Gone(16)

“I’m here responding to a disturbance, Brad. I entered the bar and found you harassing one of the customers. When I tried to remove him, you pursued. Then you knocked me to the ground.” He risked a step forward. “I’m well within my rights to arrest you and take you to jail. This is a public place. You have no right-to-defense here.”

It was a ridiculous pissing contest. Either I press this guy, or I back down. He could send for backup. Dispatch knew he’d taken the call but there would be no one coming to assist unless he requested it. There was a chance that one of the troopers in the area might nose it out on their own, but there was no counting on that.

Better to de-escalate the situation now, get out of here and deal with Brad later. There were a dozen witnesses. Maybe the bartender would agree to a statement about what had happened, even if the majority of the customers would stay silent.

Peter took his hand off the gun. He felt his heart sink. But it was the right move. Wasn’t it? To get Hayes out of there, plus take Brad along, would be too hard. He’d have to cuff them both, call in the backup, and it would add hours to his night. Hayes needed to go, and that was that.

“Alright, Brad. We’re going to leave. You need to keep calm.”

“I am calm.”

You fucking asshole, Peter thought. But he realized what he was feeling, already, was regret. He had been humiliated.

“Good,” he said. Keeping his eyes on Brad, Peter took a step back. He lowered down to a squat and grabbed Hayes by the shoulder. He shook him; Hayes moaned. “Get up,” Peter commanded. He squeezed Hayes’ shoulder — hard. Hayes yelped, but it worked. He flailed for a moment, then used the doorframe to stand up.

Peter took one last look around the room, one last look at Brad. There was no denying the smug satisfaction on the man’s face. The look pissed him off. For a moment, he imagined rushing Brad, tackling him and beating him to the ground.

Instead, he dragged Hayes out the door and left.

*

“What is it with you and these guys, huh?”

Peter took the dark roads. His adrenaline was still rushing. He needed to lash out at something, someone.

Hayes was silent in the backseat.

Instead of going home, Peter was going in the other direction, back to the goddamn jail. He buried the accelerator and sped through the dark, trees blurring past, road dipping and rising. He’d already placed the call that he was coming in. Hayes was going to be locked up for the night, at least.

Hayes was drunk — the fumes filled the car with the smell of sour booze and sweat. Peter hated it. He liked a clean car, a clean life. He understood that Hayes was as human as anyone else, but he wished the man would just go away. Just disappear. He tried to remember a good time in his life, a time before he’d been caretaker to the mentally ill, the criminals, the ignorant; a policeman for the social failings of the world. Not what he had signed up for. He’d wanted to help, and make a difference.

Almost there. The lights of the jail were on the horizon; over the trees, a soft glow. Much as he regretted having to go back there tonight, seeing those lights eased some of the anger twisting through him.

Hayes suddenly laughed. “They think they’re free,” he said, and broke out in a brief coughing fit. His voice was nasal from his busted nose. Then he resumed, “They think it’s the government that’s going to come after them. Can you imagine, Pete? Their little pea-shooters against an army. Against armed drones.”

Well, Brad Rafferty managed to make quick work of me, Peter thought, feeling a bitter twinge.

Hayes whistled through his clogged nose. There was probably blood in the back of the car, on the seats. Peter would have to scrub it out tonight. Yet another thing to tend to before this long day was over. If he didn’t have Althea . . . he didn’t know what he would do.

He could feel his heart easing. Another storm had passed. Or he had swallowed it down. He knew he had a temper. Since his youth, people had teased him about it. They said he overcompensated for his small size. In farm country, kids ran on the plus size. But then he’d met Althea, who hadn’t grown up in the region. She was his fresh start. The key out of his own cell.

Something occurred to him. He looked in the rear-view mirror, through the metal grate.

“Is that what you were talking about at the bar, Hayes? That people aren’t free? That they weren’t — Brad and whoever else? I think I saw Joe Fleming there, and Tony Spillane, Nick’s nephew . . .”

“They don’t want to hear it. No one wants to hear it.” Then Hayes grew petulant. “No one wants to hear what I have to say.”

“What about earlier today? You giving Terry Rafferty an earful of the same shit? Now you’re bleeding again, John, and this time you’re going to jail.”

Hayes didn’t respond, but in the absence Peter felt something change in the air — a subtle difference in the atmosphere. Like Hayes was genuinely, emotionally hurt.

“Why do you say these things, huh? Why get people all riled up?”

“Because I believe in freedom,” Hayes said. “Freedom from tyrants.”

“And what sort of tyranny are we talking about? You just said going against the government was a joke . . .” Peter’s thoughts shifted, already his mind was moving on. He saw this type of thing all the time, anyway — and he didn’t blame the cops or the therapists or anyone who dealt with people like Hayes — after a while you stopped really talking to them, you stopped hearing, you just went by the playbook. You said “uh-huh” while they spoke, determined if they were a danger to themselves or others, and you went to bed to start all over again the next day.