The crowd was coalescing around them. Reverend Clare was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth open, and Kevin knew her next words would be, “What on earth are you doing here?” The chief’s grip was already loosening on his collar.
So he head-butted the chief. Kevin didn’t have enough leverage to make much of a dent, but Van Alstyne stumbled back, his hand automatically tightening, yanking Kevin along with him. Kevin let himself fall against the chief’s chest. “Arrest me. Make it look good.” He pitched his voice just loud enough for the chief to hear.
Van Alstyne spun him around and put him in a hold. “That was a bad mistake, kid. Assaulting an officer.” The chief searched him for weapons, brutally and efficiently. “Say good-bye to your job, ’cause you’re going to be sitting tight in jail when the show moves on.” He shoved, and Kevin staggered forward.
Reverend Clare was right in front of them, hands on her hips. “Russ?”
The chief walked Kevin past her, aiming for the parking area. “Stay out of it, Clare.” Kevin shook his head slightly. “No, wait. Come with me so I can take your statement.” He raised his voice to be heard over the throng. “Anyone else want to come down to the station and fill out a complaint?”
That was more effective at crowd dispersal than a gas canister. Kevin kept going, Van Alstyne’s hand hard against his back, head hanging down in defeat—which also made it harder for anyone to get a clear look at his face.
He could hear a ripping sound as the chief unhooked his shoulder mic. “Dispatch, this is fifteen-fifty-seven, come in.”
“Go, fifteen-fifty-seven.” Kevin had to bite his lip to stop his smile at the sound of Harlene’s voice.
“Dispatch, requesting available unit to transport an arrestee at the fair, over.”
“Why can’t you do it yourself? Over.”
The chief muttered beneath his breath. “Because I’m waiting on Lyle for that warrant, over.”
“Don’t get your britches in a knot.” There was a long pause. “Okay, fifteen-thirty is on his way with the paperwork. He can do the pickup when he gets there. O-ver.”
“Thanks for your cooperation. Fifteen-fifty-seven out.” The sound of the chief’s satisfaction as he got the last word was enough to tip Kevin over. He bent double, coughing like he had end-stage TB to keep from laughing.
“Ke— Kid, are you okay?” And just like that, the concern in Van Alstyne’s voice swung him from hilarity to grief. He felt as if a great hole was opening beneath his feet. He gasped, and to his horror, burst into tears.
“Russ, he needs help.”
“Mmm. I think I know what it is. Will you go distract the folks at your lunch counter while I get him to the parking area? I don’t want anyone to see him. Come meet me out past the horse vans when you can.”
“All right.”
Kevin heaved for breath, trying to control himself. The chief steered him forward, sideways, forward, sideways, and Kevin realized there was grass beneath his feet and dozing trucks and caravans around him. “Hang on,” the chief said, and there was a click and his arms were free. “Go ahead and sit down. No one can see us here.”
Kevin collapsed, wiping his eyes. “God, I’m sorry.”
Van Alstyne sat down more carefully. “How long have you been undercover?”
“All summer.”
“Twenty-four/seven?”
Kevin nodded.
“Jesus. That’s hard.” The chief squeezed his shoulder. “Sometimes, when you get out from under, it hits you that way. It’s just a reaction to having to be so in control the rest of the time.”
“Thanks.” He blew his nose on the bottom of his T-shirt. Sorry, Mom.
The chief smiled a little. “So you’re obviously not patrolling the streets of Syracuse. Can you tell me what’s up?”
“Yeah.” Kevin recrossed his legs and tipped his head back against the warm edge of a tire. “I’m working for the State Task Force on Domestic Extremism. Detailed from the SPD.”
“That’s a pretty short time from being the new transfer to serious undercover work.”
“I volunteered.”
The chief snorted. “That, I figured.”
“They really needed guys who looked like they could be in their late teens or early twenties. I’ve always had a young face.”
“True. So what are you doing here? Trying to disguise yourself a few miles away from your hometown—that takes brass balls.”
Kevin laughed. “Believe me, I didn’t mean to wind up here. There’s a National Socialist group in Syracuse, so the city is a center point for organized neo-Nazis. But those are the old guys, the ones who go to meetings and make crappy handouts.” He held out a hand as if offering Van Alstyne a booklet. “The real growth, and the scary stuff, are the guys who are on the Internet.”
“Like Stormfront?”
Kevin nodded. “There are cesspits online that make Stormfront look like ladies swapping knitting patterns. That’s how I got started last winter, in the computer crimes unit.” He automatically patted his pocket for his cigarettes. “Most of the losers posting are just jerking each other off—they’ll never do anything in real life.”
“But there are others…” the chief offered.
Kevin nodded. “Who need a way to hook up. To transport arms and drugs. They make their bank by drug sales.”
“Rusty’s Amusements?”
“They’ve got guys on the inside. It’s pretty anonymous—we’re in one place for a week and then move on. So I got hired by Rusty’s—that’s a story in and of itself—and I was supposed to be working for a unit that’s traveling through the western part of the state. Chittenango and Wyoming counties.”
“But…”
“But at the last minute, they needed a bunker man here. So they got me.”
“And you got an ulcer worrying about someone recognizing you.”
Kevin stroked his beard. “I practically guzzled Miracle-Gro to get this to come in faster.”
The chief laughed.
“Russ?”
Van Alstyne stood up, groaning a little. “Over here, Clare.” He waved a hand. Reverend Clare rounded the rear of the van and immediately dropped to her knees beside Kevin. “It is you.” She hugged him fiercely. “Are you all right? Please tell me those horrible tattoos aren’t real.”
“They’re not.” Kevin laughed. “At least, not all of them.”
“Thank goodness.” She sat back on her heels. “What can we do to help you?”
He glanced up at the chief. “Can you book me and keep me overnight?”
Van Alstyne frowned. “If you go into the county jail, you’re almost guaranteed to be recognized by somebody you had a run-in with over the past five years.”
“I mean, not really. But if you just release me after resist and battery, it’s going to look weird.”
“Why did you run?” Reverend Clare asked.
“Word was there was a cop walking around asking questions. When I saw the chief headed toward my game—” He ran his hand over the stubble on his head. “I just didn’t trust him not to out me.” He looked up at Van Alstyne. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I might have without meaning to.” The chief reached a hand down and hoisted Reverend Clare to her feet. “Keeping you for a while would be useful. There’s a possible connection between the show and a case in progress. I’d like to go over it with you, get your input. The question is, why should I let you go after a twenty-four-hour hold?”
Kevin grinned as he stood up. “I thought Reverend Clare could talk you into it. You know, sort of a Christian ministry?” He turned to the chief. “My backstory is that I have a juvie record, but no arrests as an adult.”
“So I plead for a poor boy who made some unfortunate choices so he doesn’t lose his job?”
Van Alstyne looked at his wife. “You have to admit, it sounds just like you.”
“I can give him a ride back to the fair tomorrow,” Reverend Clare said. “That ought to seal the deal.”
“Sounds like a plan.” The chief kissed her briefly. “Back to the fish for you, darlin’.” The Reverend Clare waved as she disappeared around the corner of the van. The chief pulled out his handcuffs. “Okay, Kevin. I never thought I’d be saying this, but get ready for your perp-march.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to hear what everybody back at the station has to say about your new look.”