"You walk out that door right now," Vance whispered through the perforated steel, "and maybe we don't look too close at the weight limits on your timber flatbed when you haul across the river next week. Maybe your county yard tax gets reassessed down to zero by Monday noon."
"My flatbed's legal," I said, sliding the yellow carbon back into my shirt pocket. "And my yard tax isn't yours to barter with. You have five minutes left on that ninety-minute clock, Marcus. Either you open that safe behind your desk and hand me my two thousand dollars with an official release signature, or I’m driving straight up the ridge to the state police barracks in Cold Springs."
Vance reached out his right hand, flat against the glass, right where my yellow slip had been. On the inside of his right thumb, faint but distinct under the harsh white fluorescent light, was the violet stain from the branch bank's stamp.
"You won't make it to Cold Springs, Arthur," Vance said, his voice as cold as the wet gravel outside. "Not on that road. Not tonight."
CHAPTER 3: The Board That Locked Down
The door to the substation lobby did not latch behind me; it rebounded twice on its brass roller before settling into the metal frame with a hollow clatter. I didn't glance back toward the glass. The damp river wind caught the hem of my unbuttoned denim coat, snapping the wet cloth against my thigh as I took the three concrete steps down to the gravel.
My knees felt stiff from the impact against Vance’s fender, but I kept my weight centered over the soles of my work boots. Over near the perimeter fence, the blue-and-white county utility rig had moved. Pete Willis had cut his rotating yellow roof beacon, leaving only the dull amber parking lamps burning through the drizzle. The truck was parked across the apron of the single-lane cattle grate that opened onto Mill Street, its front bumper angled toward the road just enough to force any southbound vehicle down into the low ditch water.
They weren't planning to pursue me with sirens. That wasn't how Marcus Vance operated when he had an unlogged envelope in his cargo pocket. A siren meant the regional console in Cold Springs recorded a CAD entry with an active vehicle identifier. A quiet word over the municipal maintenance channel to a cousin with an eight-ton dump bed was cleaner, and it never showed up on a state audit sheet.
I climbed into the Ford, pulled the heavy door shut until the latch engaged, and clicked the lap belt across my hips. From beneath the driver’s seat, I drew out the spare magnetic relay cable Roy had given me three months ago when the county first started skimming gravel haulers at the weigh-station bypass. I clipped the small alligator lead directly to the auxiliary terminal on the commercial hauler unit, then reached into my pocket for the telephone card Albright had signed for me during the summer flood of ninety-eight.
On the back was the direct dial number for the district inspection post at the state barracks on the ridge.
Before I could turn the ignition key, the passenger door handle clicked upward. The interior courtesy lamp flickered on, throwing a weak yellow circle across the grease-stained floor mat.
Officer Hayes dropped into the passenger bucket seat. He didn't have his service hat on, and his brown uniform tie was tucked into his shirt between the second and third buttons. He pulled the door shut with both hands, his knuckles dead white where they gripped the armrest molding. His breath smelled of bitter black coffee and cinnamon tobacco.
"Drive, Mercer," Hayes said. His voice was ragged, pitched high enough that it cracked on the second syllable. "Just turn the key and get us out onto the blacktop before Marcus comes out of the muster room with his slicker."
I kept my hands resting on the top of the steering wheel. I didn't start the engine. "You're off your post, Officer Hayes. That’s an unexcused absence from an active municipal desk. That’s forty-eight hours docked pay under county civil service rules."
"Screw the civil service rules," Hayes hissed, leaning across the console. His eyes kept jumping from my face to the side mirror, where the side door of the cinder-block station remained closed under the floodlight. "You think he’s going to let you reach the highway? Pete Willis didn't park that maintenance truck on the culvert to watch the rain fall. Marcus told him your rear axle looked cracked. You know what an eight-ton bed loaded with crushed flint does to a light-duty pickup when the road drops into the creek hollow?"
"I know what thirty-four tons of rolling steel does on wet macadam," I told him, looking him square in his pale, sweating face. "I hauled munitions through the An Khe pass while Marcus Vance was still stealing change out of his mother’s purse. You want to ride in this cab, you put something on this console besides your panic."