Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(65)

“It isn’t. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

“I’ve never been east of Nebraska myself,” Schuster said. “I’ve never felt the need. Can I offer you a piece of advice?”

Viktór didn’t want to close the door in the man’s face, but the back-and-forth was taking a direction he didn’t like. And the cop took another step closer until he was standing in the threshold of the door. If Viktór closed the door, he would literally hit the man. It could be construed as an assault.

In his peripheral vision, Viktór saw László raise the shotgun on the other side of the open door. There was an inch and a half of cheap compound board between the double-barreled muzzle of the weapon and the ear of the deputy.

“What’s your advice?” Viktór asked, not really wanting to hear any.

“Gillette is a real nice town, don’t get me wrong,” Schuster said. “I grew up here so I know. It’s got the nicest people in the world. Real friendly folks. But it’s an energy town. Coal, and coal’s dying. There are probably other towns in Wyoming you’d like better to settle down in. Have you been to Sheridan?”

“No,” Viktór said morosely.

“Buffalo? Cody?”

“No, no.”

“I wouldn’t recommend Jackson Hole unless you can afford it. Judging by your choice of accommodations, I’d say that’s a long shot.”

“Okay.”

“You might want to try those places out, is what I’m saying.”

Viktór felt his face flush with anger. He was grateful the cop wasn’t shining the flashlight at him to see it. “Thank you, Officer. Now I’m really tired and I want to get an early start tomorrow.”

“Is there just one of you in there?” Deputy Schuster said.

Viktór felt his scalp twitch. “Why?”

“Well, this SUV we’re looking for had two men in it. So I was just wondering if you were alone.”

“I’m here with my brother, Greg,” Viktór said. “He’s sleeping and I don’t want to wake him up.”

“Yeah, I can see through the door that you two did a number on a pizza and drank plenty of beer tonight. Kind of a sorry-ass Thanksgiving. Is your brother looking to move out here, too?”

Viktór heard a muffled snick from his right as László thumbed the safety of the shotgun off.

“Do you want me to apologize to your brother as well?” Deputy Schuster asked, leaning in to peer over Viktór’s shoulder. Viktór was astonished. Was this cop going to force his way in? Or get his head blown off trying?

“Please, I need to go,” Viktór said.

The cop grinned and cocked his head. “Your accent—I can’t place it. You say you’re from New York, but I’m getting like an Eastern European vibe. I had a teacher once from Hungary and he talked kind of like you. Weird, huh?”

Suddenly the door was wrenched open, causing Viktór to backpedal across the room. It was László, and László was enraged.

He grabbed the deputy by his collar and pulled him into the room. The deputy went down hard on the floor and László was on top of him. László clubbed the man’s head with the butt of his shotgun, then he plucked the officer’s weapon out of its holster and tossed it on the bed. In the same movement, László kicked the door shut. He flipped the deputy over and jammed the muzzle of the shotgun into the flesh beneath his nose.

Viktór was reminded there was nothing like his brother when it came to displays of sudden violence. It was one of the reasons he’d been such a good wrestler. László liked hurting people.

“What is wrong with you?” László bellowed at the cop.

Deputy Schuster looked up at László. He was terrified. His eyes shifted over to Viktór, as if pleading his case.

Viktór placed his hands on top of his head and paced the room. “What have you done?” he asked out loud. “What have we done?”

“I’ve got his keys,” László said. “I’m going to go move his car.”

“He’s a cop,” Viktór said.

“He’s a stupid cop.”

Viktór couldn’t argue with that. He watched as László removed handcuffs from the deputy’s belt and had the cop sit up. His brother ratcheted the cuffs tight on the man’s wrists behind his back. László also removed a canister of pepper spray and a handheld radio from his belt and tossed them on the bed out of reach.

“Here,” László said, handing the shotgun to Viktór. “Hold this on him and don’t let him move or talk.”

“Where are you going to hide his car so that no one can find it?” Viktór asked.

“There’s a ditch behind the motel. I’ll get it out of sight for now.”

“What are we going to do with him?”

László shrugged. Before he left the room with the keys, he gave Deputy Schuster a hard kick in his ribs. The officer moaned and tipped over to his side, writhing on the floor. Viktór kept the shotgun on him.

“What is wrong with you?” Viktór asked.