It is much later when he pulls out of Sunbeam’s detached garage and back into the rest of the world. He’s collected all of his ropes, cords, tape, rags, and gags. He’s cleaned everything he’s touched and has even taken the water glass with him. He’s taken care of all loose ends. Sunbeam has been in and out of death’s grasp. She was fairly limp as he carried her out and put her in his trunk, and he isn’t sure what will be left of her by the time he gets her back to his work space, so he has to drive quickly.
He is halfway home, not far from where he works, actually, when he comes to the stop sign at an intersection near Copper Road. It may be a high-traffic spot during the day, but there aren’t any cars around and he is a long way from making a full stop as he taps the brakes and rolls through. A moment later his rear window is bathed in flashing red and blue. All goes cold inside him as he pulls over and waits for the policeman to approach. He is a big guy with a brush cut and steel blue eyes.
“Let me see your stuff, please. License and registration,” the cop says, and appraises the car as if he is in the market for one, running his flashlight around the interior. The beam lingers on the canvas shoulder bag, which rests in the foot well on the passenger side.
He hands over his papers and waits while the cop reviews them. The cop’s nameplate reads “Sgt. Morris.” A glance in the rearview mirror reveals that Sgt. Morris has a partner who is hunched over the onboard computer, undoubtedly running his license plate. Fortunately he has no violations.
“Where are you headed so late?” the cop asks.
“Just trying to get home. I work nearby.”
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
“No, sir, I do not,” he says. If Sunbeam stirs in the trunk, if she thumps or bangs around or utters so much as a muffled cry, it will all be over.
“You failed to come to a complete stop at the intersection.”
“I guess I did give the stop sign a bit of the old college roll, Officer,” he says lightly.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No, Officer.”
“A few beers? Anything?”
“Not a sip.”
“Why are you sweating?” the cop asks.
“Am I? I have the heater up kind of high,” he says.
It has all come down to this. He wonders if Sunbeam can hear any of the exchange through the walls of the trunk, if she is unable to scream around the gag, or if she is drifting in and out of consciousness, too addled to know that her only chance is right now.
Sgt. Morris uses the beam of his light to check the hologram on the license a last time. He looks back toward his cruiser. His partner gives a hand signal, perhaps an “all clear.”
“All right, sir … you drive safe and have a good night,” Sgt. Morris says, handing back the driver’s license, registration, and insurance card. Sgt. Morris returns to his cruiser, gets in, and pulls away.
He waits another few seconds, reveling in the sensation of winning, again, while he situates his papers in the glove box, before he puts his car in gear and drives home to get down to it.