“Why are you doing this?” My mouth was so dry it had trouble forming the words.
She cocked her head as if about to answer, then thought better of it.
“I used to be a cop,” I said. “I know how stressful a traffic stop can be.”
The strawberry blond Sphinx stared at me.
“Maybe you read about me. David Mapstone. I solved cold cases for the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.”
She said, “I know who you are.”
The way she said it told me she meant more than a name she’d read on my driver’s license.
And my self-possession started to crack.
“Do we know each other? What’s your name?” I couldn’t make out her nametag or badge number.
Then she lowered pistol in the direction of my groin and smiled.
“Where…?” That was as far as she got.
A pair of headlights on high beams. A car coming off the Interstate, headed toward us. I squinted and turned my head aside as the glare grew more intense. The car stopped behind her cruiser and kept its lights on.
More than a few beats passed in silence, her hair a halo in the backlights. I prayed it was another DPS unit and that an officer would talk her down.
She continued to face me. “Friends of yours?”
Now it was my turn to say nothing.
She slipped the gun back into its holster with one clean move and snapped it in place.
The pleasant drawl returned to her voice, as if the past five minutes had never happened. She handed back my license and registration.
“You drive safely, sir.”
Within thirty seconds, she was gone, spewing dirt and rocks. My savior behind the high beams remained.
My tongue tasted dust as wobbly legs conveyed me to the car and I put the Python back in its holster.
One last time, I turned and stared at the headlights.
After a few minutes, once we were back on the highway, I found the same headlights following us a quarter mile behind. I didn’t know who was inside, although I had a good guess. But I was certain they had saved my life.
Sharon looked me over. Sweat was coming through the T-shirt.
“Are you all right, David?”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“She let me off with a warning.”
And how. I set the cruise control at seventy-five as the Interstate climbed and climbed toward Flagstaff.
Sharon stared at her lap, dark hair curtaining off her face, and said nothing more. This was unusual. Sharon was a master conversationalist. Weren’t all shrinks talkers? And they wanted you to talk. We had much to discuss, in fact. But I didn’t speak either, about what had happened minutes before at the traffic stop, about the telephone call that had brought us here, or everything that had come at us in th
e previous day. The silence was so profound that my breathing sounded like screams.