and accelerated aggressively.
    “Tell me that guy isn’t trying to get away,” Sopanen exclaimed, bending his own neck forward. “These punks never learn.”
    Saari’s back pressed into the seat as the Ford shot into a greedy pursuit. Sopanen switched on the roof strobes, and soon blue light was blazing in the windows of the buildings on both sides of the street.
    “The dude probably though t we were slowing down to pull him over.”
    Sopanen squeezed the steering wheel.
    “And that’s exactly what we’re gonna do. Let’s see what he’s got on his record,” he hissed through his teeth.
    The street was deserted, and so he let the speedometer climb to sixty-five miles per hour . Still the motorcycle’s taillight had already reached the end of the street, and then disappeared to the right.
    “That ain’t your granny’s moped , ” Sopanen thundered. “We need some help right now, or he’s gonna get away.”
    Saari grabbed the microphone and alerted dispatch about the fleeing motorcycle. Soon the radio traffic increased in a crackling exchange of words, and two patrol cars set off from downtown toward Hervanta.
    The motorcyclist turned right at the next intersection, and Saari broadcast the new direction over the radio. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a man jogging and started wondering how Koskinen had made it this far already. However, he forgot all about him almost immediately as the front tires grazed the curb, and the car swerved dangerously. Sopanen had made the turn without barely lifting his foot off the gas. Saari knew it was pointless to try to rein him in. His prey drive had kicked in like a greyhound bolting after lure on a track—deaf to the shouting of the crowd.
    The Ford had only made it halfway down the street when the motorcycle was already at the next intersection. After that everything happened in one or two seconds, and the moment was recorded in each man’s consciousness like a piece of film advancing frame by frame.
    A white taxi coming from downtown arrived at the intersection at the same moment as the motorcycle. Sopanen and Saari didn’t hear the sound of the collision in their cr uiser , but both saw how the motorcyclist catapulted spread-eagle over the Mercedes, high into the air. They didn’t see the fall. Saari’s eyes