Skin Privilege

play these games with people, these glorified pissing contests, like it's not a matter of life and death.' She tapped her hand to her chest. 'My life, Jeffrey. Your death.'

Jeffrey tried to shrug it off. 'His shots were wide. They were just a warning.'

'Oh, you have no idea how consoling I find that.'

'You can't let people like that know you're scared.'

'You can't let people know you're scared,' she corrected. 'He had a gun, Jeffrey. A shotgun.'

'We were out of range.'

'Out of range?' she echoed, incredulous. She held up her finger to stop the words that were about to come out of his mouth. 'You locked me in the car. He put that gun in your face and you locked me in the car.'

'I was trying to protect you.'

'Who was protecting you?' she demanded. 'I'm not a child, Jeffrey. I'm not some scared little girl who needs her hand held to cross the street.'

'And I am?'

She didn't answer. Her focus had shifted from Jeffrey to something over his shoulder. The green pickup was back, slowing down for another look. The windows were tinted, but as he turned, Jeffrey could make out two figures behind the dark glass as the truck rolled by. It occurred to Jeffrey that maybe the driver wasn't looking for a show. Maybe he was looking to finish what Al Pfeiffer had started.

He ordered, 'Get in the car.'

Sara didn't argue. She walked briskly toward the BMW and Jeffrey followed. He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, not bothering to look for traffic as he pulled back onto the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the truck make another U-turn.

He told Sara, 'They turned around.'

She slipped on her seat belt, clicking it into place.

The BMW gave a slight jerk as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. The truck sped up as well.

Sweat rolled down Jeffrey's back as he navigated the snaking road. Two minutes passed before the truck pulled off onto a dirt trail. Either the man had lost interest or he knew that there was no way he could take on the inline six.

Or both Jeffrey and Sara were paranoid as hell.

'They're not following,' he told her, though she had seen as much in the mirror on the visor.

She pressed her lips together, stared out the window.

He asked, 'Are you all right?'

'Why did we come here?'

'What?'

'Why did we come here?' She was speaking in a regular tone of voice now, but he could tell he was still not off the hook. 'Why did we have to come to this place?'

'I told you. I wanted to talk to Al Pfeiffer.'

'To accomplish what?'

'To see why he left town.'

'He left town because someone tried to kill him and his entire family.'

Suddenly, Jeffrey found himself longing for her silence. 'This is my job, Sara. I talk to people who don't want to talk to me.'

'As far as I can recall, you've never been shot at by one of them before.'

He let his lack of response concede the point.

She asked, 'What does any of this have to do with Lena?'

I don't know.'

'How does this help find out who was in the Escalade or why they were killed?'

'I don't know that, either.'

'Well,' she said, rolling down the window a few inches, letting in some air. 'You don't seem to know a lot of things.'

Now the silence came. Jeffrey gladly welcomed it, staring ahead at the empty highway, counting off the mile markers. He found it difficult to swallow as he thought about the gravel spraying up, the gunshot ringing in his ears. Why had he slowed down the car? What primal instinct had made him take his foot off the gas, to push back at the man who had nearly pushed him into oblivion?

Pfeiffer had been carrying a Remington Wingmaster, the kind of shotgun used by most law enforcement officers. Jeffrey had lied when he'd told Sara that they were out of range when he took his foot off the gas. If Pfeiffer was a good shot, and his nearly fifty years toting a badge indicated he probably was, the man could have taken out Sara or Jeffrey with a twitch of his finger.

He had to get Sara out of here. She was right that he was like Lena, but they were alike because they were both cops. There were certain people in this world that you couldn't show your weak side to. As far as Jeffrey was concerned, Sara was his weak side. Her safety had been the first thought that came to his mind when he'd seen that shotgun. He had locked the doors because he didn't want her running to the house and getting her head blown off. He could not worry about his own safety so long as she was in jeopardy, and the only way to remedy the problem was to send Sara back to Grant County.

But, then, why had Jeffrey slowed the car? Why had he kept Sara in range of the shotgun just to prove a point? He could have gotten her killed.

At least half an hour of driving passed before his chest stopped feeling like a rubber band was around his heart, and it took another half hour for him to realize that the reason his hands were sticking to the wheel was because the side of his left palm had been ripped open on the gravel driveway.

Jeffrey coasted into the first gas station he saw.

Sara looked at the gas gauge on the dash as if to check up on him. That hadn't been why he'd stopped, but the needle was halfway down to the E, so Jeffrey decided he might as well fill up the tank. If Sara noticed the blood on his hands and the steering wheel, she didn't say anything.

Jeffrey's gun and holster were still tucked under his seat and he clipped them onto his belt as he got out of the car. He fumbled with the gas cap, fingers stiff from being wrapped around the steering wheel, and managed to get the nozzle in the tank before walking to the little convenience store. When he opened the glass door, he had to duck at the last minute to avoid a cowbell hanging from the jamb.

'Sorry about that,' the clerk apologized, though the smirk on his face said watching unsuspecting customers get smacked in the head was one of his favorite pastimes. 'Gotta move that thing one day.'

Jeffrey glared at the young man as he made his way to the back of the store. Inside the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror, saw his hair was damp with sweat, that dirt had splattered his shirt when the gravel scattered. His hands were a mess and he used a paper towel to turn on the faucet so he wouldn't leave blood all over the fixture. The cold water stung like hellfire, but he kept his hands under the stream, trying to clean the debris out of his wounds.

'Jesus,' he muttered, glancing into the mirror again. He shook his head, trying to think through what had happened. His intention had been to talk to Pfeiffer cop to cop, have a little off- the-record conversation about the situation in Elawah so that Jeffrey could figure out what exactly Lena had gotten herself into. Was he dealing with skinheads? Would Jake Valentine be any help? Could anybody left in the sheriff's department be trusted?

Pfeiffer had been firebombed out of town, so Jeffrey doubted seriously