Claire looked down at the card.
“What’s on it?”
The biker stared at her.
“Enough to destroy half the sheriff’s department.”
Before she could answer, headlights flooded the front windows.
Thirty-eight seconds after the biker entered the diner, the first patrol car arrived.
Then another.
Then a black county SUV.
Claire shoved the shelf back into place.
By the time the front door opened again, she was standing behind the counter with the memory card hidden in her hand.
Three officers entered.
The man leading them was a heavyset county sergeant with cold eyes and rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
“A violent fugitive came through here,” he said.
Claire set down her coffee cup.
“Nobody came through that door.”
The sergeant leaned closer.
“His motorcycle is outside.”
“Then his motorcycle is outside.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re protecting the wrong man.”
Claire folded her arms.
“I’m telling you what I saw.”
The sergeant looked toward the kitchen.
Then toward the security monitor.
“Turn over the footage.”
“You’ll need the manager.”
“I’m speaking to the manager.”
Claire hesitated.
She had closing responsibility, but she was not officially the manager.
The sergeant mistook her hesitation for weakness.
He walked around the counter.
Claire stepped in front of him.
“Customers aren’t allowed back there.”
His face hardened.
“I’m not a customer.”
“You’re also not carrying a warrant.”
Silence filled the diner.
One of the younger officers shifted uncomfortably.
The sergeant slowly reached toward the security monitor and pulled the plug from the wall.
The screen went black.
Claire stared at him.
The recording system was still running inside a locked cabinet.
He simply did not know it.
The sergeant smiled.
“You’re making a mistake.”
Claire met his eyes.
“So are you.”
The Man Called Bull
The officers eventually left.
Claire waited.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Only when the last patrol car disappeared into the rain did she move the rolling shelf.
The biker stumbled out.
He was pale.
Sweat covered his face.
“Sit down,” Claire said.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
She pulled a first-aid kit from the wall.
This time, he sat.
As Claire cut away his torn sleeve, she saw the wound along his arm.
It was not deep.
But it was fresh.
And it had not been caused by a simple accident.
“You were shot at.”
“Grazed.”
“That’s not an answer.”
The man looked at her.
Then, for the first time, the hard expression disappeared.
“My name is Bull.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“That’s your real name?”
“It’s the one most people use.”
“Fine. Bull.”
He gave a faint smile.
Claire cleaned the wound.
After several moments, he began to speak.
Three nights earlier, he had stopped at a highway gas station.
A frightened young woman had slipped a note beneath his coffee cup.
The note contained only one message.
The police are using women to move things through the county.
At first, Bull did not believe it.
But the woman had included names.
Names of officers.
Names of women who had disappeared.
Names of people who had been arrested on minor charges and then suddenly released.
Bull began watching.