The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(49)

Peter pushed the door open. The crisp fall air washed through him. “So which way to the campus rec department?”

Then he saw Mingus racing toward him across the brown grass. An uneaten hamburger wedged in his mouth, he was pursued by a campus cop in a golf cart and another cruising behind on foot. The security guard from the library had a walkie-talkie on his belt. It crackled, and a garbled voice said, “Rogue animal, rogue animal. All officers respond.”

Then Peter saw that the cop in the golf cart had his sidearm in his hand. While driving.

This could go wrong six different ways. Peter stepped into the center of the paved area, waved his arms, and raised his voice. “Mingus!”

The dog saw Peter and cranked around in a tight turn. He galloped over, wolfing down the burger on the way, then came to a leisurely stop. His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth as he panted happily. The golf cart almost tipped over as it tried to follow.

“Sir, is this your dog?”

The cop in the cart had his finger inside the trigger guard. He was in late middle age, with the pale and fleshy look of a boneless chicken breast, except for his face, which was bright red with righteous indignation.

“He’s his own dog,” said Peter. “I just clean up after him. Put that gun away, will you?”

The running cop was barely breathing hard. He was young, clean-shaven, and his uniform shirt was pressed. He wore sneakers, and he couldn’t hide his grin. “A couple of girls tried to adopt him, let him into their dorm. He raided the lunch buffet pretty bad.”

“Shit.” Peter didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed.

The cop with the gun spoke loudly and he levered himself out of the golf cart. “Dogs are not permitted in the residence halls,” he said, glaring at the younger man. “And this animal does not have a license. I have notified animal control.” He hadn’t put the gun away. Maybe he just liked to have it in his hand.

“We’ll just go,” said Peter. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Oh, no,” said the cop with the gun. It was something fancy, bright, shiny chrome with mother-of-pearl grips. “You’re staying right here, pal. There’s a lot of paperwork for this, and the police are coming. You may face charges yourself.”

Peter looked at the young cop. “Seriously?”

The young cop shrugged, his face artfully blank. “Marv’s the senior officer.”

“Yes, I am,” said Marv, still louder than he needed to be. “Take hold of your animal.” He still had his finger inside the trigger guard. Peter could see the red dot on the safety, meaning the safety was off. The barrel was pointing all over the place.

“Sure,” said Peter. He stepped between Marv and Mingus, facing the dog. Then he pivoted and took hold of the pistol, one finger jammed behind the trigger so it wouldn’t go off, and twisted the gun from Marv’s grip.

“Hey!” said Marv, eyes wide.

The younger cop put his hand to his own sidearm.

“Wait,” said Peter, eyes on the younger man. He held up the gun by the barrel. “The safety was off. His finger was on the trigger.” He found the magazine release and dropped it into his waiting palm, and handed it to the other man. Then he racked the slide to eject the round from the chamber, caught it in the air, and held it up between thumb and forefinger for the younger man to see. “Is this how you were trained?”

The younger cop shook his head. “Christ, Marv,” he said. “We talked about this, remember? Somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

“Goddamn you little shits.” Marv was pulling a blackjack from his pocket.

“Marv,” said the younger cop, stepping in close. “We talked about this. Get back in the cart.”

Peter dropped the pistol into a campus mailbox. “I’m leaving now,” he said. “Sorry about the lunch buffet.”

The security guard from the library said, “Um, sir? I’ll just see you off campus?”

He was writing Peter’s license number down in his notebook as Mingus jumped into the cab of the truck.

As Peter climbed in after him, the dog slurped him in the face. His breath smelled like hamburgers. The rest of him smelled like ten gallons of hot sauce at the city dump.

Peter shook his head. “Mingus, you are a bad goddamn dog. Now I’m never going to get my shower.”

—

The cold November wind came through the broken window as he drove. He kept one eye on his mirrors, hoping to see a black Ford SUV. But no luck.

He had some time before his meeting with Skinner. He needed to get showered and changed if he wanted the guy to talk to him. And Dinah, he had to talk to Dinah.

He pulled out his phone and called the number she’d given him, which was the nurse’s station on her floor. It took them five minutes to get her to the phone.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Can we meet after your shift?”

“That’s fine with me,” she said. “I’ll be home about six.”

He wanted to ask if he could use her shower. Maybe run a load of laundry through the wash. But he’d just spent an hour in the library, his head was aching, and bathrooms were definitely indoors. He was used to splashing himself in a glacial stream under the vast dome of the sky. The last time he’d showered was at that motel, which hadn’t gone well. He didn’t ask.