CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

RYAN

I order three Flame Thrower burritos and a Coke from Samuel’s brightly painted food truck and drive to the edge of town, parking in a driveway at the apex of a hill. This way, oncoming traffic can see me from either direction, and they’ll slow down. Pretty simple.

I swallow the last bite of my burrito, wiping sweat from my brow and the tear from my eye. God, that is hot.

While sipping my soda, I observe the flow of traffic and exchange waves and nods with travelers. I glance down the road to my right and see a green blur passing vehicles. I ready the speed gun, and when he blows past, I clock him at nineteen miles an hour over the limit.

I fire up the cruiser and flip the switch. Lights, sirens, adrenaline surge––these situations can turn hairy.

The driver of the ’65 GTO sees me coming and pulls over. I call it in to dispatch.

“The car’s registered to Hank Thomas, out on County Road C.”

“Okay, Peg. Thanks.”

Hank’s a good guy who doesn’t cause trouble, so this is a surprise.

I slide out of my vehicle with the ticket book and stroll up; he already has his window down.

“Sheriff.”

“Hank. Nice car you have here.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. Picked it up this morning.”

“I see. You know you were speeding?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Just got away from me.”

“That can happen.”

He eyes the ticket book in my hand. “You’re gonna write me up, ain’t ya?”

I’ve been sheriff long enough that people around here understand that I take things seriously. The law is the law. “Have to.”

“Figured.”

I write and give him the citation. “Any faster, and I’d be taking you in for reckless driving.”

He lowers his gaze.

“Keep it under the speed limit, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

I tap the roof of his new ride, stroll to the cruiser, and slide in, watching Hank drive off. That is one cool automobile.

I inform Peg that all is well and head back into town. Manning Falls isn’t the most exciting place in the world, but it’s a nice change of pace after eight years in the military police—a really nice change.

The car radio squawks. “Ryan, Mrs. Kramer locked her keys in her car again. Can you help her out?”

“Be there in ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

Mrs. Kramer is eighty years old and locks her keys in her car at least once a week. We all know she does it on purpose—nobody minds.

I pull into the driveway of the one-level craftsman, park, and get out. I trot up the front steps, gripping the Slim Jim. Knock on her door.

“It’s open!”

I figured it might be.

I enter and head to the kitchen, where I’m confident she’s waiting with a table full of goodies.

“Hello, Mrs. Kramer.” I eagerly examine the buffet while the buttery aroma of freshly baked goods fills my nostrils. There’s enough to feed an army.

“Thank you for coming, Sheriff. I’m sorry this happened again.”

“Not a problem.” I nod at the spread. “What do you have going on here?”

“Just baking. Would you care for some?”

Ample time has passed since the burritos and Coke entered my system, so I have room. I’d have made room even if it hadn’t.

“Let me unlock the car first.”

“Okay. It’s in the garage. You take care of it, and I’ll get the milk.”

“Be right back.”

Since I’m experienced at unlocking this vehicle, I’m back in about three minutes, sitting at the table.

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Dig in.”

I take a bite of a brownie, savoring the rich, chocolaty taste. “These are great.”

She’s standing, watching me in her yellow velour tracksuit and perfectly done gray hair.

“Please sit, Mrs. Kramer.”

“I think I will.” She settles in and starts talking. And can she ever talk! She and her friends spend most of their time at the hairdresser, diner, and bakery, and they stay connected. There’s nothing they don’t know.

So, for the next half hour, I eat and say a few “Uh-huh’s” and “You don’t say’s,” and then it’s time to go.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Kramer. Nobody cooks like you do.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did.”

She walks me to my car, watches me get in, and waves as I drive off.

What a wonderful old woman.

At a stoplight, I rub my belly. The Flame Throwers are getting to me. I shouldn’t have eaten them. I tell myself that every time.

The light changes to green, and I roll ahead while a gray Bently with Nebraska plates coasts by, going the other way. A peach fuzz driver glances at me, widens his eyes, grows pale, and stiffens. I contact dispatch. “Peg. Run these plates for me.”

I rattle numbers and letters off and make an ugly, cumbersome U-turn. Horns honk and fists shake.

He’s a block ahead when I finally straighten out

“Sheriff. The vehicle was reported stolen nine hours ago.”

The driver hangs a right.

“Looks like he’s up for a game of cat and mouse. He just turned off Main, going south on Dozer. Send Mike down Benson and James down Joseph. We’ll funnel him to Meyer Road.”

“The dead end?”

“If he’s not from around here, he won’t know.”

“Ten-four.”

Months go by without a car chase, and now a pair in one day. I don’t need this.

I turn onto Dozer Street and hit the lights and sirens. Mike and James do the same. We’ll put pressure on the delinquent.

He’s two blocks ahead of me and turns left. I inform everyone.

“I see him!” James says. “He hung a right on Seever, goin’ back south. We got him. We got him, we got him, we got him.”

Goosebumps roll up my arm.

“Take it easy, James,” I say. “Mike, you hear that?”

“Yeah. I’m on Hoover. We’re pushing him to Meyer Road, right?”

“Ten-four.”

“Okay. I’ll block off Baxter so he can’t turn.”

“Perfect.”

I’m on Seever now, and we’re moving.

“He’s speeding up,” James says.

“Good.”

“If he keeps going that way, he’ll be on Meyer Road in two minutes.”

“Good.”

I breathe in and find my calm.

Mike: “I’ve got eyes on him.”

James: “I’m turning on Baxter. We got him!”

I grip the steering wheel. “Steady men.”

“Ten-four.”

The stolen Bentley’s tail lights flash at the mouth of Meyer Road, and the driver presses on. The road transitions into dirt, followed by a hill and a mild curve. Beyond that lies a ditch, barbed wire, and trees. There’ll be nothing he can do from there.

At the dead-end sign on the side of the road, the car’s brake lights flicker once again, but it seems that the driver is committed. Dirt flies.

Up the slope and around the curve and––shit! What’s he doing? A Bentley can’t fly.

As I slide to a stop, the nose of the stolen vehicle crunches into the edge of the ditch and steam sprays. The door pops open, and the driver crawls out.

“He’s just a kid,” James states.

I hustle to him. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

He doesn’t appear worse for wear.

“You sure?”

“Head hurts a little.”

“Better have you checked out. James, you wanna take care of that?”

“Will do.”

“Mike. Get a hold of Zeke and have this towed. I’m going back to fill out paperwork.”

“Yes, sir.”

I would stick around and ask the kid questions, but they can do it.

“Good work, men,” I say. “See you back at the station.”

“You got it.”

Peg greets me at the door. “Busy day, huh?

“I’ll say.”

I enter my office and drop into my chair. I have a ton of paperwork to do, but I flip through my phone and stop at the wedding pictures instead of doing it. I have one for the bridal party. I can’t seem to forget about that kiss. It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see her again anyway.