They could still hear the buzzing from the fleeing boat, and Johnson yelled, “This one, get this one, get the rope, get the line . . .”
He’d jumped into a jon boat with a small engine on the back.
“We need a faster boat,” Virgil shouted.
“Can’t. They all need keys,” Johnson shouted back. “This one’s just a rope pull.” To prove the point, he yanked on the starter rope and nothing happened. Johnson said something that would have embarrassed the entire state of Minnesota, had the entire state overheard it. He whacked the motor a few times, pulled again, and the outboard sputtered to life. “We’re good: get in.”
Shrake and Virgil jumped in the boat, and Virgil unwrapped the dock line, and Johnson backed the boat away from the pier and they took off, more or less.
“This is really fuckin’ slow,” Shrake said. “Can’t we get more speed?”
“You could jump overboard,” Johnson suggested. “That’d lighten the load.” And to Virgil: “Hey, Virgie, put your jacklight on that sucker.”
They couldn’t see Laughton’s boat, and they couldn’t hear it anymore, over the buzz of their own small engine, but had an idea of where he was. Virgil turned on the jacklight. Laughton was already a long way out, but the light pinned him, three or four hundred yards ahead, pointed out into the river. He was also in a jon boat, and also had a small engine on the back.
“All right,” Johnson shouted. “The chase is on.”
Virgil and Shrake were looking at Laughton’s back, trying to keep it in sight. Johnson, who was standing in the stern, pulled his Para-Ordnance .45 out of his beltline and fired two shots so quickly they almost blended into one, and almost inspired both Virgil and Shrake to jump over the side.
Virgil screamed, “Johnson, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Chasing him,” Johnson shouted back. “Is this a great country, or what?”
26
NOTHING LIKE a slow-speed chase on a pleasant summer night on the Mississippi. They could see a towboat, but it was far upriver, and no immediate danger; far downstream they could see a hint of the lights on the lock and dam, and across the river, on the far bluffs, radio towers sending flashing red light out into the ether. Halfway across, Laughton fired a shot at them, but he was far enough away that they didn’t even see the shot hit the water.
“Wonder what the maximum range for shot is?” Virgil asked.
Shrake said, “There’s a range I shoot at in Wisconsin, they say four hundred yards to be safe. But everybody says not even buckshot carries much further than three hundred.”
Johnson said, “My .45’ll carry a lot further than that.”
Virgil: “Johnson, I swear to God, if you take that gun out again, I’ll throw both of you in the fuckin’ river.”
—
SHRAKE: “I WONDER if he thinks if he makes it to Wisconsin, we won’t be able to follow because we’re Minnesota cops?”
“Only if he’s got his head up his ass,” Virgil said. “Though we probably ought to call the Wisconsin sheriff’s office, whichever one it is, and tell them we’re coming. Maybe we could get a little help.”
Virgil got on the line to Purdy’s office, and when the duty officer answered, gave him a quick explanation, and he said he’d call the sheriff across the river: “But don’t expect them too quick, this time of night, they’ll be coming all the way from Viroqua.”