Mind + Body, Aaron Dunlap [smart books to read TXT] 📗

officer in the face. Driver’s license and state registration in hand.

He looked at me for a short moment, then at Amy for a long moment. “License and registration please, sir?” he said, still looking at Amy. I could feel her getting uncomfortable.

I handed him my information, which finally dragged his attention from the sixteen-year-old girl in the car. He looked at my license, ignoring the registration. “Mr. Baker,” his voice sounded older than he looked; maybe he smoked, “do you know why I pulled you over?”

You’re not supposed to volunteer anything when they ask that. If you say, “Speeding,” you just admitted to speeding and he doesn’t need radar information or witness account. You just did his job for him.

“Could you tell me?” I asked the officer. He stood up straight; I had to lean out of my window to see his face.

“Changed lanes without signaling back there,” he said. I couldn’t remember doing that, but then I couldn’t remember much of anything before this moment.

The officer leaned back in, looked at Amy and said, “Do you have any ID, ma’am?”

She looked at me, I looked at him. “Is there a problem?” I asked.

He looked annoyed, and drew in a breath. “A young lady was kidnapped around this area recently, fitting her description. Just need to check.” I thought for a second, and then nodded at Amy. She pulled her license from her purse and handed it over.

The cop looked at it, said he’d be right back and took our licenses back to his car. I rolled my window back up to keep the cold out.

“That’s weird,” Amy said, “he didn’t say another word about your lane changing farce. Maybe he thinks he’s wrapped up a big kidnapping case.”

I didn’t reply, I was watching in my side mirror as the officer walked away. His shirt was cinched in the back, bunched together into a knot and tucked into his pants, like you do when you’ve got a shirt that’s way too big for you. Like, because it’s not your shirt.

“I don’t think that’s a cop,” I said, still looking in the mirror. I couldn’t see him once he got into the car.

“What do you mean you don’t think it’s a cop? Looks very coppish to me,” Amy asked.

I didn’t say anything; I was too busy thinking. When a cop takes your license back to his car he’s swiping your license through his in-car computer to check for warrants and at your criminal record, probably radios an update to dispatch, and writes out a ticket if you’re getting one. What this guy was doing, I couldn’t see. My heart started beating faster.

Strangely, I kept picturing myself throwing my new knife into his throat. Since I’d bought that knife I kept having weird mental flashes of doing all sorts of unseemly things with it. I must have been giddy about owning real weapons now, after a lifetime of playing make-believe.

Regardless, I can’t throw a knife into a cop unless I’m sure he isn’t one. Besides all the other reasons not to, I mean.

He stayed back in his car for quite a long time; I wished I could see what he was doing. If he was using his computer or writing a ticket he’d have a light on, I realized. What’s he doing in the dark?

I turned around and looked at his car out through my rear window, then pressed down on my brake pedal. The car’s brake lights illuminated, casting a red glow behind my car and battled the rotating lights from the police car. It was enough to cast some light into the car’s front seat. I could see the guy sitting in the driver’s seat. I saw him with one hand up to his face and another holding some black object in front of him. He was on a cell phone, it looked like, and holding… I couldn’t be sure. Looked like a metal tube, like a short telescope or a gun silencer.

“It’s not a cop,” I said, finally convinced.

Yellow light soon filled the police car as the driver’s door opened yet again and the man stepped out. He started slowly walking toward my car with what looked like our driver’s licenses in his left hand and his right hand down at his side. My reflected headlights lit him well enough that I could see his belt holster holding a standard police issue, probably a Glock, no silencer sticking out. Next to that was a large black aerosol-looking can, definitely mace or pepper spray. Handcuffs and beating stick were on the other side. He was walking slowly, deliberately. Time seemed to be slowing down to a crawl, like I was back in that hallway, like a fist was rocketing toward my face with the quickness of a half-inflated zeppelin.

I couldn’t feel my heart beating, but thought I could hear something ringing in my ears. It might have been the sound of my brain churning faster than usual. I looked at Amy and said calmly, “You know the recline handle on the side of your seat?”

She nodded, a bit slowly, deliberately. Her eyes seemed to be screaming fear, but I couldn’t listen to them now.

“Put your hand on it right now,” I said.

The man was up to the rear of my car.

Amy’s hand glided across her body like a skater on fresh ice, and disappeared between her seat and the door, she kept looking at me.

“If at any time after I finish this sentence I say the word ‘down’, pull that lever and lean all the way back, then cover your ears with your hands. If I say ‘up’, don’t pull the handle but turn away toward the window and close your eyes, hold your breath, and cover your mouth and nose with your hands. Do you understand?”

It was me talking, but the words were coming out like the lyrics to a song I already knew. I wasn’t thinking about them.

The man was up to my window, now. Tapping on the glass.

I was still looking at Amy. She nodded slowly.

“What are you going to do?” she asked in a whisper.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t have an answer.