Nick of Time by John Gilstrap Page A

sarcastic nod. “Yeah, I think so.”
    â€œI notice you didn’t tell the sheriff why you wanted him here.”
    â€œAnd I notice that you really don’t know how to keep your lip zipped.”
    â€œHow about if I tell you that this is Numb Nuts’s first time doing weed?” Peter asked.
    â€œDon’t,” Jeremy commanded.
    â€œWhy not? It’s the truth.”
    Darla tried to see Jeremy’s eyes, but he was busy studying his ankles. His pharmaceutical virginity seemed to be a source of embarrassment.
    â€œWhy today, then?” Darla asked.
    Peter answered, “I talked him into it.” He clearly knew that Darla didn’t believe a word, so he added, “Him and his old man are at war, okay?”
    â€œShut up, Peter!” The vehemence of Jeremy’s outburst convinced Darla that Peter was dancing perilously close to the truth.
    â€œNo, you shut up,” Peter fired back. Then, to Darla, “Look, I’m the bad influence, okay? I’m the druggie. The homeless guy. The perpetual screwup. I figured that he needed a little weed, and I needed a little cover. This arrest’d be my third and a felony, and I figured there was no way they could lock me up and let him go, you know? Hell, the chances of getting caught in the first place are like, what? Nothing in a million? And I thought it was zero that you’d cut paper on the sheriff’s kid.”
    â€œSo you were using him,” Darla concluded.
    â€œWe use each other. I take him places where he’d be afraid to go on his own.”
    â€œYou better keep me cuffed, Deputy,” Jeremy growled. “When you let me go, I’m gonna kill this asshole.”
    Peter laughed, but somehow he did it in a way that was free of derision. “He says that a lot. Fact is, he can’t afford to kill me.”
    â€œHow’s that?” Darla asked.
    â€œHis scholarship. He’s off to UNC next year on a baseball scholarship. Room, board, everything. That kind of shit goes on his record—or a drug conviction goes on his record—and he’ll be cleaning condos next year instead.”
    One look at Jeremy told Darla that she was hearing fact. “So, why do you do this?” she asked. “Why would you take the chance?”
    â€œAsk Peter,” Jeremy mumbled. “He knows all the answers.”
    â€œI want to hear from you.” When Jeremy still wouldn’t answer, she turned back to Peter.
    â€œHe hates baseball,” Peter said.
    Darla didn’t get it. “So, why—”
    â€œHe doesn’t hate his teeth. Or his bones. All of which Sheriff Daddy is going to break when he gets here.”
    Darla tried to figure out the dynamic that was unfolding here. She couldn’t tell if Peter was trying to be Jeremy’s friend, or if he was just goading him on. Certainly, he seemed dialed in to the other boy’s secrets. For his part, all Jeremy did was turn red.
    Her portable radio broke squelch. “Unit six-oh-one’s out at the Surf’s Up.” It was Sheriff Hines, and within seconds, Darla heard the sound of his tires crunching gravel. She turned to see the sheriff’s specially outfitted Suburban pulling to a stop. A glance toward Jeremy made her wonder if the young man might pee in his pants.
    Frank Hines had been sheriff of Essex County, North Carolina, for twenty-three years, and he carried himself with the arrogant grace of someone who not only enforced the law, but owned it as well. Not especially tall, he was nonetheless a big man, stocky and powerful. He wore his khaki uniform a bit too tight, highlighting a prominent gut that looked solid as stone. She could tell at a glance that he was angry.
    â€œDeputy Sweet,” he said, “in the future, when I ask you what a visit is in regard to, you by Jesus better answer up and tell me.” His voice sounded half an octave too high for the size of his body.
    â€œI’m