I remained hopeful even as the police cruiser came bumping down the road. Even as the officer stepped out of his vehicle with his right hand on the butt of his revolver. Even as he shined a Maglite beam directly through the windshield into my eyes. Even as Madame crawled down to the floor, suspecting trouble.
I still hoped for a getaway.
Rolling down my window, I offered him Raleigh David’s driver’s license before he had to ask. He pointed the Maglite at my fake identity.
“I called 911,” I confessed. “I was walking my dog, we’ve been driving all day, helping a friend move to Spokane, and then I saw the horse.”
He shifted the light, shining the beam on Madame. She cowered on the floor.
“You called?”
“Yes, sir. On my cell phone. I was so worried. But it looks like you got here in time. I’m so relieved.”
He handed me back the license and lifted the beam, raking it through the trees. The light was powerful enough to catch bits of the ATVs across the river. “Yeah, they got it covered. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem, Officer.” I smiled, slid the gearshift into first, and was releasing the clutch just as another set of lights came toward us. The beams seemed more elevated than normal. A truck. And it stopped on a diagonal, blocking my way down the narrow road. The driver’s door opened. Paul Handler stepped out. He called to the officer. By name. And when he walked past the Ghost, he didn’t bother acknowledging me.
I looked over at Madame. “We are toast.”
The two men stood behind the Ghost, talking. I grabbed my cell phone, keeping it in my lap as I dialed Jack’s number. In the side mirror I saw Handler pointing at the Ghost. Jack’s voice mail picked up. The officer began walking toward my car.
“Jack,” I said. “I need some help. Serious help.”
I was measuring the women’s holding pen in the Selah Police Department at twenty minutes before 4:00 a.m. My method consisted of walking from one concrete wall to the other, then subtracting the number of steps needed to bypass two Hispanic women who sat in the middle of the floor, buried under a saffron-colored blanket. They seemed to want to sleep, blocking the overhead lights with the blanket. The lights burned with a sickly green fluorescence that made the blanket look blue in places. The women refused to lean their backs against the wall, and I decided they knew more about holding cells than FBI agents did.
Pacing back to the bars, I once again arrived at the sum of eight feet by eight and a half feet. Not big enough to escape the reek of ammonia that rose from the open commode attached to the back wall. The odor made my eyes water, and for some reason made me think of my mother. Maybe because the asylum smelled of disinfectant. Maybe because I felt helpless. Alone. And maybe because my current discomfort was just a fraction of her agony. I leaned against the bars. Blinking.
Several minutes later the night officer walked down the hall. Officer Brent Joiner. He was driving that cruiser that caught me by the river. He had a scuffing stride in his black cop shoes. It left charcoal hash marks on the beige vinyl, while his large head swiveled from side to side on its short neck. Like a medieval Mace attached to a short chain. There was much about Officer Joiner that seemed medieval, beginning with the patch sewn onto the shoulder of his blue uniform: the Selah Police Department’s symbol was a Viking wielding a broadsword.
“Where’s my dog?” I said.
Officer Joiner cast his head toward the yellow mound of blanket. “Yo. Loopy and Doopy. Wake up.”
One woman pushed her head out. Large dark eyes squinted at the light. Her companion’s head rested on her shoulder, mouth parted sleepily. Front teeth chipped.
“Que?” she asked.
Joiner swung his big head toward me. “You gonna tell me what you were doing down by the river?”
The woman waited. But Joiner seemed content to ignore her, now that he’d woken her up. She gave a soft sigh and tugged the blanket back over her head.
“Where’s my dog?” I repeated.
“The mutt’s tied up in my office, until the pound opens.”
“The pound?”
“No license.” He smiled.
“It’s attached to her collar.”
“For Virginia. Your driver’s license is Washington. So the dog’s illegal.”
“You’re locking me up over a dog license?”
“Paul Handler says you were at his place yesterday morning.”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t tell me that part.”
“I hardly know you.”
The head swung. “What is that, some kinda joke?”
No. This was no joke. It was reality, unspooling like some fatalistic retelling of a medieval fable. I had stumbled into the rural fiefdom run by a direct descendant of the Sheriff of Nottingham.
He said, “You tell me what you were doing at Handler’s place, and maybe I’ll just ticket you for the dog.”
I pretended to consider his offer. “It’s no big deal. Mr. Handler and I spoke about racehorses—my aunt owns a barn, at Emerald Downs, the racetrack? After leaving Handler’s place, I drove to Spokane. For business.” I wasn’t about to let this guy in on my undercover status. For one thing, he was clearly tight with Handler. “I was driving back from Spokane, and the dog was restless. The river looked nice when I had passed it earlier in the day. So I stopped there.” The story was close enough to the truth that I almost didn’t count the omissions that were so numerous they created a black hole. “By the way, when do I get to make my phone call?”
“We’ll get to the phone call.”
He whipped his head, glaring down the hall. A woman walked toward us wearing a white shirt with another Viking patch. The cord to her headset dragged alongside her. Some modern strand of Rapunzel’s hair.
She handed Joiner a plastic bag. “Those nice boys at the ranch just brought this in, they did. And Ortiz called. She’s on her way over.”
Joiner’s head swung toward the blanket. “Yo! Mexes. Your ride’s coming. Federales.”
The dispatcher pointed to the bag. “They said they found it on Paul Handler’s property. They said somebody cut up his irrigation line.”
“Lynette,” he said slowly. “Who’s answering the phone?”
She left without another word. He waited until she reached the end of the hall, then peeled back the bag.
My pruning shears were covered with sand.
“What’re these?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Looks like gardening tools.”
“You’ve never seen ’em before?”
The bitter bile rising in the back of my throat tasted of omission mixed with commission. I swallowed all the oughts and shoulds and pleaded forgive me.
“When I was out there this morning, I saw some kids fooling around. Handler said they play with his irrigation line. That’s how the horses get stuck in the mud.”
“Those kids wouldn’t destroy it.”
“Pardon?”
His head was swinging. “I know those punks. That irrigation line’s their favorite toy. No way they’d cut it up.” He pointed a thick finger at the blanket. “How many you smuggle out?”
“Excuse me?”
“To pay for that sweet car?”
I shook my head, flabbergasted.
“You don’t want to give me a straight answer? Fine.” He raised his voice, directing it at the blanket. “Yo, Loopy.”
The same woman looked out.
“This chiquita,” Joiner said, “you know her? I want the truth. Verdad. Then I’ll let you go.”
She shifted her eyes, looking at me for a moment. Her expression seemed both desperate and resigned, a woman so tired and worn out she was past rational thought. Her dark eyes seemed to weigh the offer. She opened her mouth, about to say something, but another expression crossed her face, wrinkling her forehead. Then her face went slack, like some last flicker was snuffed out.
“Me no know,” she said.
“Liar.” Joiner held up the bag, shaking it. At me. “I’ll find out what’s going on here. Believe me.”
I believed him. And I thought of my gloves, flung into the trees. The pieces of my shirt on the barbed wire. My DNA on the steel prickles. My flashlight. By the morning light, it would all be found.
“You can’t keep me here,” I said, “without charges. And I still have a phone call left.”
“You know what your mistake was?”
I waited.
“Handler said you showed up at his place all fancy-schmancy. But you came back at night practically in camo. Just happened to drive down that road, nowhere near the highway. And you just happened to see the horse in the river, when somebody cuts his water line. I know what’s going on.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Drugs. That’s how you paid for the car. Somebody on that ranch. What, they messed up a deal and you’re getting even?”
I didn’t reply.
The female desk attendant reappeared at the end of the hall. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ortiz!”
Joiner pivoted and spread his black shoes into a wide stance, drawing his shoulders back. He glared at the woman walking toward us. Small enough to be called petite, she wore plain dark slacks and a blazer. She walked purposefully, so straight and even that her black curls didn’t bounce. The hair framed cheekbones prominent as Pueblo plateaus, and when she glanced at me, quickly, her eyes were like two pieces of the night sky, each lit by one white star.
“Or-tease.” Joiner reached down and adjusted himself. “How’re they hangin’?”
“Better than yours.”
“Except I have the equipment.”
“No, what you have are fantasies.” She smiled with joyful disdain. Her teeth were large and white and balanced the strong upper half of her face. She nodded in my direction without looking at me. “I’m taking that one.”
“What?” Joiner said.
“Open the door.”
“Why her?”
“None of your business.”
The big head swung toward me. “What’s the FBI want with you?”
I tried to look scared, which wasn’t that hard. If Ortiz was an agent, I was in trouble. Big trouble.
“FBI?” I said. “I don’t want to go with the FBI.”
Joiner crossed his arms, smug that I’d seen his side of things. “I know about the drugs,” he said. “I’m onto this case.”
“Read the statutes, dummy. She was on Indian land. That’s federal jurisdiction.”
“But”—he pointed at the yellow blanket—“immigration. That’s federal.” His voice was rising. “Those two Mexes have been here all night.”
The slur didn’t have any visible effect on Ortiz. Until she spoke.
“Open the door, before I make you sorry you came to work tonight.”
His head hammered at the air. “Something’s going on.” He keyed open the cell door. “And I’m gonna find out what.”
Ortiz ordered me to turn around and place my hands behind my back. The woman under the blanket lifted a corner to watch. Her eyes filled with more unspeakable expressions. I thought I saw sympathy. But mostly I saw gratitude, that she wasn’t the one getting hauled away. Ortiz slapped cuffs on my wrists, squeezing them tight.
“My dog,” I said. “I’m not leaving without my dog.”
“Joiner, did she have a dog?”
He slammed the cell door shut behind us. “It doesn’t have a license.”
“Fine. I’ll add it to the list. Bring it to my car.”