Gray Mountain: A Novel(12)

“New York?” he said. His diction was far from crisp but his belligerent tone was clear.

“Yes sir. I live in New York City.”

“Then why are you driving a car from Vermont?”

“It’s a rental car,” she said, grabbing the Avis agreement on the console. She offered it to him but he was still staring at her license, as if he had trouble reading.

“What’s a Prius?” he asked. Long i, like “Pryus.”

“It’s a hybrid, from Toyota.”

“A what?”

She knew nothing about cars, but at that moment it did not matter. An abundance of knowledge would not help her explain the concept of a hybrid. “A hybrid, you know, it runs on both gas and electricity.”

“You don’t say.”

She could not think of the proper response, and while he waited she just smiled at him. His left eye seemed to drift toward his nose.

He said, “Well, it must go pretty fast. I clocked you doing fifty-one back there in a twenty-mile-an-hour zone. That’s thirty over. That’s reckless driving down here in Virginia. Not sure about New York and Vermont, but it’s reckless down here. Yes ma’am, it sure is.”

“But I didn’t see a speed limit sign.”

“I can’t help what you don’t see, ma’am, now can I?”

An old pickup truck approached from ahead, slowed, and seemed ready to stop. The driver leaned out and yelled, “Come on, Romey, not again.”

The cop turned around and yelled back, “Get outta here!”

The truck stopped on the center line, and the driver yelled, “You gotta stop that, man.”

The cop unsnapped his holster, whipped out his black pistol, and said, “You heard me, get outta here.”

The truck lurched forward, spun its rear tires, and sped away. When it was twenty yards down the road, the cop aimed his pistol at the sky and fired a loud, thundering shot that cracked through the valley and echoed off the ridges. Samantha screamed and began crying. The cop watched the truck disappear, then said, “It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s always butting in. Now, where were we?” He stuck the pistol back into the holster and fiddled with the snap as he talked.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to wipe her eyes with trembling hands.

Frustrated, the cop said, “It’s okay, ma’am. It’s okay. Now, you got a New York driver’s license and Vermont tags on this little weird car, and you were thirty miles over. What are you doing down here?”

Is it really any of your business? she almost blurted, but an attitude would only cause more trouble. She looked straight ahead, took deep breaths, and fought to compose herself. Finally she said, “I’m headed to Brady. I have a job interview.” Her ears were ringing.

He laughed awkwardly and said, “Ain’t no jobs in Brady, I can guarantee you that.”

“I have an interview with the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic,” she said, teeth clenched, her own words hollow and surreal.

This baffled him and he seemed uncertain as to his next move. “Well, I gotta take you in. Thirty over is extreme recklessness. Judge’ll probably throw the book at you. Gotta take you in.”

“In where?”

“To the county jail in Brady.”

Her chin dropped to her chest and she massaged her temples. “I don’t believe this,” she said.

“Sorry ma’am. Get out of the car. I’ll let you sit in my front seat.” He was standing with his hands on his hips, his right one dangerously close to his holster.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“As a heart attack.”

“Can I make a phone call?”

“No way. Maybe at the jail. Besides, ain’t no service out here.”

“You’re arresting me and taking me to jail?”

“Now you’re catching on. I’m sure we do things different down here in Virginia. Let’s go.”

“What about my car?”

“Tow truck’ll come get it. Cost you another forty bucks. Let’s go.”

She couldn’t think clearly, but all other options seemed to end with more gunfire. Slowly, she grabbed her bag and got out of the car. At five foot seven and in flat shoes, she had at least two inches on Romey. She walked back to his car, its blue grille lights still flashing. She looked at the driver’s door and saw nothing. He sensed what she was thinking and said, “It’s an unmarked car. That’s why you didn’t see me back there. Works every time. Get in the front seat. I’ll take you in with no handcuffs.”

She managed to mumble a weak “Thanks.”

It was a dark blue Ford of some variety, and it vaguely resembled an old patrol car, one retired a decade earlier. The front seat was of the bench style, vinyl with large cracks that revealed dirty foam padding. Two radios were stuck on the dashboard. Romey grabbed a mike and said, in rapid words barely decipherable, something like, “Unit ten, inbound to Brady with subject. ETA five minutes. Notify the judge. Need a wrecker at Thack’s Bridge, some kinda little weird Japanese car.”

There was no response, as if no one was listening. Samantha wondered if the radio really worked. On the bench between them was a police scanner, it too as quiet as the radio. Romey hit a switch and turned off his lights. “You wanna hear the siren?” he asked with a grin, a kid and his toys.