The problem was no longer simply that two agents had been mistreated.
The problem was that a local sergeant had just discussed falsifying evidence while handling a piece of federal investigative equipment.
And he had done it in front of a microphone.
Carter returned to us.
“Get them up.”
Dempsey grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet.
The handcuffs cut into my wrists. My left shoulder hurt where I had landed, and mud covered the front of my jacket.
I was six feet one inch tall, and Dempsey was shorter than me, but he used both hands to force my arms higher behind my back.
“Easy,” I said.
He tightened the cuffs.
“Does that hurt, Agent?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I looked at him.
He seemed to be waiting for me to react.
I gave him nothing.
He pushed me toward the patrol car.
David was brought to his feet beside me. His jacket was soaked through, and a small cut above his eyebrow had begun to bleed.
“Are you all right?” I asked him quietly.
“I've had worse.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I'm fine, Terry.”
Carter heard us.
“Save the family reunion for the jail.”
He opened the rear door of the patrol car.
“Get in.”
I stopped.
“Sergeant, I am requesting that you verify our credentials through the FBI duty office before transporting us.”
Carter's face tightened.
“You have no authority to request anything from me.”
“I am not ordering you to do anything. I am asking you to make a phone call that would resolve this in less than two minutes.”
“I'm not calling anybody.”
“Then document that you refused to verify federal identification before arresting two people who presented it.”
Carter stepped into my space.
“You think you're smarter than me?”
“No.”
“You think your badge makes you better than me?”
“No.”
“Then why are you acting like you own this place?”
“Because I am trying to prevent you from making a mistake you cannot undo.”
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Rainwater ran down his face. His eyes were red, and his breathing had become uneven.
Then he shoved me against the side of the patrol car.
My shoulder struck the metal.
“Get in.”
David took one step forward.
“Don't touch him again.”
Dempsey immediately raised his weapon.
“Back up!”
David stopped.
Carter turned toward him.
“That's right. Stay where you are.”
He leaned toward me and spoke quietly enough that only I could hear.
“You should have kept driving tonight.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
He smiled.
“Because some roads aren't meant for you.”
Then he pushed me into the back seat.
The door slammed shut.
Through the rain-streaked glass, I watched Dempsey place David in the second patrol car. Carter stood between the vehicles, talking into his radio as though he had just completed an ordinary traffic stop.
He had no idea that the FBI command center was now treating the incident as a potential criminal obstruction case.
He had no idea that a federal response team was being notified.
And he had no idea that the men he had just arrested were the two agents who had spent eleven months building the case that could destroy his entire operation.
The patrol car pulled away from the roadside.
I leaned back against the seat and took a slow breath.
My wrists throbbed.
My shoulder hurt.
But I was not thinking about the pain.
I was thinking about the missing evidence, the altered reports, the unexplained movements of confiscated firearms, and the name that had appeared again and again in the records we had collected.
William Carter.
For months, his name had been a question.
Tonight, it had become an answer.
The Oak Creek Police Department looked different at three in the morning.
During daylight hours, the building was a place of paperwork, briefings, public complaints, and officers moving between calls. At night, the corridors seemed longer, the fluorescent lights harsher, and the empty desks more unsettling.
Carter walked into the booking area first.
“Two males, detained in connection with an armed robbery,” he announced. “Possible impersonation of federal officers. Both armed.”
The desk officer, a tired-looking man named Patrick Wells, glanced up from his computer.
“Do they have identification?”
Carter placed our wallets on the counter.
“Fake federal credentials.”
Wells opened my wallet.
He looked at the shield.
Then he looked at the identification card.
His eyebrows rose.
“Sergeant, this looks—”
“Don't.”
Wells paused.
“Don't what?”
“Don't start asking questions you don't understand.”
Wells stared at him.