“TURN AROUND. SLOWLY.”
Ditto. Hey, even without the background bullshit, a cop tellsme to do something, I generally do it. I know cops. I respect cops. I even like a lot of cops.
I heard footsteps crunching gravel behind me, then felt apistol barrel in my back. Auras told me, First Cop close, Second Cop off to theside with a clear shot if I twitched. I started to sweat. I do not like being the center of attentionof scared men with their fingers on the trigger. Never have, never will. Anasty thought slipped into my head, unwelcome, Kratz again. I checked andneither cop bore his signature. They were justscared, no tampering.
One hand searched me while the other held that pistol againstmy spine. He found the SIG, he found the .38 Smith, dumped both of them on thegravel with muttered curses, he removed other things from my pockets.
“I have the permits.”
“SHUT UP.” No amplifier this time, but he didn’t need one. Icould feel the tension shaking his gun hand. I shut up.
After a second search that even pulled my pipe and tobacco andpipe tool out of my coat pocket, he yanked my hands down and cuffed them behindmy back. Cuffed them tight, finger-tingly tight. He horsed my bulk over to thecruiser and shoved me into the back and shut me in. At that point, I actuallyrelaxed a touch. They’d have a hell of a time hiding the evidence if one of thedamned fools twitched and shot me in their own cruiser.
And they probably felt safer with me locked in, which made me safer. Like I said, frightened menwith guns scare the shit out me.
First Cop held a gun on me while the other collected my stufffrom the gravel. I could see now, sitting behind those headlights andspotlights. Second Cop looked like he was afraid to even pick up my damnedhandkerchief. Maybe I’d put a hex on it, and it would turn into a cobra in hishand. Anyway, in their eyes I was the perp rather than the victim.
You think I’ve been exaggerating about the persecution bit?This whole scene reminded me of a joke I’d heard when I was a kid, old-styleSouthern Sheriff arriving at a crash scene. Obvious drunk white driver, twoblack pedestrians hurt bad. Sheriff looks over the scene, one black man halfwaythrough the windshield and moaning and bleeding, the other thrown fifty feetinto a ditch and not moving. Sheriff takes a few notes.
“Well now, I can charge this here nigra with breaking andentering, and the other one with leaving the scene of an accident. Let me callan ambulance for you, Mr. Lee.”
Yeah. I can get bitter every now and then.
Anyway, the two cops got everything sorted out to theirsatisfaction and climbed into the front seat. Second Cop kept his pistol drawn,a clear measure of stupidity. Or something. I never have sorted out all of whatthose two were doing — when I got my wallet back afterward, it was short by a hundredbucks. I didn’t file charges. No inventory when they picked up my stuffequalled no evidence. I knew where those charges would be heard, and who wouldbe believed.
But stealing from me, that didn’t fit the profile of menterrified by wizards.
“Officer, I’m a retired cop. Aren’t you at least going to readyour Miranda card to me?”
“Shut up.”
Second Cop twitched, the man with the gun. I shut up.
We drove. I tried to keep track of where we were going,further along the road I’d come in on, through a crossroads and past aconvenience store/gas station, on into the Podunk Hollow town that served as acivic center in those parts. The cruiser pulled up in front of the municipalbuilding, it said so on the sign out front, and the two cops repeated their menace-to-societydrill of one covering with drawn weapon while the other hauled me out of theback seat and shoved me along through their police-department-labeled door.They didn’t have a secure sally-port entry for transferring prisoners, not evena secure vestibule with electric locks and an intercom — like I said, PodunkHollow stuff.
They did have shielding. I could feel it when we got inside.And the men relaxed when that shielded door closed behind us, which showed theydidn’t actually know a damned thingabout wizards. Shielding doesn’t help when you bring the danger inside withyou. Sure, it cut down on the amount of power I could reach and play with, butI wouldn’t need much. Fiddling with untrained minds uses a lot less power thanstopping a slug. Setting off every round in their pistols and spare magazinesby tweaking the primers would take even less than that.
And I wouldn’t have to talk, or use my hands, to do either. Itook me a while, I can be slow-witted on occasion, but I finally realized that they’dhandcuffed me and kept telling me to shut up because they were afraid I’d speakAbominable Words of Power at them, or wave my hands in arcane gestures tosubvert their wills. That’s a bullshit and baloney sandwich.
But I didn’t fiddle, either heads or primers. That would haveleft my own signature for whenever another wizard wandered through and checkedfor traces on everyone involved. I stared First Cop in the eye. His collar tabsaid he was the Chief.
“Any magical crime, you have to call the State Police. If youdon’t have the number, look in my wallet. You’ll find a business card for theProfessional Regulation Section. Or call that FBI number, card’s the next oneover. And both of them are in the same pocket as my professional license andgun permits.” And my membership card for the Police Benevolent Association,with the “Retired” endorsement, but I didn’t mention that.
“Shut up.” But he wasn’t shouting, this time.
I guess I should have expected what he did next. I mean, they’dalready broken a couple-dozen basic rules of police work. What’s another one orfive? Still, my jaw almost bounced off the floor.
“Bring Wes in to have a look at this guy.”
Second Cop gave First Cop a funny look, as if he understood a line or two of themanual, but he shrugged and turned
