13

The bars of the small cell were exactly what Ackerman would have imagined as having existed in the old west. He wondered if that was where the remote station had acquired the materials to build their drunk tank. It was only another small step to conjure images of such famous outlaws as Jesse James or Billy the Kid staring out through the same bars. And if that was the case, it would also be fair to say that they may have reached through the bars and grabbed hold of some famous lawmen of a bygone era. In the fictional history he had projected for the bars of the cell, he was about to join esteemed company who had once possibly spilled blood on the same iron that Ackerman was about to.

Having already choreographed and mentally practiced the maneuver—which he prepared as he distracted the normals with words—Ackerman rammed his arm through the bars. One ring of the handcuffs was still attached to his right wrist, but the other side of the cuffs hung free. As he had predicted, Officer Pitka had hesitated to fire. Maybe it was a second, maybe much less. But Ackerman knew from experience that the time it would take for Pitka’s brain to process the proper reaction and for his finger to slide from the trigger guard to the trigger itself would be more than sufficient.

With a twist of his arm, Ackerman swung the open ring of the cuffs at Pitka’s wrist. The metal loop snapped closed, and Ackerman yanked the shocked kid toward the bars.

Caught off balance, Pitka slammed into the bars headfirst. Somewhere amid his plunge, he released a blast into the ceiling, but he dropped the Glock when his head collided with the iron.

Ackerman had made special note of the pocket of the utility belt where Pitka had placed the key to the cell door. Liana was screaming for him to get down, but any shot she may have had was blocked by her partner. Yanking again, he slammed the young officer’s body into the bars to keep him positioned as a shield. Then, with his left hand, Ackerman keyed the cell’s lock and opened the door. As the latch disengaged, he tore his right hand free of the cuffs. The pain from the skin he left behind was like a cool breeze against his face.

The handcuffs were now free from his wrist and still attached to Pitka’s. Twisting the kid’s arm up at an awkward angle, he snapped the cuffs latched against a rung of the cage. Stepping to the other side of the bars, Ackerman pulled the Taser free from Pitka’s belt.

Liana was still yelling something and trying to get a clean shot. She was wearing body armor, which would make an effective shot with the Taser unlikely. Instead, he flicked his wrist and tossed the weapon like a boomerang directly at Liana’s forehead. It collided with a thwack, and Liana reflexively pulled back from the pain, which gave him the chance to rush forward and disarm his impetuous new friend.

Ackerman heard the screeching tires of a vehicle in front of the station house, most likely Canyon and Captain Yazzie having heard Pitka’s wayward pistol discharge.

Lucky for them, further violence wasn’t necessary. He felt his point had been made.

Instead of fighting back, Ackerman returned to the cell, leaving the gun behind, and laid down on the cot.

To the figure of Thomas White watching from the corner of the cell, he said, “Happy now.”

His imagined father released a low chuckle and replied, “Poetry in motion. Although, you should have killed them both. That would have sent a much better message.”

Leaning back and closing his eyes, Ackerman said, “See, right there. That’s how I know that you’re only in my mind. My real father would never allow me even that much of a compliment.”