SUMMATION Read Online Free

hours. 1-90 is a quick drive, as long as you watch for the Wisconsin
troopers, parked between the north and southbound lanes, low in the grass, like
a cat waiting to pounce. He'd already been the mouse, and lost the better part
of a week's pay a few years back (not much to begin with) for twelve miles
over, so he watched his speed carefully here near the border, keeping it right
at four miles over the limit- no more, no less.
                Being careful today wouldn't help.
                If Tom was the mouse, Bob Ellingston was the
cat. He had been a trooper for twelve years. By this time, running radar near
the Illinois border was kind of a game - would it be an Illinois resident on
their way home, or an Illinois resident on his way up on vacation? Unless they
were blatantly reckless, Wisconsin drivers pretty much got a pass. Besides, he
thought, most Wisconsin drivers drove so slowly on the Interstate all he could
issue them were parking citations.
                "Mom-
Jodie's looking at me again!"
                "Jodie,
just look out the window, and leave your sister alone. We're almost home. Can
you both just sit there for ten - that's all - just ten more minutes? We'll be
there by then." Bill Foster's voice was surprisingly reasonable
considering this had been going on for the past hour and a half, ever since
they left Noah's Ark in the Dells.
    He hadn't noticed that he had been following Tom McGarret
all the way home from the Dells.
                He
also didn't know he wouldn't be home in ten minutes.
                Gripping the wheel tighter, Hans Richter was
looking ahead down the road, not at Bill Foster's bumper-sticker laden wagon,
nor at Tom's car, nor even at the trooper. He was looking for a turnoff with a
store. He had just missed the one in Beloit - tried to pass another car, and
couldn't get back in the right lane before shooting past the turnoff.
                German by nationality, he was attending UW
Madison. In fact, he had spent most of his eighteen years in the U.S., and,
like the others around him, was familiar with the road. Unlike the others,
though, his plates said Wisconsin, and he was on his way to Chicago. His
headache was splitting - must be one of those migraines they're always talking
about, he thought. His eyes hurt to open in the bright sunlight, but he did see
a turnoff coming up in just a few miles, just over the Illinois border. He
continued to drive with one hand, squeezing his head with the other.
    He felt sharp pains shooting throughout his head, and felt
blackness cross his eyes, interspersed with short periods of clarity. He was
beginning to become nauseated from the pain.
                His
headache would get worse.
                Tom
McGarret signaled left and started moving to the left lane around a semi, owned
either by "DLS TRUCKING" or by "Wash Me" - it was hard to
tell, though "Wash Me" was clearer.
    The trooper noticed the semi from across the highway, and
the car passing it. Illinois plates, but within the limit. No prize there.
                Then,
for no apparent reason, as if in slow motion, the back half of the semi started
to sweep across the lanes, as if it were a hockey stick about to launch
McGarret's car into the net.        Tom caught the motion out of the corner of
his eye , and tried to accelerate, to stay ahead of the truck's swinging
trailer, but his car, too, almost simultaneously began the same motion, and
lost its grip on the road.
                The trooper, never taking his eyes off the two
vehicles, realized what was about to happen, and reached automatically for his
radio, keying the handset as he brought it up to his mouth.
    "Dispatch, Baker Thirty-Two..." He stopped mid-sentence,
with the mike's button still depressed, mouth still hanging open, as he saw the
two vehicles begin to dance, literally. Both vehicles began a slow rotation
around each