sixteen

Duncan slowed down his Chevy Colorado pickup, switched on the turn indicator, the police cruiser staying right on his tail. He lowered the window. The night air was cool. Cameron said, his voice tight, “Whatever happens tonight, bro, I’m not going back to prison. Not ever. So you keep that in mind.”

Duncan said, “Be cool, Cam. All right? Maybe I have a burnt-out taillight. Or the rear license plate fell off. No need to get wound up.”

“Easy the fuck for you to say,” Cameron replied. “All these years you’ve skated along, while I’m the one with the record.”

Duncan put the Chevy in park, noted Cameron shifting his position, as his right hand lowered to his belt. “Stop moving around so much, Cam. You’re giving the cop back there an excuse to get suspicious. Why do that?”

Cameron said, “Suspicious? We’ve got enough firepower back here to take on half the police forces in the state. You don’t think that’s a problem? I’ll tell you what happened, bro, is that little fuck Gus Spooner dimed us out the moment he got some Oxycontin into him and got his hand bandaged up. You remember that joke you said about his dad leaving us off his Christmas card list. Does that sound funny now?”

“Look at your mirror,” Duncan said. “Is the cop back there a local or a statie?”

Cameron said, “All I see is headlights, blue lights, and trouble. I see lots of trouble.”

Duncan looked to his side view mirror, saw the cruiser door open up, a figure come out. “Cameron, there’s not going to be a shoot-out, understand? You know how it works: traffic stop is made, call is made to Dispatch to do a records check. So if you start blasting and I drive us the hell out of here, the word on us will be out in minutes.”

“So the fuck what,” Cameron said, his Glock semiautomatic pistol in his hand, his hand now lowering to his side. “Those minutes, I’ll be free and clear, won’t I.”

“Leaving me high and dry?”

“Be a change for you, wouldn’t it,” Cameron said.

He was going to say something sharp in reply but the interior of his Chevy truck cab was lit up from a flashlight. “Evening, folks,” a woman’s voice came out. “Would like to see your driver’s license and registration, please.”

“Absolutely,” Duncan said. “My license is in my wallet, my registration is in the glove box. I’m getting them both now.”

He leaned across, hoping his jacket didn’t ride up enough to reveal his own firepower strapped to his side, and he popped open the glove box. Luckily he was anal when it came to keeping records like this at close hand: the registration was right on top, in a clear plastic sleeve, and wasn’t buried under a pile of napkins, store coupons, and ketchup containers.

Duncan hunched up, removed his wallet, took out his license. Both were passed over to the cop. Cameron sat still, staring straight ahead.

The flashlight came down, the license and registration were both examined, and then returned. “So you’re Duncan Crowley, of Turner. Correct?”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

“Understand you own a number of businesses in this county.”

Duncan said, “That’s also right, ma’am.”

The flashlight was lowered and the woman cop said, “Thought as much. I’m Melanie Pope, the new chief in Crowdin. I was heading home after dropping off some late paperwork at the district court. This is unusual and all, pulling you over as part of a traffic stop, but I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

“Ask away,” Duncan said.

“Thing is, as the new chief in town, I want to make a good impression. We have Old Home Week coming up in three months, and I’m supposed to meet with the celebration committee in two days. Any chance I could ask you and your company to make a charitable donation?”

Duncan tried not to burst out laughing. “Just so I’m clear, you made a traffic stop to ask me that question?”

“That’s right,” she said, not embarrassed at all. “I suppose I could have called or sent a letter, but I like the direct approach.”

Cameron still stared straight ahead. Duncan said, “Tell you what, call my wife Karen tomorrow. She runs a hair salon in Turner, called Karen’s Cut and Curl. You tell her that you talked to me, she’ll look at the books, and figure out what we can donate. That sound fair to you, Chief?”

“More than fair,” she said. “I’ll leave you two be, then, and see you later.”

But before she stepped away, she flashed her light back into the truck’s cab. “Who’s your passenger tonight, Mr. Crowley?”

“My brother,” he said.

“Not very talkative, is he,” she said, keeping the flashlight trained on Cam’s angry bearded face, with pockmarks and old scars. Duncan was afraid of what was going to happen to Cam: he had seen that same look before, back over the years, at the Flight Deck Bar & Grill, or at the motorcycle rallies in Laconia, or any other place, when Cameron felt like he had been pushed into a corner and was about to explode.

Duncan quickly said, “You’re absolutely right, he’s not very talkative at all. You see, my brother sometimes isn’t all there. He’s slow, forgetful, and quick to get angry. Some doctors say he’s slightly retarded. But we’ve learned over the years how to take care of him. We find a nice quiet drive out in the country before bedtime usually means a good night’s sleep, without him wetting the bed.”

“Oh,” the chief said. “Sorry to bother you then. Good night.”

“A good night to you as well,” Duncan said, and after putting the registration back into the glove box, he sat still, waited until the Crowdin police chief safely got back to her cruiser, she not knowing just how close she had come to the finality of death tonight. All it would have taken would have been a quick glance behind the seat to see the miniature armory and protective clothing. A few sharp questions on her part and he doubted he could have held Cameron back from blasting away at her.

The cruiser pulled away and Duncan flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. That had been so damn close, so very damn close …

“You know this new chief?” Cameron asked.

Duncan carefully said, “Not really. What do you know?”

“Some hard charger, supposedly ex-military cop. Decided to move up north, get away from it all.”

“Good for her.”

“Still … retarded?” Cameron demanded. “Is that what you called me, retarded?”

Duncan started up the Chevy, went out onto the road. “It worked, didn’t it? Don’t you think you’d rather be called retarded, instead of getting into a bloody shoot-out with a cop?”

Cameron raised up his Glock, put it on his lap. “Don’t be so fucking sure,” he said.

Duncan stayed quiet. After about a mile, Cameron said, “Hey, weren’t you going to say something back there, before we got pulled over?”

“Forget it,” Duncan said.