Devil's Pass Read Free Page B

passenger door of the police truck.
    â€œI’m going to escort you up the steps and inside to your holding cell,” the cop said. “And by escort, that means you’ll walk in front of me and I’ll be watching to make sure you keep walking and don’t try anything stupid.”
    Webb poked at the new hole in his mouth, where a healthy tooth had been less than a half hour earlier. Good that he’d had lots of experience dealing with pain, he thought.
    â€œDid you hear that?” the cop said. “Do me a favor and don’t try anything stupid.”
    Webb’s hands were cuffed behind his back, so trying anything at all would by definition be trying something stupid. Must have been plenty before him who had been stupid, if it needed saying.
    â€œCome on,” the cop grunted. “Let’s get this done.”
    Webb swung his legs out of the truck, then paused.
    â€œMy guitar,” Webb said. The cop had thrown the case in the back of the truck. Thrown. That was the real crime here. “Can you put it somewhere safe?”
    â€œYeah, yeah,” the cop said. “Somewhere safe.”
    No way Webb would have been able to afford the guitar on his own. His grandfather had co-signed a loan for it. It was the only time Webb had asked anyone for help since he left home. He was making weekly payments, but it was worth the cost, both in money and in asking for a favor. The J-45 was legendary. Its rosette—the circle around the sound hole—was three-ply binding, something that probably only someone like Webb could love and appreciate. The teardrop-shaped pick guard was polished tortoise. A top of Sitka spruce and sides of Honduras mahogany gave it the warm bass sound and amazing projection that plucked at your soul.
    Webb wanted to ask the cop not to toss it around while he was finding somewhere safe, but he didn’t want to annoy the cop and have him do the opposite.
    On his feet, Webb found his balance, and the cop used a hand on the small of Webb’s back to push him forward, up a set of steps, through a security door and into the police station.
    Not much to see. Three numbered doors, all of them open. Webb glanced inside as the cop pushed him past the doors toward a counter. The interiors of the rooms were bare, with bench seats around all the walls. Toilet in the corners. Cells. The rooms were cells.
    One of them, Webb guessed, would be his new home.
    At the counter, the space opened up into a public lobby. There were a couple of desks with computers. Not much else.
    Webb had no idea whether this was a typical police station. This was a first for him.
    â€œWant to know what happens next?” the cop asked. Like he had read Webb’s mind. Or like he was curious about why Webb looked as if he didn’t care. Webb had a lot of practice looking like he didn’t care.
    â€œCan I do anything about it if there’s something I don’t like?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œAny chance I can have my guitar back while I wait for whatever happens next?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œThen go ahead with whatever happens next. I don’t see much point in getting it explained to me.”
    â€œSomehow, I’m not surprised,” the cop said. “I’m going to need your belt and everything in your pockets. Once you’re in the cell, I’ll see if I can get a nurse to come in and look at your lip. The doctor’s not scheduled to be here until next week.”
    â€œHow about you let me out of here,” Webb said.
    â€œI didn’t do anything wrong except defend myself.”
    â€œYour tooth went right through your lip,” the cop said. “Someone should look at it.”
    â€œI’d rather see a lawyer. I need to get out of here.”
    â€œLawyer?” The cop laughed. “Here in Norman Wells? You did notice how isolated we are, right?”
    â€œI’ve noticed you have telephones,” Webb said. “Let me