As the cop drove Webb through Norman Wells, Webb saw streets with names like Raven and Lynx. He knew from Internet research that there was also one named Honeybucket, because, in the past, that’s what they called the pails they used on long frozen nights when a person didn’t want to go to the outhouse.
He wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing though. He was mad at himself for not paying attention in the airport. On the streets, that kind of carelessness could get a person killed.
He was also mad at George, who lived in this small town. George knew the cop who had arrested Webb. Webb wouldn’t be sitting in the cop truck if George had told the truth. No, Brent would be in it instead. But George had lied.
It didn’t help Webb’s mood that his lower jaw hurt. A lot. There was a tooth loose. It felt like it was sticking through his skin. He used his tongue to push his lower lip forward and touch the tooth. It was leaning forward at more than forty-five degrees. The pain felt like lightning going through his veins. But that slight touch was enough to pop the tooth loose.
With his hands cuffed behind him, there wasn’t much else to do with the tooth except spit it out, swallow it or roll it under his tongue. He decided not to give the cop the satisfaction of seeing a tooth come out like a Chiclet, and he sure didn’t want that small, hard chunk of enamel going through his digestive system. So he kept it under his tongue and watched the streets of Norman Wells go by.
He had never been to Norman Wells before, but he knew as much about it as a person could learn through Wikipedia. Webb disliked going anywhere without knowing what to expect. He knew every free Wi-Fi spot in a twenty-block radius of his territory in Toronto, and Google and his iPod were his best friends. Much as it had hurt to draw from his tiny savings, he had even invested in a solar-powered battery charger so he wouldn’t have to depend on coffee shops and the library for power.
Webb knew a lot about Norman Wells, but he hadn’t known that the cops drove police trucks, not police cars. White with horizontal stripes like a regular police car. Same Plexiglas and bars between the front seat and the back, but in a 4x4. Made sense, given the climate.
The cop pulled up to a building on a corner across a gravel parking lot from a fenced playground. Symbolic, Webb thought. Ironic, even. A playground for those who still had lots of opportunity to make good choices; police station for those who hadn’t. Probably lost on people who spent time in the police station, but not lost on him. Maybe a song was in there somewhere, he thought, losing himself in that instead of worrying about what lay ahead. That’s what he always did—escaped into the music. Most of the time it worked. Now his anger and the broken tooth were distractions.
The cop hit a button on a remote on the visor, and the door to a huge garage bay opened. The cop slowly drove the truck into the garage and shut the door with the remote before opening the rear passenger door of the police truck.
“I’m going to escort you up the steps and inside to your holding cell,” the cop said. “And by escort, that means you’ll walk in front of me and I’ll be watching to make sure you keep walking and don’t try anything stupid.”
Webb poked at the new hole in his mouth, where a healthy tooth had been less than a half hour earlier. Good that he’d had lots of experience dealing with pain, he thought.
“Did you hear that?” the cop said. “Do me a favor and don’t try anything stupid.”
Webb’s hands were cuffed behind his back, so trying anything at all would by definition be trying something stupid. Must have been plenty before him who had been stupid, if it needed saying.
“Come on,” the cop grunted. “Let’s get this done.”
Webb swung his legs out of the truck, then paused.
“My guitar,” Webb said. The cop had thrown the case in the back of the truck. Thrown. That was the real crime here. “Can you put it somewhere safe?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the cop said. “Somewhere safe.”
No way Webb would have been able to afford the guitar on his own. His grandfather had co-signed a loan for it. It was the only time Webb had asked anyone for help since he left home. He was making weekly payments, but it was worth the cost, both in money and in asking for a favor. The J-45 was legendary. Its rosette—the circle around the sound hole—was three-ply binding, something that probably only someone like Webb could love and appreciate. The teardrop-shaped pick guard was polished tortoise. A top of Sitka spruce and sides of Honduras mahogany gave it the warm bass sound and amazing projection that plucked at your soul.
Webb wanted to ask the cop not to toss it around while he was finding somewhere safe, but he didn’t want to annoy the cop and have him do the opposite.
On his feet, Webb found his balance, and the cop used a hand on the small of Webb’s back to push him forward, up a set of steps, through a security door and into the police station.
Not much to see. Three numbered doors, all of them open. Webb glanced inside as the cop pushed him past the doors toward a counter. The interiors of the rooms were bare, with bench seats around all the walls. Toilet in the corners. Cells. The rooms were cells.
One of them, Webb guessed, would be his new home.
At the counter, the space opened up into a public lobby. There were a couple of desks with computers. Not much else.
Webb had no idea whether this was a typical police station. This was a first for him.
“Want to know what happens next?” the cop asked. Like he had read Webb’s mind. Or like he was curious about why Webb looked as if he didn’t care. Webb had a lot of practice looking like he didn’t care.
“Can I do anything about it if there’s something I don’t like?”
“Nope.”
“Any chance I can have my guitar back while I wait for whatever happens next?”
“Nope.”
“Then go ahead with whatever happens next. I don’t see much point in getting it explained to me.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” the cop said. “I’m going to need your belt and everything in your pockets. Once you’re in the cell, I’ll see if I can get a nurse to come in and look at your lip. The doctor’s not scheduled to be here until next week.”
“How about you let me out of here,” Webb said.
“I didn’t do anything wrong except defend myself.”
“Your tooth went right through your lip,” the cop said. “Someone should look at it.”
“I’d rather see a lawyer. I need to get out of here.”
“Lawyer?” The cop laughed. “Here in Norman Wells? You did notice how isolated we are, right?”
“I’ve noticed you have telephones,” Webb said. “Let me call a lawyer.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Yes.” But that’s all Webb said.
“That would be?”
That would be something that his grandfather had asked Webb to do, but it would also be something that was none of the cop’s business.
Webb said nothing. He’d learned silence was a powerful way to communicate.
The cop let out a long sigh. Webb could tell he was puzzled. But Webb didn’t owe him any explanations.
“What brings you to Norman Wells?” the cop asked.
“Airplane,” Webb said.
“From anyone else,” the cop said, “that would be a smart-ass answer. You, I think, are telling me to mind my own business. But after what you did at the airport, your business is my business.”
Webb took off his belt and emptied out his pockets. Some change. His wallet. A few guitar picks. His iPod and the solar-powered charger.
“You’re forgetting something.”
Webb shook his head.
“That tooth. If it’s not attached to you, it goes in the bag too.”
“Swallowed it,” Webb said. He felt the tooth roll under his tongue as he spoke.
After he filled in a form listing all Webb’s belongings, the cop chucked all Webb’s stuff in a bag and uncuffed Webb so that he could sign the form. Webb could see the cop watching him, as if he expected Webb to swing at him and wanted to be ready for it.
No chance of that. The cop had control of the guitar. Webb didn’t want the cop to have a personal grudge against him. Webb could fight back. His guitar couldn’t.
“Give me your parents’ phone number,” the cop said as he flipped through Webb’s passport. “You’re not eighteen.”
Webb couldn’t imagine anything worse—after ignoring his mother at the funeral and the reading of the will, his first contact with her in months shouldn’t be a call from a police cell in the Northwest Territories. She didn’t deserve that.
“I have to be out by tomorrow,” Webb said. “Don’t I get a phone call or something?”
“I want to talk to your parents.”
“And I want to talk to a lawyer.”
“Tomorrow,” the cop said. He led Webb to cell number two. “And if you don’t give me a number for your parents, I’ll get it another way. Trust me.”
The benches along the walls were green. There were two large windows made of some kind of material that let in light but wasn’t transparent.
Someone else might have made a joke about going number two, just to break the silence. Not Webb.
He was fine with silence.
Good thing.
When the cop shut the door on Webb, that’s all he had for company.
Silence.