“Good point.” He took her arms, but loosely, rubbing hisway up and down them. “I’m just saying they’re looking to cause me some grief. Not you. Most likely creeping up here—see there, they’re pulling off some ways from the house. Planning on slashing my tires, maybe spray painting some obscenities on my car. Figuring I’ll get a rude surprise come morning. Jesus, high as hot-air balloons, the both of them.”
“If they’re under the influence of drugs, they’re unlikely to be rational.”
“Rational isn’t Justin’s default position, straight or high.”
And coming here like this told Brooks he was escalating, as Tybal had been.
Watching them, he took the time to button his shirt. “Go on and call nine-one-one. Ash is on call tonight. You just give him the situation. I’ll go out and see to it.”
He pulled on boots in case he had to chase them down, strapped on his weapon.
“You and Bert stay inside.”
“I don’t need or want to be protected from a pair of delinquents.”
“Abigail, I’m the one with the badge.” His tone brooked no argument. “And I’m the one they’re here to screw with. No point getting them riled up toward you. Call it in, and wait for me.”
He went downstairs in the backwash of her outdoor security lights, taking his time. The bust would be clearer, stick harder, if he walked out on them doing something, or about to, rather than just creeping around, muffling the snorting giggles of the drunk and/or high.
Abigail would get her view of justice now, he thought, as the pair of them would spend the time until their trial in jail.
He watched them through the window, and as he’d anticipated, they crouched beside his cruiser. Justin opened a bag, tossed a spray can to Doyle.
He let them get started. The cruiser would need a paint job, but the evidence would be unarguable.
Then he stepped to the front door, dealt with the locks, and walked out.
“You boys lost?”
Doyle dropped the can and fell back on his ass.
“Sorry to interrupt your field trip, but I believe the half-wit pair of you are trespassing. We’ll add vandalism to that, and seeing as you’ve just vandalized police property, it’s a tough one for you. And I’m just betting I’m going to find controlled substances and/or alcohol in your possession and in your bloodstream. To sum up, boys? You’re royally fucked.”
Brooks shook his head when Doyle tried to scramble to his feet. “You run, Doyle, I’ll add on fleeing and resisting. I know where you live, you idiot, so stay down, stay put. Justin, you’re going to want to let me see your hands.”
“You want to see my hands?”
Justin punched the knife he held into the rear tire, then surged to his feet. “Gonna let the air out of you next, asshole.”
“Let me get this straight. You’ve got a knife. I’ve got a gun. See this?” Brooks drew it almost casually. “And I’m the asshole? Justin, you are deeply, deeply stupid. Now, toss that knife down, then take a look at your marginally brighter friend. See how he’s facedown with his hands linked behind his head? Do that.”
In the security lights, Brooks noted Justin’s pupils were the size of pinpricks.
“You’re not going to shoot me. You haven’t got the stomach for it.”
“I think he does.” With her favored Glock in her hand, Abigail stepped out from the side of the house. “But if he doesn’t shoot you, I will.”
“Hiding behind a woman now, Gleason?”
Brooks shifted, just a little. Not only to block Abigail if Justin was stupid enough to come for them with the knife, but because he wasn’t sure, at all, she wouldn’t shoot the moron.
“Do I look like I’m hiding?”
“I’d like to shoot him,” Abigail said, conversationally. “He’s trespassing, and he’s armed, so I believe I’m withinmy rights. I could shoot him in the leg. I’m a very good shot, as you know.”
“Abigail.” Torn between amusement and concern, Brooks stepped forward. “Drop that knife now, Justin, before this gets ugly.”
“You’re not putting me in jail.”
