Bill figured that was the best offer he was going to get. One way or the other, he was going to end lying on that pavement. He could either do it on his own or with the help of a lead slug or a Taser. He sighed and eased into a prone position, his knees popping and cracking. And he was right. The pavement was hot. He tried to keep his exposed skin out of direct contact with the burning tar.
The cops rushed forward the moment his body touched the ground, one sticking the barrel of his gun in Bill’s ear as another patted him down roughly. When they were satisfied he posed no danger—a process that seemed to take much longer than the couple of seconds the guy in charge had promised—a third cop yanked him to his feet, where he stood surrounded by grim-faced officers of the law who suddenly seemed to have no idea what to do next.
The one who had lifted him off the pavement pulled Bill’s hands behind his back and slapped a pair of cuffs on him, tightening the bracelets unnecessarily. The officer in charge reappeared and asked brusquely, “Where’s the other guy with the gun?” His disposition seemed to have worsened now that Bill was restrained.
“He’s gone; he took off eastbound on the interstate in an off-white box truck, probably ten or twelve years old.”
“Is anyone hurt inside the building?”
“Not unless they cut themselves on broken glass.”
The officer turned and nodded to the cop who had patted him down, and Bill found himself being perp-walked to an idling cruiser. His escort dumped him into the back seat without a word—no warning about hitting his head on the car’s roof like they always seemed to do on television—and slammed the door. Bill supposed the guy didn’t watch much TV. The officer then turned and walked back toward the plaza, where the rest of the cops seemed to be marshaling for an assault on the interior.
The cruiser’s air conditioner was running and the coolness felt refreshing and invigorating after the blistering heat radiating off the pavement. Bill sighed and closed his eyes. He tried to find a comfortable position, not an easy task with his hands cuffed behind his back. It looked like he was going to be here a while. He wished he had his coffee.
CHAPTER 13
“WHAT THE HELL WERE you doing inside that rest area with a loaded gun?”
Bill was seated in an interrogation room at the State Police barracks in Lee while a petite, auburn-haired woman, who had introduced herself rather perfunctorily as “Canfield,” paced back and forth in front of him. She seemed angry, affronted that an ordinary citizen might carry a concealed weapon in a public place.
Bill assumed Canfield was a detective, but since she hadn’t offered her status during the introduction, he couldn’t be sure. One thing he was sure of, though, was that she was extremely unhappy and more than willing to share her displeasure with him.
He had cooled his heels inside the State Police cruiser for close to forty-five minutes before officers returned and removed the handcuffs, apparently satisfied, after speaking with the many witnesses inside the rest stop, that Bill was one of the good guys, or at least didn’t represent the enemy. They had very respectfully informed him that they would be driving him to the station—he waited for someone to say “downtown,” like they always did on TV but was once again disappointed—where he was going to have to answer a few questions.
The police had been careful to stress that he was not under arrest, nor was he considered a suspect in any criminal activity, and they backed up their claim by not cuffing his hands to the iron ring protruding from the middle of the scarred wooden table dominating the interrogation room. Aside from that courtesy, though, Bill doubted there was much difference between how he was being treated and how the I-90 Killer might have been treated.
Bill watched his interrogator as she stomped back and forth. It was like trying to follow a particularly spirited tennis volley. Canfield stopped short of adopting an accusatory tone but came close. She was clearly trying to lean on him, although for what purpose he could not guess.
Canfield—whether that was her first or last name was unclear, although Bill figured it was the latter, since she was very clearly a woman, a good-looking one at that, and he had never known a single female with the first name of Canfield in his life—seemed to find it unlikely in the extreme that an ordinary citizen carrying a concealed weapon would happen to be inside the rest stop at the exact time the I-90 Killer would try to snatch a girl.
Bill thought the kidnapper had probably found it unlikely as well, and tried to hide a smile. He failed, and Canfield stopped right in the middle of a question to ask, “Do you find something funny about this, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Listen,” he said, “I’m not the enemy here. I have a valid, up-to-date license to carry that Browning due to business concerns. Feel free to check, although I imagine you already have. I realize that, mathematically, the odds are against me being in the exact position to see an attempted kidnapping and then stop it, but that’s precisely what happened. Obviously, the girl and her parents related the same story or I would be sitting in a holding cell right now. So why bust my chops? What do you think you’re going to gain from that? I don’t expect a ticker-tape parade from you people, but you don’t need to flog me with a rubber hose, either.”
Canfield leveled her best, flat-eyed cop gaze at Bill, amazed by the outburst, her next question apparently forgotten. Then a trace of a smile seemed to tug at the corners of her mouth for just a second before disappearing. She turned without a word and left the room.