"No, negative, Three. Uh, I just saw him and, uh, tried to stop him and he took off…" The "uhs" told me that he was really concentrating on his driving.

Damn. I backed my car up, being sure I was leaving enough room for the suspect to get safely by. You aren't allowed to really get serious about blocking a road unless there's a felony charge on the oncoming driver. I got out of my car, taking my shotgun with me. I deliberately didn't take time for my parka, because I felt the suspect should be there within a few minutes or less. I did, however, put on my down-filled vest. God, it was cold. I pulled my gloves on, and jacked a round into the chamber of the 12-gauge pump. I stood well off to the side and rear of my car. No point in getting run over if he lost control. I pulled my turtleneck up to cover my face.

The only sound was the purring of the engine on my car. Dead quiet. There was either no moon, or it wasn't up yet. I looked up, and the stars were just everywhere. No twinkling, just millions of little steady points. The way it gets in Iowa when it's so cold the moisture freezes and precipitates out of the atmosphere.

I became aware of a faint whining sound, growing louder. Then the squeaking of tires on fresh snow, and faint headlights coming right toward the intersection. He'd been traveling so fast, and busting through drifts, the snow had covered his headlights. He probably couldn't see much of anything except my headlights. I could barely see him as he slid past me, disoriented by the sudden appearance of my car's bright and flashing lights, lost control, and shot off the road and the shoulder and straight into the ditch on the other side of the paved road, disappearing in a cloud of snow.

"Uh, Three's got him stopped at the intersection!" I said into my walkie-talkie, as I walked quickly toward the suspect's car. Through the snow piled up on the roof and the snow stuck to the windows, I could just barely see someone inside trying to get the door open. The depth of the snow was making that pretty difficult, as it was piled up nearly window high in the furrow he'd made through the drifts.