what had happened to make them that way.
They make choices. West said that all the time, and it was true.
But she envied Brazil’s freshness, his innocent clarity of vision. In truth, he saw life with
a wisdom equal to her own, but his was born of vulnerability, and not of the experience
that sometimes crowded West’s compassion and cloaked her feelings in many hard layers.
Her condition had been coming on for a long time, and most likely was irreversible.
West accepted that when one is exposed to the worst elements of life, there comes a point
of no return. She had been beaten and shot, and she had killed.
She had crossed a line. She was a missionary, and the tender, warm contours of life were
for others.
On Tryon Street, she was stopped at a traffic light near Jake’s, another favorite spot for
breakfast. Thelma could do anything with fried steak and biscuits, and the coffee was
good. West stared ahead, several blocks away, just past First Union Bank with its giant
painted hornet bursting out of one side of the building. She recognized the dark car’s
boxy shape and conical tail lights glowing red. She wasn’t close enough to see the tag
yet, and was going to do something about that.
The light turned green and West gunned the Ford’s powerful engine until she was on the
old BMW’s bumper. Her heart thrilled as she recognized the plate number. She honked
her horn and motioned, and Brazil kept going. West followed, honking again and longer,
but clearly he had no intention of acknowledging her as she followed his shiny chrome
bumper through downtown. Brazil knew she was there and didn’t give a damn as he
threw back another gulp from the tall-boy Budweiser he was holding between his legs.
He broke the law right in front of Deputy Chief West, and knew she saw it, and he didn’t
give a shit.
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” West exclaimed as she flipped on flashing lights.
Brazil sped up. West couldn’t believe what was happening. How could he do anything
this stupid?
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” She hit the siren.
Brazil had been in pursuits, but he had never been the lead car.
Usually, he was back there sitting in the front seat with West. He drank another swallow
of the beer he had bought at the 76 truck stop
just off the Sunset East exit. He needed another one, and decided he might as well hit 1-77 off Trade Street, and cruise on back for a refill. He tossed his empty in the back seat,
where several others clinked and rolled on the floor. His broken speedometer faithfully
maintained its belief that the BMW was going thirty-two miles per hour.
In fact, he was going sixty-three when he turned onto the Interstate.
West doggedly pursued as her alarm and anger grew. Should she call for other cars,
Brazil was ruined, his volunteer days ended, his real troubles only begun. Nor was there
a guarantee that more cops would effect a stop. Brazil might decompensate further. He
might feel desperate, and West knew how that might end. She had seen those final
chapters before, all over the road, crumpled metal sharp like razors, glass, oil, blood, and
black body bags on their way to the morgue.
His speed climbed to ninety miles per hour, and he maintained it, with her steadily behind
him, lights and siren going full tilt. It penetrated his fog that she had not gotten on the
radio for help. He would have heard it on his scanner, and backup cars surely would
have shown up by now. He didn’t know if this made him feel better or worse.
Maybe she didn’t take him seriously. Nobody took him seriously, and nobody ever
would again, because of Webb, because of the unfairness, the heartlessness of life and all
in it.
Brazil shot onto the exit of Sunset Road East and began to slow. It was finished. In
truth, he needed gas. This chase had its limits anyway. He might as well stop.
Depression settled heavier, crushing him into his seat as he parked at the outer limits of