Road Kill

“Was she going to go south?” He asked absently.

“Nope,” said his dad, “Through the pass.”

“It’s open till October” his uncle said, as if the Sheriff wouldn’t know that.

The motor cyclist had gone south. He could have been heading for Vegas too. If the motorcyclist had crossed the state line into Nevada, which meant the F.B.I. would have to get involved. They’d come around, crawling all over the place, messing up his county, and they wouldn’t solve a damn thing. He’d like to leave it to them but he couldn’t. Feds were useless. They’d never see it. Billy had never met a fed who could find his rear-end with both hands and a flashlight.  But it was right there in front of Billy, as plain as the nose on his face, and it was up to him to do something about it. It was his county, his responsibility. He checked the woman’s purse just to be sure. He found fifteen dollars and no credit cards.

“Stand up, dad,” he said, “You too Uncle Earl.”

And then he cuffed them.

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