Still, I shook my head. “It’s a total, man. Not even you could—”
He cut me off. “We’ll see.”
It wasn’t a challenge. It was a simple statement of fact, and it shut me up instantly. I watched the side of his face, the hard set of his mouth, the scar on his right eyebrow that never healed flat.
It reminded me of the time he’d head-butted a steel beam to keep it from falling on a rookie, then finished the shift with blood running down his temple, acting like it was nothing.
The rest of the drive was silent, but not in the comfortable way. Every second felt like a held breath, a threat and a promise all at once.
We pulled into the Yreka police station just as the town was waking up, the air full of dust and cold diesel fumes. The building was smaller than I remembered—one story, prefabcinderblock with a couple windows that looked like they’d been borrowed from an old elementary school. The flag out front hung limp, and the sidewalk hadn’t been hosed down in weeks.
Jo parked the truck in the nearest spot, killing the engine with a twist that vibrated through the whole chassis. He didn’t move to get out right away, just sat there staring at the door.
“Come with me,” he said. Then, like he’d read my mind, “Don’t say anything unless they ask. Understood?”
I rolled my eyes, but the effect was lost behind the swelling. “Whatever you say, Dad.”
He smiled, just a flash of teeth, then climbed out and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the glass. I followed, less out of obedience and more because I couldn’t stand the idea of being left behind.
Inside, the station was even sadder: a flickering fluorescent light, a single, battered bench, and a front desk behind what looked suspiciously like a bulletproof window. The receptionist, a woman with a pink mullet and the energy of a dying houseplant, didn’t even look up from her screen.
Jo handled everything. He walked up to the window, planted his hands wide on the counter, and announced, “Looking for a motorcycle impounded last night. Custom job, black and blue. Registered to Bodean McKenzie.”
The woman blinked twice, then scrolled through her computer. “Hold, please.” She pressed a button, said something into a handset, then returned to her scrolling.
I drifted to the side, hands shoved deep in my pockets, and tried to ignore the ache spreading from my ribs out to my fingertips. My eyes wandered to a battered bulletin board covered in faded wanted posters and photocopied community events. Someone had drawn a dick on the flier for the local bake sale.
I heard my name, then looked up.
“Got your ID?” the receptionist asked, not at all impressed with my current state.
I fished it out and slid it through the slot.
She eyed it, then eyed me, then did a visible double-take at the bruises. “Long night?” she asked, and for the briefest moment, I wanted to tell her the whole thing. Instead, I just shrugged.
She made a copy, handed it back, and pointed down the hallway. “Deputy’ll be out in a minute. You can wait over there.”
Jo nodded, then took a seat on the battered bench. I slouched next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his arm.
We waited. Time crawled. Every so often, Jo drummed his fingers on his thigh, a slow, steady rhythm that reminded me of thunder in the distance. I counted the beats and tried to match my breathing to it.
Finally, a deputy appeared—a guy maybe five years older than me, with the air of someone who’d seen every permutation of redneck violence the valley could produce. He had a clipboard and a coffee stain on his shirt.
“McKenzie?” he asked, looking mostly at Jo.
“That’s him,” Jo said, jerking his head in my direction.
The deputy grunted. “Come on. Bike’s out back. Need you to sign for it if you want to move it.”
We followed him through a series of narrow hallways, past two empty holding cells and a break room that reeked of burned popcorn. The back lot was a slab of cracked asphalt, ringed by a ten-foot fence. My bike was there, crumpled and listing against a dumpster, gashed open like a carcass.
I almost didn’t recognize it.
Jo made a noise—something between a sigh and a growl—then went straight to it. He knelt beside the wreck, running his hands along the mangled front fork, the dented tank, theshredded seat. He didn’t say anything, but the way his fingers lingered over the paintwork made my throat close up.
The deputy handed me the clipboard. “Sign and date here. If you’re towing it, let us know when.”
Jo stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and nodded. “We’ll haul it now.”
