“Stop resisting!” Glock shouts.

Blinking back residual tears from the blow, I grab my cuffs and scramble toward the men. I snap the cuffs onto Brower’s wrists, cranking them down tight.

I see blood on the back of his coveralls, realize belatedly it’s coming from me. I wipe my nose with my sleeve and am dismayed to find it leaking like a sieve.

“You okay, Chief?”

I look down. Blood spatters the snow. I use my sleeve again, but I’m only making a mess. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find my eyeballs.”

“I’ve got him if you want to take care of that nosebleed.”

Because my eyes are watering and I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, I trudge toward the garage. Behind me, I hear Glock order Brower to his feet.

Blood drips into my mouth, and I spit before entering the garage. Inside, I glance around for something with which to stanch the flow. Blue workshop paper towels stick out of a dispenser mounted above the workbench. I yank out a handful and pinch my nostrils together.

“Jeez, Chief, you look like you just had a close encounter with Mike Tyson.”

I look up to see T.J. standing in the doorway. “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy,” I mutter. “What are you doing here?”

“Glock put out a call for assistance on the radio.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, T.J. approaches and hands it to me. “Here you go.”

“Gonna ruin it.”

“I got more. My mom buys them for me every Christmas.”

Tossing the soaked towels into a trash can, I put the handkerchief to my nose. “Thanks.”

Glock and Brower enter through the back door. An abrasion the size of a pear mars Brower’s forehead. His hair is wet with melting snow. He looks like a pit bull that just had its ass kicked by a roving band of Chihuahuas.

Glock muscles him inside. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit girls?”

The man with the rosacea stands at the door, craning his neck to get a better look. “Damn, that dumb sumbitch hit a cop?”

Gathering my composure, I cross to the two men and look Brower in the eye. “You want to tell us why you ran?”

“I ain’t telling you shit.”

“Either way you’re going to jail.” I look at T.J. “Pat him down and transport him, will you?”

“My pleasure.” T.J. is usually pretty laid back, but he looks pissed as he approaches Brower.

Quickly, T.J. frisks him, then checks his pockets. His hand emerges with a Baggie. “Looks like meth.” T.J. holds up the bag.

I look Brower in the eye. “If you’d just answered our questions instead of acting like an idiot, we probably never would have found this stuff.”

“I wanna call my lawyer,” he says.

“It’s going to take more than a lawyer to get you out of this one.” I look down at the handkerchief, relieved that the bleeding has stopped. I glance at Glock. “Read him his rights. Book him in. Possession. Intent to sell. Assaulting a police officer. Evading arrest. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”