I didn't waste seconds cinching the gate down. I ran back to the Peterbilt, hoisted the ledger onto the passenger seat next to my delivery clipboard, and fired the Cummins engine. The starter motor whined against the cold block, caught with an explosive puff of dark soot, and the twin straight pipes settled into a heavy, rhythmic roar. Behind me, the other two black state pursuit units swung into the depot lane, their front grilles aligning behind my trailer, their blue marker lights finally pulsing steady against the overcast sky.
I dropped the transmission into second, swung out through the broken gate, and turned the heavy truck south onto Route 9.
We hit the outskirts of the county seat ten minutes later. The slush on the asphalt was turning to gray water under the tires of the midday traffic, but the town square was dead quiet. Harlan had parked two white-and-gold county interceptors diagonally across the north and west entries to the courthouse ring, forcing all through-traffic onto the bypass. In front of the annex steps, three uniformed deputies stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their arms crossed over their yellow windbreakers, their boots planted wide on the bottom riser.
Parked on the sidewalk directly beneath the war memorial was Harlan Vance’s personal patrol truck, its heavy steel push-bar angled toward the pedestrian walkway.
I didn't slow the Peterbilt for the detour cones. I pulled the air horn once—a long, deafening blast that echoed off the brick storefronts of the hardware store and the farm bureau—and swung the sixty-foot rig directly into the delivery alley between the annex and the county jail. The rear trailer tires hopped the granite curb, crushing a plastic recycling bin, and came to a halt twelve inches from the heavy steel double doors of the freight basement.
Before the air tanks finished their exhaust hiss, the rear door of Harlan’s patrol truck slammed open. Harlan came around the corner of the brick foundation at a dead run, his hand clamped down over the retention strap of his service weapon, his face purple with fury.
"Miller!" Harlan yelled, his boots slipping on the wet alley cobbles. "You back that rig out of this fire lane right now, or I’ll have every tire on that tractor cut before your feet hit the stone!"
I reached across the passenger seat, took the heavy plastic evidence sleeve containing the 1978 ledger under my left arm, and kicked the cab door open.
"The fire lane is open, Harlan," I said, stepping down from the running board into the alley muck. "I’m delivering the original water trust ledger to the recorder’s docket under state administrative summons."
Harlan lunged forward, his left arm reaching out to grab the plastic sleeve just like he had grabbed Arthur’s coat in the diner. "There is no docket for that parcel! The hearing is closed, Miller! My brother just signed the default deed five minutes ago!"
A sharp metallic click sounded three feet behind Harlan’s shoulder.
Special Investigator Ross stood at the corner of the alley, his badge pinned to his lapel, his phone held upright at eye level, the screen glowing with an active recording feed linked directly to the state division console. Behind him, four state troopers in dark winter coats stepped into the alley mouth, their arms resting at their sides, their eyes locked on Harlan’s right hand.
"The docket is open until the clock on the town hall strikes twelve, Sheriff Vance," Ross said, his voice cutting through the alley wind like an iron wedge. "Your brother Grady is currently sitting in the third-floor commission room under an emergency subpoena that was served by the highway patrol three minutes ago. If you lay a hand on that ledger, or on the driver carrying it, you will be answering to a federal grand jury for the destruction of public trust records before the county jail opens for evening count."