Blood Trail - C. J. Box [83]
He watched the cop nod as he got confirmation on the plate and hung up his mike, then opened his door. His approach was textbook—Maglite in his left hand, his arm bent so the barrel of it rested on his shoulder with the beam directed into Joe’s van to illuminate the backseat, the floor, the side of Joe’s face. The cop’s right hand rested on his pistol grip. He walked close to the side of the van and Joe read his name badge backward in the mirror: NORYB.
Joe toggled the switch to open his window.
“Officer Byron,” Joe said, “I’m not sure why you pulled me over—”
“Put both of your hands on the steering wheel where I can see ’em,” the cop barked. He’d seen the shotgun.
“Look,” Joe said, “my name is Joe Pickett. I’m a game warden in Saddlestring—”
The cop stepped back and squared into a shooter’s stance, his pistol out and aimed at Joe along with the blinding beam from the flashlight. “Get out of the car!”
Joe briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
“I said, get out of the car, sir. Now!”
“Okay, I’m getting out,” Joe said. “But I need to tell you right now I’m a peace officer myself and I’ve got a concealed weapon.”
Byron, eyes wide and mouth set, aimed down his semiautomatic. Joe kept his right hand aloft while he opened the door with his left and stepped out onto the cold wet pavement with his hands visible. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
Byron said, “Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your feet.”
Joe hated to turn his back on the cop, but he did. He said, “This is a mistake. I’m on duty myself if you’d just let me explain.”
Byron kicked the inside of Joe’s left ankle hard, nearly taking his legs out from under him. The pain shot through his body.
“I said, spread ’em,” the cop yelled. “There. And lean forward. Put your weight on your hands.”
Joe felt his coat being pulled back and the weight of the Glock suddenly wasn’t there.
“And what do we have here?” Byron asked, playing the tough guy.
“I told you I had it,” Joe said, looking over his shoulder. “Now would you listen to me for a minute?” Byron tossed Joe’s weapon into the borrow pit where it landed with a soft thud. Joe said, “Now, why did you do that?”
“Shut up. How many more guns do you have with you?” Byron asked, pulling the shotgun through the open window butt-first and tossing it into the wet grass as well.
“I don’t have any more guns,” Joe said, his anger rising. “Come on, this is ridiculous. What is it you think I did?”
“You mean before I pulled you over and found the guns? Start with speeding—forty-five in a thirty.”
“Thirty? What are you talking about?”
Byron shone his flashlight down the highway until the beam lit up a SPEED LIMIT 30 sign so new and white it sparkled. “See?”
“When did you change it?” Joe asked, hot.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s thirty now.”
“It looks like you guys put that up this morning.”
“It was last week,” Byron said, “but it doesn’t matter when we put it up. It’s up, it’s the law, and I clocked you at forty-five. That gives me probable cause to look inside the car.”
A set of headlights appeared coming from the town of Winchester. The vehicle—a light-colored SUV like the one he’d seen in his binoculars picking up Nate—barely slowed as it neared the van and the police car and swung wide in the road to avoid them. Joe tried to see if the driver was Bill Gordon, but the driver looked straight ahead, didn’t look over, which was odd in itself. Wasn’t the driver curious as to what was going on? Joe got only a glimpse of the profile behind the wheel as the SUV shot by, and he thought how much it resembled Klamath Moore. The red taillights receded on the highway.
“Hey,” Joe said, wheeling around, “we need to stop that car!”
“Turn back around!” Byron hollered, pointing his gun in Joe’s face, his trigger finger tightening. Joe could tell from Byron’s eyes that he was ready—and willing—to fire.
“Okay,” Joe said, trying to calm Byron, “but you just made a big mistake.”
Byron laughed harshly. “I’d say the only guy making mistakes around here is you. And you just keep making ’em.