"Deputy," I said, pitching my voice under the steady drumming of the downpour.
Vance whipped his head around, his shoulder muscles tightening under the sodden nylon of his coat. He held the second cooler’s foam divider in his left hand, the lid dangling loose by one torn hinge. His right hand dropped straight to the unsnapped thumb break of his holster.
"I told you to get your wallet and walk, Jesse," he snapped, stepping down off the rear bumper. The mud sucked at his heels. "You're testing my patience, and out here, patience is the only thing keeping your father's county benefits intact."
"The logbook on the front seat has Dr. Sterling’s signature timestamped at three-fifteen," I said, keeping my hands open and chest-high in the headlights. "He runs a double-entry duplicate system on every hazardous materials transport. The second logbook is locked in the night drop at the county courthouse. If you tow this truck without the matching courier slip, the state examiner’s office flags an unverified impound by dawn."
Vance stopped six feet from me. His mouth flattened into a pale, rigid line. The smell of acetone coming off his right sleeve was so thick now it cut through the rain and exhaust. "Sterling doesn't run courier slips on routine road calls."
"He does when the deceased is management at an EPA-monitored facility," I replied. "You know the Blackwood depot has three federal citations pending. Arthur Cross wasn't just hauling freight. He was carrying the maintenance manifests for the high-pressure storage tanks that failed inspection last Tuesday."
Vance didn't blink. The rain ran down his forehead, dripping off his eyelashes, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. He wasn't thinking about procedure anymore; he was calculating who else might have seen the secondary paperwork before I pulled out of the clinic bay.
"You talk too much, Miller," he said. He took one slow step forward, closing the distance between us until his wet shoulder pressed against my chest, pinning me back against the cold fiberglass of the cab. "Your old man knew when to shut his mouth and cash his check. You think because you wear his brass star you get to ask where the trucks go at night?"
He reached past my shoulder, grabbed the chrome handle of my driver door, and yanked it open wide. The dome light flared to life, casting an amber rectangle across the wet gravel and illuminating the leather visor pocket above the wheel.
"Get in," Vance ordered, his voice dropping into a harsh, ragged whisper. "Sit in the passenger seat and keep your hands on the dashboard while I clear the paperwork out of this glove box. If you twitch, you're resisting an officer during an active containment perimeter."
He thought he was dictating the terms. He thought the threat to my father’s name would keep me frozen while he purged the cab of every document Dr. Sterling had stamped.
Instead of climbing in, I shifted my weight to my left foot, let my right hand drop from my chest, and drove my shoulder hard into the half-open door.
The heavy steel edge slammed shut against Vance’s outstretched arm. The latch caught his forearm right below the elbow, right where the acetone had stripped the water-repellent coating off his coat. He gasped—a short, wet intake of air—and stumbled sideways off the uneven shoulder, his boots skidding across the slick wet grass of the ditch.
The impact tore his grip free. Before he could regain his footing in the mud, I lunged toward the rear tire.
My fingers plunged into the dark under the edge of the rolled marine tarp. The cold rubber of the spare tire scraped my knuckles, but my fingertips brushed the smooth acrylic tube resting against the frame rail. Arthur Cross’s third blood vial was still intact, nested in the folds of the heavy canvas. I snatched it, shoved it deep into the zippered interior pocket of my wool vest, and pulled the hidden brass key from my coat.
"Miller!" Vance roared from the ditch, his boots scrambling frantically against the muddy embankment. Metal clinked against leather as his hand ripped his service pistol from its holster. "Get on the ground!"
I didn't hit the ground. I grabbed my father's brass badge out of the silt where Vance had tossed it, threw open the driver door, and threw myself across the split vinyl bench seat.
Vance fired once. The sharp report of the . 40 caliber round cracked through the mountain air, deafening in the close space, but the shot went high, shattering the top corner of the driver-side mirror into a spray of silver glass.