AFTER TAKING MERCY AND HER DOG HOME, Troy went out on patrol for a few hours, then headed back to the office, hoping for the chance to talk to the captain about the disaster at the parade before Detective Harrington did.
But he was too late. His superior officer texted him and told him to meet him at the police station. Harrington’s turf.
“Rotten luck,” he told Susie Bear, who responded by spraying him with water as she shook off the rain. She’d been doing this off and on for half an hour now, and was still quite damp, thanks to her thick double-layered coat, which took forever to dry.
Troy was drenched, too. He wouldn’t have minded, given the heat, but going to see Harrington and Thrasher sopping wet was not ideal. He ran his fingers through his hair and mopped his face with a towel before using it on Susie Bear’s big mug.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said to her as he parked the truck in the lot behind the station. Together they went in to face the music, which he imagined that on this Independence Day would be John Philip Sousa. Or maybe the Green Mountain Boys band.
He laughed at his own dumb joke.
“What’s so funny, Warner?” Harrington appeared at the door of his office, an imposing presence in a light gray custom-tailored suit that cost twice his monthly salary. Harrington was perfectly dry.
“Nothing, sir.” Troy fought the urge to wipe away the moisture pooling on his brow from his hairline.
“Nothing funny about that colossal screwup this morning.”
“No, sir.”
“We have you and your girlfriend to thank for that.” Harrington raised his voice and the clatter of the office quieted as everyone around them strained to hear Troy’s dressing-down.
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Troy hesitated. “Sir.”
“Detective Harrington.” Captain Thrasher strode toward them. “Let’s take this inside, shall we?” He shook Harrington’s arm and drew him into the office.
“Come on.” The captain spoke to him very quietly, never a good sign. The angrier he was, the richer his baritone.
“Leave that dog outside,” said Harrington, perching himself on the edge of his large desk to underscore the fact that he was the one in charge.
“Stay,” Troy told Susie Bear, who gave him a baleful look as Thrasher closed the door on her.
“Warden Warner, that was some stunt you and that woman pulled this morning. I’ve spent all afternoon doing damage control—with the Feds and the pols and the media.”
“Sorry, sir.” Troy tightened his lips against the grin that threatened to overtake him at the thought of Harrington at the mercy of the media.
“I hate doing damage control.” Harrington pulled a yellow silk square from his breast pocket, refolded it neatly, and replaced it.
“Sorry, sir,” repeated Troy.
“That Mercy Carr is trouble, Warner. Damned attractive, but trouble.”
“She’s a decorated war veteran.” Troy willed himself not to throw the punch his clenched fist was thirsting for. He moved his hand behind his back, out of sight. “Sir.”
“That explains it. They all see IEDs everywhere.”
Troy started to protest, but a look from Thrasher silenced him.
“Look, if you want to sleep with her, sleep with her,” said Harrington, his voice now a booming stage whisper. “But stay away from her while you’re on the job.”
“Sir.”
“And while we’re on the subject of your job, let me remind you that your job is not homicide. Homicide is my job. Your job is fish and game.” Harrington said this last bit with such contempt Troy felt sure that if he didn’t hit him, Thrasher would.
But he was wrong.
“Warden Warner is needed out on patrol right away,” said Thrasher. “This storm is bound to hit hard.”
“Patrols.” Harrington nodded. “That’s where you belong, Warner. For the foreseeable future.”
Troy looked Harrington in the eye. He saw resolve there. He answered it with a resolve of his own. “Sir.”
“Women are women and work is work,” said Harrington. “Don’t shit where you eat. Every damned fool knows that.”
Troy bounced on his toes. The captain placed his hand on his shoulder, and guided him out of Harrington’s office and through the station and outside into the torrent. Susie Bear followed on his heels.
They ducked into a bus stop shelter, out of the worst of it as the rain pounded the roof and the wind rattled the glass-paneled walls.
“Breathe, son.”
Troy exhaled, and steadied his temper. “Yes, sir.”
“That debacle at the parade was the final straw. He wants your badge.”
“Can he do that?” Troy watched the water stream down the sides of the shelter. He loved his job. If he weren’t a game warden, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
“He’s got powerful friends.”
“So do you.”
“True.” Thrasher rocked back and forth on his heels. “But that may not always be enough. No more stepping on his toes. Make yourself scarce for a while.”
“Patrols.”
“Yes. Meanwhile I’ll do what I can to keep a lid on him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Together they stood in silence as the wind blew and the thunder clapped and the lightning streaked across the darkened sky.
“I like patrols,” said Troy.
Thrasher smiled. “Just as well.”