“Obstruction.”
“Of what?” Stephen said. “You really think that’ll hold up in court?”
The officer pushed Annie to the side and grabbed at Stephen, who held up his hands. “I’m not resisting.”
“Gimme that notepad.”
Stephen slipped the pad into the pocket of his jeans before the cop had a chance to snatch it from him. The cop swung him around, slammed him against the car, and pulled out a plastic restraint. “Hands behind your back, Indian.”
“He’s done nothing,” Annie protested.
“Shut up, lady. You’re next.”
The crowd of protesters had grown thicker, with lots of shouts of “Police brutality!” Annie was so near the officer she could see that his face had gone red with rage. She understood that his actions now weren’t being dictated by his pledge to uphold the law but by some inner fire.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” she said.
“Back off!” the officer screamed at her.
“We’re not going to harm you. No one’s going to harm you,” Annie said. “This is a place of peace.”
He bent to her, his reddened face so near she could see the veins that webbed the whites of his eyes. Whatever fear was driving this man, she understood it was so powerful that it encased his heart.
The blast of a police siren made all heads turn. Annie saw the deputy who’d cleared the barricade for them pull his cruiser to a stop. He got quickly out and came to where his fellow officer had Stephen pinned against Rainy’s car.
“What’s going on, Lewis?”
“Lawful arrest,” the red-faced officer said.
“We have video!” one of the protesters called out.
“Arrest on what charge?” the deputy asked.
Officer Lewis hesitated a moment, then said as if it were a confession forced from him by torture, “Obstruction.”
“We’ve done nothing,” Annie said.
“Obstruction of what, Lewis? I let these ladies through five minutes ago.”
“Thanks for giving me a heads-up,” Lewis shot back.
“Step back, Lewis, and return to your post,” the deputy said.
Lewis started away, but after half a dozen steps, he turned back and eyed Annie as if somehow she were the guilty party in all this mess. He mouthed something she couldn’t make out, but from the mask of anger that was his face, she could pretty well guess the timbre of the words.
After Lewis had gone, Stephen said, “Thank you—”
“Deputy Carlson,” the officer said.
“I’m happy to see that all police aren’t like him,” Stephen said.
“He’s not police. Or not anymore anyway. He’s private security. And maybe not even that much longer,” Carlson said, clearly irritated. “Obstruction.” He shook his head, then gave Stephen a stern look. “See to it that we don’t have to arrest you on other charges, am I clear?”
“Perfectly,” Stephen said.
The deputy returned to his vehicle. He drove around the crowd and disappeared beyond the idle bulldozers.
Stephen looked at Annie and Maria and smiled. “Welcome to Spirit Crossing.” Then he waved a hand vigorously in front of his face and added, “Where the mosquitoes are just as bad as the assholes we’re fighting.”
CHAPTER 12
The address Irene Boyle had given Cork and Marsha Dross for her brother turned out to be an old white one-story building at the edge of the small town of Dahlbert, a dozen miles from Spirit Crossing. Like many small towns in the area of the pipeline construction, Dahlbert’s population had swelled with pipeline workers, men for the most part, seeking temporary housing. The yard was in need of mowing, the house in need of a new coat of paint. Two graveled ruts led to a garage in back, where a Jeep Wrangler was parked. Behind that was a grove of birch trees.
Dross parked in the graveled ruts, and she and Cork got out. Dross rang the front doorbell, but nothing happened. Through the screens on the front windows came the voice of an announcer giving a play-by-play account of a baseball game. Cork heard the Twins mentioned. Dross knocked, then knocked harder. Finally, an old woman in a faded pink housecoat and wearing fuzzy pink slippers opened up and stared at them with a hostile expression. The odor of cigarette smoke came off her in a foul wave.
“What?” she said, a challenge, not a question.
“We’d like to speak to Mathias Paavola.”
“He don’t live here.”
“We were told he does.”
“Lives in back.”
“The garage?” Dross said.
“Converted garage,” the woman said as if she’d been insulted.
