“No. It’s a cop. He’s walking around our car.”
“Szar!” “Shit” in Hungarian.
Viktór moved slightly to the side so he could keep his eye on the patrolman. The man wore a bulky open jacket over a brown uniform shirt and khaki trousers with a dark stripe down the legs. He had a flat-brimmed dark hat with a silver star-shaped badge on it.
The cop circled their rental Nissan, holding a long black flashlight to see inside.
Once again, Viktór regretted that they had picked this motel. The rooms had only one door and that was to the parking lot. There was no inside door to a hallway. If they needed to escape, they would have to run past the cop outside.
“What’s he doing?” László asked.
“Looking inside our car. Did you leave anything incriminating on the seat?”
“No.”
“Now he’s looking our way.”
“Is he on his radio?”
“Not that I can see.”
“I’m glad I changed the plates on it.”
Viktór let out a breath of relief. He’d forgotten László had done that. So what did the cop want? It was rude that he hadn’t turned off his headlights.
“I’m going to find out,” Viktór said.
“Maybe that’s not a good idea,” László said, standing so close to him with the shotgun that Viktór could feel his brother’s body heat.
“It’s a normal reaction, I think. It’s more suspicious to not open the door when he’s right outside.”
László grunted an agreement. Then: “Don’t invite him in.”
“Of course not.”
“Speak English.”
“Of course,” Viktór said defensively.
“I’ll be ready,” László said.
“We don’t kill cops.”
“Then don’t invite him inside. And remember the cover story.”
Viktór nodded and shot the bolt back on the lock. He cracked the door about a foot and looked out. He shaded his eyes against the headlights with his outstretched hand and tried to appear like he’d just awoken.
“What’s going on, Officer?” he asked. “Those lights . . .”
“Oh, sorry,” the cop said. “Just a second.”
The cop reached into his vehicle through the open driver’s-side window and the lights doused, leaving two pulsating orbs in Viktór’s eyes.
“Sorry about that,” the cop said. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Is there something wrong?”
The cop hesitated. As the orbs dissipated, Viktór could see him better from the ambient lighting from under the eave of the motel. The cop was young and fresh-faced with blue eyes and a wash of acne along his jawline. Despite the dark uniform and semiautomatic weapon on his belt, he looked like a teenager.
“Deputy Tucker Schuster, Campbell County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Bob Hardy. That’s my car.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hardy,” the cop said. “Where are you from?”
“Syracuse,” Viktór said. He was glad he remembered the city.
“New York?”
“Yes.”
“With Illinois plates?”
Viktór felt his chest tighten. Why couldn’t László have stolen New York plates?
Next to him, he heard his brother whisper to him.
“It’s a rental,” Viktór repeated. Then: “Is there some reason why you’re looking it over and waking me up?”
“Sorry to disturb you. I really am. We got a call from the next county to look out for a green Nissan Pathfinder in the area. When I saw this one, I pulled in here to check it out. But we’re looking for a car with Colorado plates. In the light from the motel, I thought the plates were green like Colorado, but I see now this one is kind of a shade of blue. And it’s the wrong state, so I apologize again for disturbing you on a holiday.”
“It’s okay,” Viktór said. “Good night, Officer.”
Then Deputy Schuster did something Viktór didn’t anticipate. Instead of climbing back into his cruiser, he stepped from the dirt parking lot onto the sidewalk of the motel directly in front of the open door. “What brings you all the way out here to Gillette, Wyoming, Mr. Hardy?”
“I’m looking for property out west,” Viktór said. “You’ve heard what it’s like back there. No jobs, no future. I need to get away. I like wide-open spaces.”