* *
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, he was sitting at a table, watching the door on a Saturday night. It was like blowing up balloons, boring as hell. He looked around at the rustic beer joint where he spent a lot of his time. He never really noticed his surroundings. The joint had been in Horseshoe forever and had been run by several people. Bob had owned it for the past fifteen years. The worn hardwood floors and the jukebox were probably as old as Elias. The songs hadn’t changed in years. Neon beer signs decorated the back of the bar. Red booths lined one wall and had gray duct tape to cover the holes. Above the booths were posters of country music stars who had stopped by. In the back room, there was a pool table. A lot of guys hung out in there.
The place was filling up fast. Dee and Tracy, the waitresses, were working hard to keep up with the beer orders. Someone slipped a quarter in the jukebox and George Strait’s “A Fire I Can’t Put Out” came on. Two couples got up and started dancing. It was Saturday night at Rowdy’s.
Dee stopped by his table. “What are you doing over here by yourself?”
He held up his beer. “Drinking.”
“Want another?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He hadn’t drunk any of the beer. He wanted to be alert like Wyatt had said. The trouble was Wyatt could never tell if Elias was drunk or not. Elias could hold his beer. Everyone knew that. But tonight, for once, he was following the rules. He should write that down on a calendar somewhere.
Couples were still coming in the door and there wasn’t much room for anybody else. Suddenly he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Two couples were standing at the door and there seemed to be someone behind them. Then the figure was gone. Elias got up and went through the swinging half-door of the bar to the back room. Peering around the corner, he saw a guy open the back door. This was it.
He pulled out his phone and called Wyatt. “They’re here.”
“Don’t do anything, Elias. I’m on my way.”
Elias tucked his phone back into his pocket, walked out the front door and made his way around to the back. He crouched in the bushes and watched as three figures carried beer through the wooded area to a vehicle. Elias crept closer. The kids were laughing as they stored the beer in the back of an SUV.
“I slipped in and out and that old coot never saw me,” one bragged.
Another one said, “Now we can par-ty.”
Wyatt had better hurry or the kids were going to be gone. Just then headlights flashed from the right and from the left. Sirens blared as they pulled up to the SUV. Wyatt’s patrol car was in the back and Stuart’s in the front. The car revved up and the kid tried to go around Stuart’s car, but Stuart pulled his car over and blocked him.
Wyatt got out of his car with a megaphone. “Turn off the engine. Turn off the engine. Now!”
In response, the kid revved it up again and tried to go around Stuart’s car without any luck.
“Get out of the car!” Wyatt shouted. “If you don’t get out, I’m going to shoot out the tires. You have thirty seconds.”
No response.
Wyatt pulled his gun from his holster. The driver’s door of the SUV slowly opened and a kid crawled out with a hoodie over his head. Two other kids crawled out from the other side.
“Line up against the car,” Wyatt ordered, still holding the gun in his hand. “Frisk them,” he said to Stuart.
Stuart did as he was told. “No weapons.”
Wyatt shoved his gun into his holster and pulled a flashlight from his car. He shined the light in the first boy’s face. “Brandon Polansky, your parents are going to be proud of you.”
The thing about a small town was everyone knew everyone, and Wyatt knew the people better than most.
Wyatt stepped over to the second boy. “Billy Tom Wentz, this is going to be a shock to your parents and your grandfather.”
Billy Tom hung his head.
Before Wyatt could reach the third boy, he leaped over the hood of the car and bolted for the woods. Elias reached out with one arm and snagged him, wrestling him to the ground. The kid came up fighting with both arms. He was skinny and tall, but he didn’t have much strength. Elias grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and squeezed. The boy continued to beat at Elias with his fist.
“Keep it up and I’ll choke the life out of you. Got it?” His hand tightened even more and the boy gasped for breath and stopped struggling.
Wyatt ran up to them, breathing heavily. “You got him?”
“Yeah. You’re a little out of breath there, Wyatt.”
Wyatt slipped handcuffs on the boy, ignoring Elias, and led him back to the group without another word being said. In the darkness, it was hard to see expressions but Elias knew Wyatt was sending him one of his custom-made cold stares.
Elias trailed behind Wyatt and the kid, eager to see how this turned out. Stuart had handcuffs on the other two boys still standing against the car. Wyatt led the kid back to his spot.
Looking at the boy closely, Wyatt said, “I don’t believe I know you. Are you new in town?”
“None of your business,” the boy spat.
Wyatt tapped his badge with the flashlight. “You see that? That means I’m the sheriff of this county and when you rob places and run from the law, it becomes my business. What’s your name?”
“Get out of my face.”
Elias had had enough of the kid’s mouth. He needed an attitude adjustment. Before he could stop himself, he stepped in front of Wyatt and faced the kid. “You need to learn some manners and respect and if you don’t, I’m going to teach them to you. When the sheriff asks you a question you say, ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir,’ and when he asks you a direct question you answer it. Got it?”
A palpable heat emanated from the boy. And anger.
“You already know that I’m stronger than you, so give it up, kid. It’s time to face the music.”
The boy’s stubborn expression reminded Elias of someone, but he couldn’t place it. Invisible daggers from Wyatt pierced his back, so he stepped aside.
“What’s your name?” Wyatt asked again.
The boy raised his head and stared at Elias. “My name is...Chase...McCray.”
“I know all the McCray boys and you’re not one of them,” Wyatt pointed out.
“I’m not from here nor do I want to be a part of the McCrays. My mom and I moved here two weeks ago.”
“Who’s your mother?”
“Maribel McCray.”
That got Elias’s attention. This was the kid she’d been looking for—a wild teenager out of control.
“Read them their rights and take them to the jail!” Wyatt shouted to Stuart.
“It was all my idea,” Chase said. “Don’t punish them. It’s all on me.”
Wyatt placed his hands on his hips. “A few minutes ago you were willing to run away, leaving your friends holding the bag. Now you’re trying to protect them?”
The kid glanced at Elias again and replied, “Yes...sir.”
“Okay, we’re going to the jail and we’ll discuss this with your parents.”
The boys had nothing to say.
“Call Bubba to tow this car,” Wyatt called after Stuart.
“I’m on it.”
Wyatt pulled off his hat and scratched his head, staring at Elias. “I’m trying to figure