He made a show of patting his pockets and turned back to KT Staler’s open Tacoma. “I would enjoy it, Clark, ma’am,” Jason said. “But I’m a little short. These bag boys owe me, see, and I—”

This was quite strange. Jason was a fuckup, a small-time hood, but Clark had never seen him do something so brazen as rooting through the door well of a star Bison player in plain view of an officer. She wondered what sort of wolf was pawing at his door tonight.

And then she saw the weapon on his hip: a nasty-looking hunting knife, a good eight inches long.

Clark’s hand hovered over her gun. Another cheer rose up from the field, the marching band boomed to life: the half had ended. If she and the other officers didn’t hurry they were about to have an audience, and God help them then. The men that ran Bentley could not abide a single joule of the spotlight being stolen from their Bison on a Friday night.

“Let’s talk about this at the station, eh, Jason?” Clark said.

“The station?” Ovelle stared at her, horror in his eyes. “But they’d kill me if I went to the station. I ain’t even supposed to be here.”

“No, you surely ain’t.” She nodded at the Tacoma. “We would normally consider this breaking and entering.”

Panic fell over Jason’s face. He finally made to dash past Clark, his bad foot throwing up a little cloud of dust in his wake, but the moment he was within reach she tossed him against the rusted hood of the Tacoma. The air flew from his gut with a soft pfft. Clark pinned his wrists against his shoulder blades, slid the knife from his belt, tossed it in the grass. “That’s enough now.” She shushed him like she would a child.

“You’ve killed me, Clark.” Jason gasped. “You’ve killed me.”

“Wrists, Jason. Please.”

Officer Jones appeared from the other side of the Tacoma and picked up the knife, glanced at the rust on its serrated edge, shook his head. “You alright?”

Browder appeared from behind a Jeep. “Audience incoming.”

Sure enough, there was a rumble of voices in the parking lot. Clark clicked home the second cuff.

“You’re as bad as your brother,” Jason whispered.

Clark went cold. She felt a sudden urge to slam the man into the truck again. “What did you just say?”

Deputy Jones patted her shoulder. “Want me to book him?” he asked her.

Her mind shifted gears. With the sheriff’s department’s small staff the general rule with booking paperwork was you caught it, you clean it.

“You’ll miss the second half,” Clark said.

Jones shrugged and slid the knife’s sheath off Jason’s belt. He squeezed Jason’s scrawny arm until the little man yelped in pain. Jones’s flat face didn’t register the sound. “I seen enough of these games.”

Clark hesitated, but only for a moment. Whatever Jason had to say about her brother she could pry out of him at the station. She thanked Jones. She let go of Jason’s arm.