Some nights he looked at himself in the visor mirror, his skin bluish green in the dashboard light, and wondered if somehow he was off the track. He knew his conduct was considered reprehensible, yet he was secure enough not to care; as long as there were punks and smart-asses, he would continue to treat them the way they deserved. It wasn’t about law or ticket quotas, it was about holding the line against disrespect and chaos. Once a society lost its manners, once it flagrantly disregarded its own most basic rules of conduct, it was doomed. And if he had to sting a few cheeks to accomplish this, he would do it and sleep the sleep of the just afterwards.
He recalled his ex-wife, her own cheek bright red from a blow, as she left him for the final time. “If you come near me again,” she’d said in that cold voice of hers, “I’ll kill you. I mean it. You’ve taught me how to get away with it, too. You’re through intimidating me.”
He shook his head at the memory. A few slaps to keep a wife in line were not “beatings.” Choice words to express his righteous displeasure were not “abuse.” It was that therapist of hers, telling her things that directly contradicted everything Pafford knew to be true. If the man hadn’t moved his practice out of state, Pafford would’ve made sure he couldn’t turn around in his driveway without getting a moving violation.
He got the tingle on the back of his neck before he saw the approaching headlights. He watched them grow larger, and experience told him they were well past the posted speed limit of forty-five miles per hour. He smiled, sat up straight, and watched the radar gun’s readout. As the vehicle passed through the beam, the numbers read 72.
He flipped the switches for lights and siren, and spun gravel as he tore out of the roadside park onto the blacktop.
“Shit,” Terry-Joe muttered when he saw the lights. He immediately pulled over. The shoulder sloped precariously down toward the ditch, tilting the car sideways.
The state trooper pulled in behind them. Terry-Joe sat still, his heart pounding, hands on the steering wheel. He had no doubt who would soon appear at his window. Only one trooper worked off the interstate in Cloud County.
Pafford heaved himself out of his car and walked slowly toward the other vehicle, one hand on the butt of his pistol. He reached the car and tapped on the glass with his flashlight. Terry-Joe rolled it down and was immediately blinded. “Terry-Joe Gitterman,” he drawled. “I’d have expected your brother.”
“You’d be wrong,” Terry-Joe mumbled.
“In kind of a hurry, wasn’t you, son? Where’s the fire?”
“Her brother got took to the hosp—”
Pafford shoved the flashlight slightly, so that the edge around the lens struck Terry-Joe in the temple. The flashlight’s weight did all the work, and the move was invisible to the dashboard camera.
“You need to learn the meaning of ‘ree-torical,’ son. I don’t give a rat’s ass where you Tufa trash were going.”
Terry-Joe’s eyes watered from the blow, and he felt himself turn red with fury. He gingerly touched the side of his head. “Yes, sir,” he said tightly.
Pafford looked into the backseat. “This your car, boy?”
“No, sir. It belongs to Kell Hyatt.”
“Does he know you have it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pafford shone the light onto his passenger. “And who’s this little piece of ass you’re toting around? Hope she’s over eighteen, for your sake.”
Bronwyn turned and looked straight and steady into the light, willing her eyes not to blink. She heard Pafford gasp in surprise. “Well, I’ll be a goddamned monkey in the zoo. If it ain’t the Bronwynator. Now, I happen to know you’re over eighteen, but I can’t quite recall Mr. Gitterman’s age here. You wouldn’t be out corruptin’ a minor in your big brother’s car, would you?”
“My brother,” she said quietly, “is in the hospital in Unicorn. He got stabbed tonight.”
He snorted. “I bet he did. Probably some blonde’s boyfriend did it. You Tufa boys love chasing white women, don’t you?” He withdrew the flashlight and slapped the roof of the car. “I smell marijuana,” he said loudly, for the camera’s benefit. “Both of you, step out of the car now. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Terry-Joe and Bronwyn did as instructed. They put their hands on the edge of the car’s roof, and Pafford quickly patted Terry-Joe down. Then he turned to Bronwyn.
He took a moment to savor this. Leaned forward, tight jeans hugging her firm ass, she was a sight, and he made sure to take his time. She wore no bra under her T-shirt, and he let his thick fingers caress the sides of her breasts through the cotton. He moved to her waist, then down the sides of her thighs. He grunted as he knelt to continue down.
He stopped suddenly. “How come one of your legs is so much bigger than the other one?”
“I just got one out of a cast,” Bronwyn said through clenched teeth. “The muscle’s all—”
She gasped with agony as he dug one huge iron-fingered hand into the tender skin of her injured calf. Her leg collapsed, and she fell to the ground. Her vision went hazy, and little sparks swirled around the edges.
Terry-Joe jumped back and said, “What the hell, man! You know she was hurt in the war!”
Pafford’s gun was in his hand without a conscious thought. He pointed it at the center of Terry-Joe’s chest and hissed, “You make another sound, and whatever you had for dinner will be splattered all over the pavement.” More loudly he said, “Miss, this behavior won’t help at your trial.”
Bronwyn looked up at him with hatred stronger than anything Pafford had ever encountered. She was breathing hard and quick through her teeth, and spittle collected at the corners of her mouth. “All right,” she whispered, and then more loudly said, “All right! I’ll suck you off, just don’t shoot him!”
Pafford blinked in confusion. Before he could reply, Bronwyn got to her knees and whipped off her T-shirt, exposing her breasts to both the night and the dashboard video camera. “Yes, sir, anything you say,” she cried. “You can come on my tits. Do you want my pants off, too?”
Pafford stared, speechless. Bronwyn Hyatt half-naked was a sight to make any man pause, and the utter incongruity of it froze him in place. It was only belatedly, after she’d said, “Yes, sir, I remember what you told me to do the last time, when I was sixteen,” that he understood what she was doing.
He got to his feet and backed away, the gun still pointed at them. “You goddamned whore,” he huffed.
She stayed on her knees, chin high. “Yes, sir, I’m a whore, whatever you say. Do you want me to lick your balls again, too?”
He scuttled backward to the driver’s door of his car. “I’m letting you off with a warning!” he yelled, his voice higher than normal. He got behind the wheel and spun burning tires backward as he pulled onto the deserted road.
Bronwyn winced as the tiny rocks stung her bare skin. Then she laughed as Pafford awkwardly turned around, nearly going rear-bumper-first into the opposite ditch, and roared off into the night the way he’d come. In moments, the only sounds were the normal ones.
“Holy shit,” Terry-Joe gasped as he knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”
Bronwyn pulled her T-shirt back on and got to her feet. She could barely contain her giggles. “I always heard a pair of tits could bring down any man,” she said. She saw his expression and had to laugh. “Terry-Joe, if you don’t close your mouth, the skeeters’ll lay their eggs in your spit.”
He shook his head. “I just… wow.”