Page 5 of Captive of Outlaws

My racing pulse calms, just barely, as he shuts the door to the office, and I come back to earth just in time to turn back to my would-be customer...

But he’s gone. No trace of him or his car.

“Freaking...figures,” I all but spit, balling my fists once again. Literal tire-kicker. Rich boy who thought he could bully the poor little service girl with grit in her ponytail and an engine-grease manicure. And now I’ll have to hustle to make up for lost time if I want to finish Ms. Donovan’s Buick before she gets here...let alone before the sheriff arrives.

Inadvertently, I shudder. John and Sheriff Wheatley have been friends for as long as I’ve been alive and longer. Classic good ol’ boys who drink bourbon and scratch each other’s backs, always getting together to talk “business” of one kind or another. I’m no lawyer, but you don’t have to know the lawto see that this Sheriff’s about as crooked as a country road. You’d have to be if you hang around John like that. And it’s clearly paid off: in the years I’ve lived in Sherwood County, the sheriff’s never faced a single opponent, winning reelection every time he’s up—and the fat government paycheck that goes with it.

Even if I weren’t a broke orphan with no option but to stick it out until my twenty-first birthday, I’d hate his fucking guts. No one deserves to get rich off of people like Ms. Donovan and old man MacAllister. Especially if they’re making people like John rich while they do it.

This day’s quickly going from bad to worse. I swear under my breath and stare at the Buick, then at the office door. Then, briefly, at the sheet-covered car in the corner.

Besides my college fund, it’s the only valuable thing I own. The Mustang—my Mustang. Dad’s Mustang. Busted and rusted and barely in a condition to drive. But it’s mine, and I’d fight to the death for it.

“Well, if it isn’t the loveliest mechanic in all of Sherwood County.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I hear that voice. It’s unmistakably Sheriff Wheatley’s. And if there’s any voice I like hearing less than John’s, it’s his.

I do a slow, considered pivot on my heel and force a non-threatening smile onto my face. Better not to make waves with him. Even though there’s nothing I’d like more than to haul back and punch him in the face.

“Sheriff,” I say, nodding, in my best approximation of a sweet Southern belle.Just leave me the hell alone and go meet with John so that I can get on with my day, I pray silently.

The sheriff is an imposing figure. He’s decked out in his full khaki, radio strapped to his shoulder, hat on, which hequickly doffs seeing me because I’msuch a lady, and mirrored sunglasses. All that’s missing is a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, and he’d be living the full local law enforcement cliche.

Unlike John, he’s in pretty decent shape, but it’s not from chasing after bad guys, and more from vain hours in his home gym, pumping iron and muttering to himself about what a badass he is, like a complete psychopath. His sandy-blond mustache ruffles as he smiles at me, revealing teeth bleached free of the yellow tobacco stains that should be there given his frequent cigarillos.

“How’s business today?” he asks.

“Fine.” Single-word answers are best, I’ve found. I can’t refuse to answer or I’ll get chided for being rude. But if I give too much detail, I’m just inviting more conversation, and that’s the last thing I want with the sheriff, as with everything in Sherwood County. I just want to get out of here as quickly and seamlessly as possible.

But no such luck. The sheriff takes a sauntering step closer to me, languidly running a fingertip over the hood of Ms. Donovan’s car as he does. “You know,” he says, “I’ve always been impressed that someone with your”—he lowers his voice a little—“conditionwas able to handle such physically and mentally demanding work.” It’s not really a compliment, but he wants me to think it is.

“I do what I can,” I say.Besides, having seizures on occasion doesn’t affect my intelligence or even my ability to do physical work, I add silently. I’ve had the spells ever since right after my parents died, and the worst effects that I’ve noticed are just blanks in my memory after I come to again. Not something I would choose for myself, but certainly not the worstdisability. And at least John has allowed me to maintain some sort of treatment. I see a neurologist in town to make sure that I’m healthy. I’m far from a fainting damsel in distress.

The only hang-up is, of course, that I can’t get a driver’s license. You’re banned from driving if you’ve had a seizure within six months—state law—and for whatever reason, it feels like the clock always resets just when I’m ready. Of course, I know how to drive—automatic and stick—and I’d pass the test with flying colors. Hell, I can probably parallel park better than the instructors at the DMV. But rules are rules, and there’s no way around bending them, especially when your guardian is in cahoots with the sheriff.

“You’re so fortunate,” the sheriff goes on, “that your uncle allows you to work.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. First the Yankee asshole, now this. Why doesn’t anyone think I’m capable of doing my job? Cars aren’t even that complicated. Once you learn the rules, everything literally snaps together. Sometimes there’s the mystery of diagnosing what’s wrong: what’s making that weird clanking sound or grinding noise. But even so, there’s a limited number of things that can go wrong. Half the time all you have to do is plug the damn thing in to get the codes, and the diagnosis is obvious. Maybe if I were a nuclear physicist or something, I’d be impressed with myself, but to me, cars are just another thing to piece back together and learn from. Then again, for the sheriff and his walnut-sized brain, maybe thatistoo complicated.

“That I am,” I say, pitching my voice just a tad higher with the hopes that he’ll go away. “Lucky indeed. I think John’s—UncleJohn’s—in his office if you’re looking for him,” I add, hoping he’ll leave.

The sheriff takes a long, slow stare at me from my grease-splotched boots to my wild ponytail. And I feel like I’m just another fugitive on the run, something that he thinks he can chase and trap and crow over in victory.

“I am,” he says with no measure of hurry in his voice. “But he’ll wait for me. Everyone will wait for me if I ask.”

He chuckles to himself. I don’t.

At that very moment, John strides out from the office, spreading his arms and beaming. “About time you got here.”

“Just shooting the breeze with lovely Maren here.” The sheriff nods courteously at me, and I once again give him the pasted-on smile.

“Come on in,” John says. “The ice is cold and the bourbon’s waiting.” He slaps the sheriff’s back as they walk into the office together and close the door. I breathe a sigh of relief as soon as I hear the click of the latch. Just a quick write-up of the day’s invoices, and I can be out of here. Home—well, John’s house—is a quick bike ride away, and with any luck he’ll have other “business” to attend to for the rest of the night and leave me in relative peace.

I’m shuffling around through the endless stack of scribbled notes and crumpled invoices from Jimmy, our faithful if old-school parts supplier, that the other guys have left on the work desk when I catch a snatch of conversation from the office.

I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping—like I give a shit what they ever have to talk about—but this time I know it’s about me.

“August 31st.” It’s John’s voice like he’s answering a question. What question, specifically, I didn’t hear. But I know what August 31st is — my birthday. My twenty-firstbirthday. The day I age into my college fund from my parents. The day I would circle in red on the pinup calendar in the shop if it wouldn’t be a dead giveaway for my plans to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as I can.

“Plenty of time,” comes the sheriff’s voice. “I can have a judge sign and deliver this thing by the end of the week.”

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