Dispatch put out the request, and Morrison came back as if he’d been hanging on every word, saying that he could be there in three minutes. Dispatch relayed, and I confirmed.
Then I waited, feeling my stomach contracting and my hands beginning to tremble, thinking that this was really the only way to make things right. I was committed now – we all were.
In the rearview, I caught the nimbus glow of headlights through the pines, and within fifteen seconds Morrison’s car appeared, slowing as it came around the bend and he caught sight of my vehicle. I popped my door and got out, taking my stick and sliding it onto my belt, then pulling my flashlight. He parked behind me, and I watched him exit, waited until he’d approached before speaking.
“Single male occupant.” My voice sounded strained, the way it had when we’d faced each other in the precinct lot, but this time I knew that it wasn’t due to anger. “Think Caucasian, can’t tell.”
Morrison squinted past me at the pickup, raising his own flashlight and hitting the car with its beam. I watched as the pool of light drew itself over the license plate, then to the rear window of the cab, where Sophie’s head, covered by the hood of her sweatshirt, seemed to loll against the driver’s-side window. Morrison snapped the beam off, then grinned that smug grin of his.
“That little thing in there’s got you scared, Hoffman?” he said. “I must goddamn terrify you. Tell you what, I’ll handle the contact and you can take the credit for it. Keep you nice and safe.”
“Just be ready in case I need you,” I said.
Then, raising my own flashlight, I approached the pickup, snapping the beam on and shining it into the cab. I used the butt to tap the window, and Sophie showed me her hands in her lap without moving her head, so I could see the camera was on and recording. I tapped a second time, and Sophie moved her head slightly, as if waking up.
“Police officer,” I said loudly. “Can I see some identification please?”
Then I stepped back and turned to face Morrison, putting the beam from my flashlight directly into his eyes, effectively blinding him. The door, now on my left, opened, and Sophie slid quickly out, holding the camera with both hands, lining up Morrison in the shot.
Morrison had his free hand up, trying to shield his eyes. “The hell – ”
“This is Officer Mark Morrison,” I said for the benefit of the camera.
“Wait a – is that Gault?” Morrison demanded, still trying to free the light from his eyes. “Get your flash out of my eyes, damn it! Is it that little cocktease, is that Gault?”
“He’s about to get the shit kicked out of him,” I added, watching Jen as she came up behind him.
To his credit, Morrison shut up when he heard me say that. Then he started to turn away, and he dropped his hand from where it had been shielding his eyes. He was already half-blind from my flash, and there was no way he saw Jen until it was far too late for him to do anything about it.
“Try holding your breath,” Jen said.
Then she hit him in the face with a shot of pepper spray.
Morrison gagged on a curse, staggered back, flailing in pain. I used my stick and took his right knee, and he dropped forward, managed to land on his hands, and I gave him another one in back to put him down, then dropped my own knees on him and put him in a choke hold. Jen had reached into my car by then, throwing the spot on again, suddenly making every detail in the scene brighter than day. She came back to us, began stripping the gear off Morrison’s belt, going for his cuffs first. She did his wrists, then took his gun and his Taser and his stick, all of it, before running over to his car and dumping it inside.
Morrison shuddered and gagged, and when I released the hold, he collapsed heavily. A fountain of snot was running from his nose, his mouth open wide, dripping its own rush of fluid.
I got my feet under me and watched as Jen put a kick into his ribs, then I backed off to where Sophie was still standing. We traded: I got the camera, and she got my stick.
Sophie just looked at him for a couple of seconds at first. I could see the conflict in her face, see the shifting of her emotions from hesitation and even fear into anger. She was remembering what had happened to her, what could have happened to her. I could see it in her eyes.
“You bastard,” Sophie said.
Then she brought the stick into his side. Not too hard, just enough to make sure he knew what was coming. Morrison choked, squirming, and she hit him on the opposite side, harder. He was still gagging, and he tried to lurch forward, but he couldn’t get far without the help of his hands, and he gave it up when Sophie hit him a third time, harder, high in the back. Then she did it again, and again, and again, working along his side, until she’d reached the small of his back. Morrison was crying out, his inarticulate pleas filled with phlegm.
“You let him hurt me,” Sophie said, and she rammed my stick viciously into his side, and Morrison stopped crying out, for a moment entirely unable to breathe. “You let him hurt me and you laughed while he did it, you son of a bitch.”
Jen had the six-pack for me, and I gave her the camera and took it, then took my stick back from Sophie and replaced it on my belt. Morrison was struggling to regain his breath, trying to get his knees beneath him. I pulled the first bottle, felt it cool and heavy and smooth in my hand, a beer-filled rock that could crack a skull and end a life. Morrison managed to flip himself onto his side, and the spot from my car made the mess on his face shine like a glass mask, and through his tears he saw me, saw what I held, and he sputtered.
“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed. “You can’t do this, you can’t – ”
I threw the bottle, missing his head by six inches or so, and it burst on impact, glass shattering and beer spraying, and Morrison flinched. I took a second bottle, stepping closer.
“You can’t – ”
I threw again, this time harder, again missing him, this time just barely. More glass, more beer, and the scent of it mingled with the pines and the road and the autumn and the bile. Morrison choked back a strangled scream, and it wasn’t enough, and I grabbed two more bottles and threw them at his head back-to-back, still missing, and this time he did scream, closing his eyes and trying to roll away from me. Sophie moved to cut him off, pushing him back with her boot.
“Now who’s on the ground?” I told Morrison, and I threw my second-to-last bottle, letting it shatter beside him with all the others.
He screamed for me to stop, for Jen or Sophie to help him.
I picked up the last bottle, used the church key Jen had stuck in the pack to open it. Then I tilted it over his head and let gravity take half the contents, watching it run out and fall onto his face, washing away his tears and his snot as he spluttered and gagged some more.
Then I let gravity take the bottle itself, and it hit him just above the bridge of his nose, and what was left inside foamed out as it clattered onto the road.
“Bet you wish you had backup,” I told him.
He blinked beer and tears out of his eyes, looking up at me, miserable, full of rage. Then Jen stepped closer, the camera still running, and he seemed to finally see it, and the rage abated in confusion.
“Yeah,” I told him. “All of it recorded for posterity.”
“You’re all crazy,” he croaked. “Fucking crazy.”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong, Morrison,” I said. “It’s not for our posterity, it’s for yours.”
Jen handed the keys she’d taken off him to Sophie, who went around behind and began unfastening his cuffs. Morrison tried tracking her, craning his head, then looked back to Jen, then finally to me. If he hadn’t looked so pathetic then, I probably would have laughed.