“Fine, but don’t get too distracted. I don’t want any surprise visits from the Death’s Disciples.”
“Brother, you know they won’t show up if they see me out there. One look and they’ll be pissing their fucking pants.”
I laugh. “Still, pay attention, all right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He hangs up and I return to my bourbon and my stray, nagging thoughts. I’m halfway into glass number two and just about ready to lock up when my phone rings again. It’s Blaze.
“Blaze, you better be calling me with good news,” I say.
“Well, the stars look fucking magnificent tonight. I can see Venus, Mars, and Saturn. If the sky would clear up a bit, I could probably find Jupiter, too.”
“You called me to talk Astronomy? Brother, while I respect your appreciation for the fucking majesty of the firmament, this really isn’t the time.”
“I didn’t call about that, but I thought you’d want to know. I’m calling cause it’s been about fifteen minutes standing out here and violet still hasn’t shown up. It’s cold, Crash, and my beer is empty. I’m going back inside.”
“She’s not there?”
“Nope. I’m going to go in and watch some Walking Dead with Josie. Call me if you need anything, OK?”
“Thanks, brother,” I say.
Where is she? And what kind of trouble is she getting in to? I think to myself as I finish my bourbon. Then it dawns on me just what’s been bothering me all day: Violet. I’m already so damn close to that woman — too close — that I’m sensing when something’s off with her.
She’s planning something. Something she doesn’t want me to find out about.
And I think I know what it is.
* * * * *
Half a block from city hall, parked under the overgrown branches of a blue spruce, I find her truck. I park my bike behind hers and run my fingertips along the hood as I pass by. It’s still warm, almost hot to the touch. She hasn’t been parked here more than a few minutes. Likely it took her some time sitting in her truck to work up the courage to do what comes next: breaking in to city hall.
I start on a fast walk to catch up to her. Violet might have courage and looks, but she sure as hell seems to lack in brains at the moment — inexperienced as she is, breaking into a government building in the middle of the night isn’t anywhere close to a bright idea. There're alarms and all sorts of other security measures in place that she’s unaware of and has no idea how to disable. Pluck and moxie might get her into the building, but that’s it; because before she knows it, the sheriffs will be on her ass and hauling her to jail.
My walk turns into a jog and I reach the entrance to city hall just in time to see a pair of headlights materialize in the distance. Bright lights, sitting low to the ground, and, as those lights enter the parking lot, the rest of the vehicle comes into view — a sheriff’s patrol car.
Violet Cassidy, you are in so far over your head.
I have to act fast, otherwise we are both fucked.
Ahead of me, the door to city hall sits open, one of the glass windowpanes set into the door shattered — her likely entrance into the building. Inelegant, but effective.
And way too fucking visible.
“You’re running out of time, Vi,” I yell out, hoping my voice carries deep enough into the building for her to hear it.
Behind me, the sheriff’s car blares its siren for a moment, a sharp sound that grows closer as the vehicle approaches in the parking lot. A sound that blasts just long enough to let me know that I’ve been seen and, if I act out, I’m in for a world of hurt.
I have one chance to do this right.
I turn my back to the patrol car, slip my hand into the pocket of my cut, and pull out my flask. I take a quick swig, swishing the whiskey around in my mouth before I swallow it. The rest of it I dump on my shirt.
Still holding my flask in my hand, I turn, and I stagger and wobble my way down the steps of city hall.
The sheriff’s siren blares again, just once. Stay right where you are, it says.
But I don’t listen.
I stumble forward, putting so much into my act at being drunk that I trip on the final stair and fall face-first into the pavement. Shaken, but unhurt, I climb back onto my wobbly legs.
“Don’t move,” the sheriff’s deputy calls out as he exits his vehicle, his service pistol raised and pointed right at me. “You’re under arrest.”
I stand still. Raise my hands — my right hand still holding my flask — high in the air.
“Don’t shoot,” I call out, putting a wicked slur into my words. “But you sure as shit don’t have the authority to arrest me, sheriff.”
“You’re drunk and disorderly and trespassing on government property. I’ve got many evident reasons to haul your ass in.”
I shake my head vigorously. “I’m a sovereign fucking citizen. Power unto myself, diplomatic immunity and all that shit, and if you keep pointing that gun at me, I will arrest you. Under the authority granted onto me by myself, you beige-wearing son of a bitch.”
“A sovereign citizen? What the fuck is that?”
“It’s like that old fucking saying: no man is an island. Which is true. I’m not an island. I’m a whole fucking nation.”
Gun still
