"My father built the trusses on the courthouse where your office sits," I told him. "He taught me that when a beam is notched wrong, you don't paint over the cut and hope the roof holds. You pull the timber down, you lay it on the ground where everybody can see the split, and you frame it clean from the plate up. You’re the split beam, Marcus."
Henderson stepped forward, his boots loud on the wet stones. "Unclip the gear, Marcus. Don't make Tom put his hands on you."
Deputy Brooks moved up behind Ryder, his thumbs clear of his belt now, his boots positioned on the dry macadam just outside the puddle.
For four long seconds, Ryder stood between the bright push-bumper of the Tahoe and the dark grill of his own car. He looked down at the mud, then at the brass padlock hanging open from the chain where Miller had left it. Slowly, with stiff, reluctant movements, he reached down to his buckle.
The heavy nylon duty belt clicked open, the holster, radio pouch, and magazine carriers sagging under their own weight. Brooks caught the belt as Ryder slid it from his hips, laying the entire rig flat on the hood of the patrol car.
"Empty the left pocket," Henderson ordered.
Ryder’s hand went inside his departmental jacket. He pulled out the folded stack of five hundred-dollar bills. The edges were limp from the dampness in the air, the green ink dark against his pale skin. He held them out, his fingers shaking so badly the paper fluttered.
Brooks took an evidence sleeve from his rear pocket, unzipped the seal, and held it open. Ryder let the bills drop inside.
"The keys to Walter's truck are on the floorboard," Miller said quietly from the gate. "I verified the ignition key before you got down the hill, Sheriff."
"Go check your rig, Walter," Henderson said to me, without taking his eyes off Ryder. "Make sure your tools are intact before Brooks tags the parcel."
I turned my back on the light. I walked across the muddy shale to the driver’s side of my Ranger. The metal door handle was cold and slick with rain, but the latch popped with its familiar, mechanical clunk. I pulled the heavy rubber floor mat back with two fingers. My key ring sat right where Miller said it would be, the brass house key and the worn steel ignition key resting beside the clutch pedal.
I climbed into the torn vinyl seat, slid the key into the tumbler, and turned it. The starter groaned once against the chill, caught the compression, and the old four-cylinder engine roared to life with a steady, throaty rumble that shook the steering column. The headlights flickered on, cutting two clean, white tunnels through the mist, illuminating the stack of cedar shingles and the green steel of my toolboxes through the rear window.
In the rearview mirror, I watched Deputy Brooks guide Marcus Ryder toward the back seat of the second Tahoe. Ryder ducked his head to avoid the door frame, his shoulders hunched, his bare uniform shirt dark with rain where his tactical vest had been stripped away. He didn't look back at the impound fence.
Henderson stood by the open gate, his legal folio tucked back under his arm, watching Miller begin the formal process of locking the patrol car's mobile terminal with a red evidence seal.
"Walter," Sarah said through my phone, her voice softening slightly as the background clatter of her keyboard finally ceased. "Clark wants you at the annex at eight-thirty tomorrow to sign the formal affidavit for the state board. Can you make that before your morning job?"
I looked at the dashboard clock, its dim green numbers reading eight-forty-two.
"I’ll be there at eight," I told her, shifting the Ranger into reverse and letting the clutch out until the rear tires gripped the wet gravel. "River Road can wait until nine."