Uncertain Justice

Chapter 18

"But we have a problem, don't we?" Miles continued. "Just what in the world am I going to do with you?"

Before the younger man could answer, Miles heard the noises of another car slowing, pulling off the road, and beginning a climb uphill to the house. He'd completely missed its approach along the highway.

"Dammit! What is this--Grand Central Station?" Miles muttered.

Since getting into the house the previous evening, Miles had heard only a handful of vehicles pass by. None of them had shown the slightest interest in the farmhouse and barn and all had driven by without pausing. This evening, in the space of a few minutes, two had stopped on the road and come up to the ramshackle old house. He listened as the latest arrival moved slowly along the side of the building just as the trooper's patrol cruiser had earlier.

Bending over, Miles rolled the young man unceremoniously against the bedroom door where he was out of the view of anyone entering through the kitchen. He watched as the trooper drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth wide to yell a warning to whoever was out there. With no time for subtlety, Miles punched the trooper hard in the solar plexus. The young man's breath whooshed out again.

He lay on the dusty floor, trying to suck air into twice-abused lungs while Miles studied him. Deciding it would be several minutes before the man could call out, he stood and retreated quickly into the kitchen. He walked to the far corner where he would again be hidden behind the kitchen door when it opened. A car door badly in need of some oil on its hinges creaked as it opened and quickly banged closed.

Miles barely had time to position himself before the door flew open and a young woman wearing a Stetson and a holstered revolver stepped in.

"James?" she called. Taller and sturdier than the average woman, she spoke in a little girl voice that took Miles by surprise.

Kicking the door shut behind her, the woman took off a pair of sunglasses and blinked in the comparative darkness of the old house. Catching sight of the trooper's holstered g*n on the counter where Miles had thrown it, she unbelted her own equipment belt and laid it atop the other. She dropped her hat and sunglasses next to them. Walking through the kitchen to the front room, she saw the damage to the doorframe, but didn't stop to examine it.

"What's the matter, Ricky ... you in a big hurry for something?" She laughed happily in the same little girl's voice and danced into the front room with her arms extended over her head. As she twirled in what she may have thought was a ballet step, the girl saw the trooper writhing on the floor. Instantly alarmed, she set her feet to dodge back into the kitchen to grab her pistol from the top of the kitchen cabinet.

"That's okay," a quiet voice assured her, "I'll get it." The voice was so calm and filled with authority, the woman was momentarily satisfied with the comment and checked her move. Then the incongruity of the words struck her and she realized she didn't recognize the voice.

She turned to the corner of the room from where the comments had come. Her eyes were still not adjusted to the interior of the house. She could see nothing but the silhouette of a large man with a long g*n pointed toward her.

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at her revolver on the waist-level countertop just three or four paces away through the kitchen door. It was too far. Her face blanked and she composed herself for whatever came next.

"Turn around and put your hands on top of your head ... interlace your fingers," Miles ordered. The woman obeyed quickly. "Get down on your knees." Miles waited while she complied. "Cross your right ankle over your left and don't move!." It took a moment for the woman to awkwardly raise one boot over the other behind her back while on her knees. She settled into a stable position.

Miles stepped behind her to the counter. Keeping his eyes on his captive, he reached under the shotgun and across his body with his left hand to grab her pistol belt. Finding it, he pulled her handcuffs from their pouch.

"Put your hands behind your back with your palms together." Miles was following procedures he'd seen on many reality television shows. It wasn't as easy as it appeared on TV, though. The cops he'd seen on those shows didn't have to hold a twelve-gauge shotgun on someone while they put on the restraints.

It wasn't particularly dangerous for him though. The woman couldn't do much about what was happening to her. With one ankle crossed over the other, she'd have to shift her weight to one side to uncross her legs before she could get up and Miles could smother a blow from either of her arms long before it landed. Her hands were secured in seconds.

"Let's go over there with your friend." He put a hand under her arm to help her stand and guided her to the side of the recovering state trooper.

"Sit on the floor right there," he told her. Turning to brace her back against the wall, she slid down until she was sitting as Miles directed. There was silence in the old house. There were no sounds of cars or trucks on the road outside.

Retreating to the mangled doorway, Miles squatted on his heels and leaned back against the doorframe. He rested the shotgun across his thighs while he contemplated his two uninvited guests. Remembering, he put the weapon on safe.

Dust motes danced in the sunbeams coming through the kitchen window as he peered at them from under his hat. The dimmer light from the front window helped illuminate the pair while the bright sun angling in from the kitchen window behind Miles blinded them. Miles' face was in stark shadow under his old Army bush hat while they were entirely exposed.

Miles was more than a little disconcerted after the events of the last few minutes and didn't feel like saying anything for the moment. He wished he smoked. It would be comforting to have something to do with his hands while he got control of himself.

Catching sight of the bucket of cold chicken near where he sat on his heels, Miles fumbled it open and found a drumstick laying on top. Suddenly famished, he munched slowly while he listened for more cars stopping on the road to make their way up the old house.

Two unforeseen callers had dropped by already and he half-expected others any minute. He didn't know why these two were here but there was no reason to think they would be the last. Apprehension didn't keep him from eating. Finishing the chicken leg, he squeezed the shotgun tightly with both hands to disguise adrenalin-induced trembling.

He studied the young state trooper. The slightly-built young man had gradually recovered from his second bout of lost wind and his breathing was becoming more regular. He was going to be fine, though perhaps a bit aggravated.

Dismissing the policeman, Miles studied the woman who'd just arrived. She was several inches taller than most women Miles knew. Even with her greater height, she was carrying twenty pounds more than she should have been. A silver, five-pointed star identifying her as a Deputy Sheriff was pinned over her left breast to a white, western style shirt. Faded blue jeans and worn cowboy boots completed the casual uniform of a rural law enforcement officer. Miles arched his back against the doorframe to ease knotting muscles. He yanked his hat lower over his eyes.

"What are you going to do with us?"

Miles let the silence build for a bit. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you," Miles replied finally. "I don't want to hurt you, but I am not going to jail."

He watched the couple and listened carefully to the world outside while he tried to solve the puzzle of the sudden company he had in the decrepit old house. He could see neither of the pair had carried a portable radio inside to communicate with their dispatchers, and they hadn't entered the house prepared to defend themselves.

It didn't really appear they were hunting for him ... and probably not for anyone else either. He looked at the gear carried in by the state trooper. They were scattered over the front room where they'd landed when the young man lost control of them.

"What the heck are you two doing here anyway?" he pondered aloud. "Did someone see me come in or...?" Pausing, he glanced again at the rubber mattress and the blankets strewn about the floor. Turning to the two law enforcement officers, he c****d his head to the side.

He snorted in sudden understanding and derision.

"Well, I'll ... be ... damned!" he growled mockingly. "Come here to get a little, did you?"

The female deputy had the grace to blush. The trooper dropped his head.

Miles stood abruptly, fired with sudden hope. He walked to the front window.

Shotgun in hand, he watched the road in front of the house through a gap between two boards. His thoughts racing, Miles began to consider alternatives he hadn't thought were available a few minutes ago. If these two had come to the old house to get laid, it wasn't likely they were expecting anyone else. Maybe he could get out of this mess after all.

Behind him, the sun was dropping quickly toward the western horizon. The light was fading rapidly. He shifted his feet as he peered in one direction down the highway and then the other. The beginnings of a plan took shape. He wheeled to face his unwanted guests.

"Okay, you two ... I want you on your bellies ... now!"

They responded to the authority in Miles' voice without protest. Miles was accustomed to giving orders to soldiers, and the rookie trooper and junior deputy were accustomed to taking them.

They scooted their butts away from the wall and rolled over on their stomachs in a move so smoothly coordinated it might have been choreographed.

Miles went to the pile of equipment he'd spread over the floor and found the gray duct tape he'd brought with him. Leaving the shotgun by the pack, he knelt at the trooper's left side. The deputy was on the other side of the highway patrolman's body and too far away to try a kick. He pulled a strip off the roll.

"Close your eyes," he cautioned the young man. The deputy closed her eyes too, not knowing the instruction was for the trooper. A small smile reached Miles' lips, his first since the quiet afternoon had exploded around him. He was going to press the tape over the trooper's eyes but stopped to consider. Putting the sticky tape directly on his eyebrows and lashes would make for a painful removal later on and Miles saw no reason to make him suffer unnecessarily.

He ripped the rag he'd used to clean the shotgun into two more-or-less equal lengths of cloth. He put one of the pieces over the boy's eyes and smoothed duct tape into place. The two feet of tape he'd already unwound from the roll wasn't going to be anywhere near enough. Pulling it off the cloth over the boy's eyes, he had trouble freeing his right forefinger from the sticky side.

"Whoa there!" he whispered to himself. "That's no good."