"You're making a catastrophic mistake, son," Croft said, his eyes black in the glare of the wrecker's strobe. "Out here, in the dark, an abandoned car and a fleeing suspect don't have many rights."
From the open window of Unit One, Croft's radio speaker suddenly cracked through the drizzle. Dispatcher Mary Ellen's voice broke in, sharp and high-pitched: "Unit One, state police dispatch out of Crestview is patching through an inquiry on County Route 9. A citizen named Frank Miller is on the line reporting an illegal vehicle stop. Ray, do you copy? State patrol car thirty-two is rolling your way from the turnpike."
Harlan's face went gray. He dropped the heavy J-hook onto the macadam with a clattering thud.
Croft stood frozen on the shoulder, the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, his fingers clamped around his holster while I stood knee-deep in the ditch holding his own signature in my fist.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
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CHAPTER 3: The Standoff On Route Nine
The white headlights of State Patrol Car Thirty-Two cut through the pine fog like twin blades, washing the muddy embankment in blinding, sterile light. The cruiser pulled to a stop at an angle across the double yellow line, blocking oncoming traffic, its roof rack pulsing with crisp blue and white strobes that made Croft’s halogen flashers look sickly and dim.
Croft didn’t drop his hand from his belt, but he stepped back up onto the gravel shoulder, smoothing his jacket with a stiff flick of his wrist. He assumed the wide, planted stance of a man who owned the county lines and everyone inside them.
"Stay right where you are, David," Croft muttered over his shoulder without looking at me. "One step up this bank and you're fleeing custody."
The driver door of the state cruiser opened. Trooper Jim Vance stepped out into the rain. He was a younger man than Croft, lean and squared-off in his dark gray state uniform, wearing a waterproof campaign hat pulled flat. He carried a heavy aluminum citation clipboard tucked under his arm and kept both hands free, thumbs tucked near his duty belt buckle as he assessed the scene: Harlan’s idling flatbed, the Buick wedged against the pines, Croft standing rigid on the shoulder, and me standing knee-deep in the muddy ditch clutching a yellow carbon sheet to my chest.
"Evening, Sheriff," Vance said, his voice even, carrying easily over the clatter of Harlan’s diesel. "Crestview got a priority dispatch from county dispatch ten minutes ago. Frank Miller is sitting in the district barracks with Commissioner Ross, filing a formal complaint regarding an illegal vehicle interdiction on Route Nine."
Croft let out a dry, dismissive scoff, shaking his head with practiced road-cop fatigue. "Frank's overwrought, Jim. His brother David here was driving erratic on an expired sticker, drifted onto the shoulder, and got hostile when I initiated an administrative safety tow. He scrambled into the brush and won't comply with lawful commands. I've got Harlan hooking the vehicle now. We've got the scene well under control. You can clear and notify Crestview it's an internal county matter."
Vance didn’t turn around or reach for his radio. He didn't clear the call. He took three deliberate steps closer, his boots crunching on the wet macadam, his gaze shifting from Croft to Harlan, who was practically shrinking against the front fender of his flatbed.
"Administrative safety tow?" Vance asked, tilting his head slightly toward the Buick. "Dispatcher Mary Ellen logged Unit One at seven-forty-eight as an unoccupied abandoned hazard, Ray. Frank Miller told the lieutenant at the barracks that his brother was dispatched from their garage at seven-fifty with private cargo. That's a direct conflict of record."
"Mary Ellen misheard my preliminary 10-code," Croft said smoothly, his voice dropping into that unshakeable baritone he used to shut down contentious public meetings. "The weather is filthy, the line was staticky, and I was dealing with an uncooperative operator. I wrote up the hazard slip to expedite clearance. David's agitated, smelling of liquor, and refusing to step onto hard ground."
"I don't drink, Vance, and Croft knows it!" I yelled from the ditch, my voice echoing off the pine trunks. "Look at the hood of my car! Look at the clipboard!"