Forced to a Halt

The Ford Explorer cut across two lanes, mounting the curb before its nose swung hard left, blocking the front tire of the red Ducati. Karen Ashworth-Reyes squeezed the front brake lever, planted her boots on the asphalt, and brought the motorcycle to a full stop three inches from the SUV’s passenger door.

A lawn sprinkler clicked through its arc in front of a blue split-level, tossing water onto the warm sidewalk. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked twice and went quiet.

The cruiser door opened. A broad man in a tan uniform stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, his left hand resting flat against the leather strap of his holster.

“Engine off. Key on the tank,” Sheriff Dale Kavalik said. He stood in the doorframe, measuring her through dark sunglasses.

Karen stayed still. Her hands, wrapped in black leather riding gloves, remained flat on the handlebars where he could see them. She reached down with her right thumb, flipped the kill switch, and turned the key. The deep rumble of the engine died, leaving only the sound of the sprinkler and distant afternoon traffic.

“Remove the helmet,” Kavalik said.

Karen unclipped the chin strap, lifted the helmet off, and set it across the tank. She smoothed her hair back with one gloved palm and looked straight at him.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” she said. Her voice remained steady and flat. “Is there a reason you pulled across my lane?”

Kavalik didn’t answer. He stepped around the front bumper of his cruiser, his boots crunching on the gravel at the edge of the asphalt. He was a big man with a thick neck and grey hair cut short at the temples. His eyes moved down the length of the motorcycle, taking in the gleaming red paint, the clean exhaust pipes, and the dark leather seat.

“Whose bike is this?” he asked.

“It’s mine,” Karen said.

“Where’d you get it?”

“It belonged to my father,” she said. “The title was properly transferred into my name.”

Kavalik shifted his weight. His right thumb hooked into his heavy duty belt, inches from the grip of his sidearm. He made a slow circle around the back tire, stopping on her left side.

“A machine like this costs more than a lot of houses in this county,” Kavalik said. He leaned down slightly, his face close enough that she could smell stale tobacco. “Somebody like you doesn’t usually ride around on twenty thousand dollars of Italian hardware.”

Karen didn’t flinch or pull back. She kept her chin level and met his eyes. “My father took care of his machines. I have the registration and insurance right here in my jacket pocket.”

“Keep your hands on the handlebars,” Kavalik said, his voice dropping into a warning. “I didn’t ask you to reach for a damn thing.”

Karen kept her boots planted on the asphalt and her chin level.

“The registration and insurance card are inside my jacket,” she said. “Left breast pocket. I can reach in with two fingers and hand them to you.”

Sheriff Kavalik did not answer. He stepped around the red tank, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel along the shoulder. His right hand stayed hooked near the top of his duty belt, thumb resting near the leather holster. He stopped at the rear tire, squinting down at the polished chrome exhaust and the clean swingarm.

“Lot of machine for an afternoon joyride,” Kavalik said. “Clean. No road grime. You know what something like this retails for?”

“It belonged to my father,” Karen said. “He kept it in his garage in Allentown until he passed.”

Her father’s voice came back to her from two winters ago, quiet as grease on a wrench: Keep your temper in your pocket until you have the paper in your hand. She kept both palms open at her sides.

“Your father.” Kavalik gave a dry chuckle that didn’t touch his eyes. “Right. Everyone’s got an uncle or a daddy when the tags don’t match the story.”

Deputy Halverson shifted his weight from one boot to the other, his eyes fixed on the weeds by the ditch to avoid her gaze. He cleared his throat. “Sheriff, we could run the plate off the dispatch terminal.”

“I know how to run a plate, Trent,” Kavalik said without looking at him. He stepped back toward Karen, closing the distance until she could smell stale coffee and cold tobacco on his uniform. “Step away from the bike. Right now.”

Karen did not back up. “Am I being detained, Sheriff?”

“You’re failing to comply with a lawful order,” he said. He caught her by the upper arm, his fingers digging through the heavy leather. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

Her jaw tightened, but she gave him no excuse to shove. She turned slowly, feeling the heat off the engine block against her shins, and brought her wrists together behind her spine.

“On what charge?” she asked.

The first metal cuff snapped shut against her wrist, cold and biting into bone. Kavalik pulled the chain tight, clicking the second ring into place with a sharp jerk that pulled her shoulders back.

“Suspicion of possession of stolen property,” Kavalik said. “We’ll sort out whose daddy owned what down at the office.”