The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,62

as Garrity’s voice came in over the speakers. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m in vehicular pursuit,” Trey said, eyes scanning the rearview mirror. “William Perkins.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Not impossible. Tai is supposed to be calling 911.”

“School bus!” I screamed.

Trey snatched the wheel right and then left.

Garrity’s voice ratcheted into panic. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Where are you?”

“Ashford Dunwoody Road, headed south toward 285. And I’ve got a tail.” Trey’s voice had an edge. “Can you help me, please?”

“Hold on.”

We hit a bump. The glove compartment flew open, and a flurry of papers tumbled into my lap along with a set of rosary beads. Suddenly, a massive red bloom of brake lights materialized in front of us.

I grabbed his arm. “Road work!”

But Trey had already switched lanes and was downshifting so fast his hand seemed a blur. We slammed to a stop like we’d hit a wall.

Ahead of us, the Buick fishtailed, then slid sideways into the blocked lane, sending orange cones popping into the air. One police car swept past us, but another pulled in right behind. Bulldog scrambled from the car and took off into the chaos of the construction, two officers in pursuit.

Garrity’s voice returned through the speakers. “Huge ticket, my friend. Quadruple digits. You might even be arrested.”

But Trey wasn’t really listening. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes. Then he exhaled slow and deep.

“Want a cigarette?” I said.

The officer behind us got out of his car and came to the window. Trey lowered it.

It was a young guy, one of those corn-fed, earnest rookies. Surprisingly, he didn’t have his gun drawn, but his hand did hover nervously at his side. He bent and looked inside.

He smiled real politely. “Hey there, Mr. Seaver.”

Trey cocked his head. “Did I know you?”

“No. Dispatch gave us the ID.”

Garrity, I thought.

Trey motioned toward the glove compartment. “License and registration?”

The cop seemed apologetic. “Yes, sir. I guess so, sir.”

Chapter 32

So he did get a ticket, a massive one, and we did have to go to the station. Garrity’s station. He met us at the door. He did not look happy.

“I’m going to do what I can about this,” he said. “In the meantime, in my office, both of you.”

Trey immediately complied. I hung back a little. “Go easy on him.”

Garrity stared at me. “Don’t worry about him, my friend. It’s you that needs to worry.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Garrity just pointed. “Now.”

***

His office was tiny and cramped, his desk a landscape of papers and envelopes. Trey stood by the window, watching the parking lot. I moved to the desk. There were only two pictures on it. One was a studio portrait of a smiling toddler wearing a Braves hat. The other was a candid shot. I picked it up.

In it, Trey was smiling for the camera, his mouth open like he was either laughing or about to say something. He was wearing a distressed leather jacket and a dark green Izod shirt, and his hair fell over his forehead, messy and long on top. Garrity stood to his right—they had their arms around each other’s shoulders. I imagined beer and peanuts, a house band playing eighties cover.

Trey saw what I was holding. “You remember this?” I said.

He shook his head. “No.”

I put the photo back on Garrity’s desk. “I think I would have liked you.”

“I think I would have liked me too.”

Just then Garrity came in. His voice was clipped. “Trey, you wait out front.” Then he looked straight at me, and I didn’t like the look one bit.

“This won’t take long,” he said.

***

I sat opposite the desk. Garrity, however, remained standing, propped against a file cabinet. I couldn’t stand the suspense.

“Did they catch him?”

“They caught him.”

“Good, I can’t wait to hear—”

“You just had to say ‘wanted killer,’ didn’t you?”

I spread my hands. “It was Bulldog! You know, Bulldog, presumed dead, murder suspect?”

“Which was all the more reason to let the cops handle it.”

“What cops? We were all alone!”

He wasn’t listening. “It wasn’t worth the risk.”

“Oh, please, Trey’s a crackerjack behind the wheel.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t help him last time, did it?”

“That’s bullshit!” I shook my head. “Trey is not some invalid—”

“Who are you to be telling me what he’s like? I’ve known him for ten years, you’ve known him, what? A week?”

For some reason, this infuriated me. “You’re just mad because you don’t know him anymore, and you’re wondering if maybe you never did.”

Garrity stared at me. His voice was calm. “Trey was in a coma for five days, on a respirator for most