“What exactly’s the problem, Officer?”
They seemed like good boys, fun-loving, here in Andover on jock scholarships, armed with Dad’s fine car and plenty of pocket money. But one of Runyer’s first lessons from his predecessor had been that, even in sleepy Andover, the friendliest-seeming folk often aren’t and you’ve got to be most cautious of the ones leaning hard to be on your side.
The driver kept both his hands on the wheel. His buddy’s right hand was just coming up from the crack beside the right-hand door. Putting it away at least — whatever it was — instead of picking it up. The bottle probably. But they weren’t impaired and Runyer decided to let a DUI check go.
“Where you headed?”
The driver grinned. “Just, you know, out for a drive.”
The flashlight strayed into the backseat. No ski masks or black pullovers. No canvas bags chocked with enough money to live on for a hundred years, in Pequot County at least. But what about the trunk?
“There’s some bar we heard about,” the passenger said. “I don’t know. Some action.”
“Action?”
The young man swallowed. “Well, we were looking for some action. That’s what I meant. You know.”
Runyer noticed that with every word his friend said, the driver was getting madder and madder. And he thought: Problem. We got ourselves a problem here. How do I handle it? He didn’t know. The bulk of arrests in Andover involved liquor, pot, or cars. Runyer couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually handcuffed somebody. He wondered if he could still do it without embarrassing himself or tearing flesh.
“I wonder if I could see your license and registration.”
“Well, you know, it’s funny,” the driver said, the words clipped. Like his mind was somewhere in front of his voice. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you got your license with you. That one time you don’t, you get stopped.”
“You don’t.” Runyer offered a grin of his own. “How ’bout the vehicle’s registration?”
“Sure, Officer.”
He searched the glove compartment and door pocket, then found it in the sun visor. The driver glanced at the small card as he passed it out the window.
Runyer read it and looked up. “That’s you? Thomas Gibson?”
“Yessir.”
The sheriff stared at the slip of DMV cardboard, afraid to take his eyes off it. Reading the name over and over, as if it was a fax about a deceased loved one.
Thomas Gibson...
Of 3674 Muller Lane, Portsmouth, Vermont.
The best-known OB-GYN in Pequot County. Who’d delivered Runyer’s sister’s first not long ago.
Who’d called Hazel exactly thirty minutes before the Minuteman robbery to report his car stolen.
“Fine,” Runyer said earnestly. “Good.” Wondering why on earth he had.
Pistol out. Stepping back, pointing it from one of the disgusted, sneering faces to the other. Their smiles were gone.
“I’m gonna say some things and you better listen. I want to see all four of those hands at all times. If one of them disappears, I’m shooting whoever it belongs to. If you reach for the gearshift lever, I’m shooting you. I’m going to ask you to get out of the car in a minute and if either of you runs, I’m shooting you. We clear on that?”
“Officer, come on,” the passenger whined.
“Shut up, Earl,” the driver barked.
Something flickered in the distance. A flash of light. The driver glanced in his rearview mirror and gave a slight smile. Another car was coming down the road and Hal Runyer knew in his heart it was their partner.
“Driver, hands on the wheel. And you, put ’em on the dash.”
“You—”
“Do it!”
“Oh-kay,” the driver snapped. This was all a huge inconvenience to him.
Earl’s shrill voice: “Gare, what’re we gonna do?”
“You’re going to be quiet is what you’re going to do,” Gare muttered, flexing his long fingers.
The second car had whipped through the switchbacks and was bottoming out of Harrier Pass. The lights vanished as the car went behind a hill. It’d be at the roadblock in three minutes.
“Driver, leave your left hand on the wheel and with your right reach out and open the door.” Was this how he should do it? He thought so. But he wished he knew for sure.
Gare sighed and did what he was told. He climbed slowly from the car, keeping his hands extended.
Earl was looking like a spooked bird, eyes flicking sideways in jerky little movements.
Runyer pitched his only pair of cuffs to Gare. “Get those on. Bet you know how.”
Light glowed on the near horizon of the highway. Runyer could hear the urgent shush of the tires on the damp asphalt.
Gare glanced toward the light and grinned slightly. He clicked the cuff on one hand.
“Come on, man,” Earl said to Runyer. “Can’t we work something out? We got plenty of money.”
“Oh, shut up,” Gare barked.
“So. We’re adding bribery to all this.”
Another flicker of light. The car was growing closer.
Gare tensed and Runyer’s pistol lifted slightly. “I want that second cuff on now!”
“How ’bout my boy Earl? No bracelets for ’m?”
The approaching car wasn’t more than a hundred feet away. “I have to put those on, I’ll ratchet ’em good and tight and leave ’em that way. You’ll wish you’d done it yourself.”
Earl opened the passenger door. Something fell to the ground at his feet. No bottle. It was metal.
“Freeze right there.”
Earl ducked a little but Runyer brought him up to standing again with the muzzle.
“Look, Officer—” Gare began. The gun swung back his way.
The car rounded the curve.
What do I do? With three of ’em here, what do I do? I should call in for help. Should’ve done that right up front. Hell. And the squad car’s thirty feet away.
“Now. I’m not telling you again.”
Click, click. The cuffs were on. Runyer led Gare to the front fender. Keeping his pistol aimed at Earl, he eased Gare facedown onto the hood, bent at the waist. His body made a wingless angel in the dew on the glittery silver paint.
“Now you,” Runyer said to Earl. “Come here.”
The car came around the curve fast and skidded to a stop. The man behind the wheel opened the door and it took Runyer no more than a second to glance at his face and realize he wasn’t the partner. But a second was all Gare needed. Fast as falling rock he snapped upright. His cuffed hands slammed into Runyer’s head, tearing his ear with the links. He grabbed the sheriff’s gun hand.
Earl bent fast at the knees and came up with the gun that had fallen out of the car when he’d opened the door.
Runyer held onto Gare like a college wrestler. The men rolled on the ground, through wet grass, mulchy leaves, oil, deer piss. Struggling to get Gare down and losing — the small man was strong as roots and Runyer had to keep away from the teeth especially.
“Don’t move,” Earl screamed, waving his gun in their direction.
“Officer!” the other driver called.
“Get outa here,” Runyer shouted.
The man hesitated only for a moment, then turned to leap back into his car.
Earl ran toward him. “You, stay there! Stay there!”
The gunshot was a short, sharp crack, swallowed by the misty dampness. The man flew backward.
Oh, Lord...
Then Gare elbowed the sheriff hard in the gut and won the pistol. He pressed the muzzle against Runyer’s throat, cocked the gun.
“No,” Runyer whispered.
“Maybe,” Gare answered smartly, grinning. He rubbed the muzzle over the sheriffs skin.