The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [159]
“Turn around. No sudden movements.”
Henry didn’t alter his splay but turned around with mincing steps, hands planted on his head.
The officer frowned, arms akimbo. “What are you, a joker?”
“You said to turn around, not to change position.”
“Cut out the crap. Where do you think you’re going?”
“That building ahead; their toilets are blocked solid. Or so they say.”
“Who says?”
“How would I know? I only drive the fucker; he’s the boss.”
The officer turned to Tyler.
“We’re answering an emergency call. I have the papers here.” Tyler nodded to folded sheets stuffed in his shirt’s top pocket.
The police officer stepped over and slapped a hand over the papers as if they were poisoned. He held them at arm’s length and, looking a little crestfallen, reached for his reading glasses.
On the opposite side of the street, three more cars had been stopped and their occupants underwent a similar routine. Henry counted six DHS FDU trucks, at least fifty officers, and, a couple of hundred yards farther off, a blue van. He froze, then did a quick double take. The van across the street was the same color and model as the one carrying Laurel and the others. Across Capitol Avenue, different teams had laid chains bristling with spikes on the tarmac, creating a zigzagging path any vehicle attempting to reach the Capitol would have to negotiate—although by the look of things most vehicles were being turned back. Other accesses to Capitol Hill shared similar checkpoints, or so the radio announcer had said.
“You can’t pass.” After much peering at the papers and turning them in all directions, the police officer handed them back. “Get inside your vehicle, turn around, and come back tomorrow.”
Tyler smiled but didn’t reach for the papers. “That’s great with me, but I need a signature.”
“A signature?”
“Yup. As you can see, the order came this morning at nine o’clock, flashed through the head of the Capitol’s maintenance services with top priority. They must be swimming in it down there. It’s no skin off my teeth, pal, but I need the signature of someone in charge to attest that we came and weren’t allowed in.” He leaned forward and winked. “That way we can charge extra for this call … and again tomorrow.”
The officer looked back at the papers, stopping at the scrawled signature and stamp at the bottom of the forms.
“These are copies.”
“We received them on the fly.” Tyler nodded toward the driver’s cabin. “A printer in the cab.”
After a frown and a step back, the officer’s lips moved close to his shirt collar.
A flurry of shouts drifted across the tarmac as a plump woman in a flower-printed dress spoke angrily to a towering FDU officer. Then she whirled around, slipped into her car, and continued to deliver a steady stream of invective over the racing whine of her engine as she threw her vehicle in reverse.
Farther on, the side door of the blue van slid open, and a man in an old-fashioned hat and thick glasses alighted. As the door closed at his back, he raised his face to the sun for an instant, dug his hands into the pockets of a tweed coat, and strolled unhurriedly in their direction.
Tyler exchanged a quick glance with Henry, who had suddenly found the tips of his lizard boots irresistible.
The man with the tweed coat made a beeline for the officer holding the papers and put out his hand, palm up, his eyes running the length of the truck and stopping at the rear door and its bolts.
“What’s in there?” His voice was refined, with a slight lilt to it.
“Er …” Henry turned around and eyed the truck as if the vehicle had just materialized behind him. “Shit.”
“Pardon?”
Henry wrung his hands. “Refuse, sewage …”
“But it says here you are supposed to unblock drains. Do you always go to a job already loaded with the stuff?”
The police officer leaned