Free Cannibals in Love by Mike Roberts Page B

did you get kicked out of the dorms?” I asked.
    â€œI didn’t,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI just left.” He stared out the windshield, toward the entrance of the Michaels Craft Store, and he started to smile.
    I didn’t even know what to say to this. I could feel my face begin to burn. I was furious at him for this stupid lie. I was ready to start screaming in his face.
    But before I could even get my head around, there was a rap against the glass. My brother and I jumped. This was followed, in short order, by the blinding beam of a flashlight, and a brawny command to roll down the window. My brother did this and we found ourselves squinting into the face of a young police officer. He banked his flashlight around the inside of the Camry, blinding us once again. We stared back at him, waiting. The young cop’s face was grim. Nervous. We seemed to catch him in a moment of indecision. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old.
    I moved the whiskey bottle against the door, knowing full well that the cop had already seen it. But he didn’t say a word. We stared straight ahead as he walked around the back of the car, peering through the windows. He studied my brother’s boxes in the backseat. I was sure it must’ve looked like we were living in this vehicle.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be out here,” he said, flicking off the flashlight. “This is a dangerous place.”
    We nodded dumbly. We could hear the tension in his voice now. The frayed edges of a man who’s been drinking coffee to stay awake.
    â€œYou don’t wanna end up in the newspapers. Believe me,” he said. “You don’t wanna make yourselves a part of this thing.”
    He raised his head to look behind him, into the street. Watching an eighteen-wheeler blow by in a flash. The Sniper had yet to pick off a police officer, we knew, but it was hardly out of the question. He turned back to us with a big moony face.
    â€œWhere are you boys from?”
    â€œWe’re from here.”
    â€œNot me,” my brother spoke up stupidly.
    â€œUh-huh,” the young cop said. “That’s how come the New York plates?”
    â€œRight, yes. This is my brother. He drove this car down from Buffalo. He’s leaving it for me. It’s mine.”
    My brother didn’t say a word.
    â€œUh-huh,” the young cop said again. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing out here, I thought. Alone and in the dark. He didn’t even ask for our IDs. He just anchored himself there. Holding on to the side of the Camry, as though the whole thing might float away.
    â€œThis is some shit,” he said absently.
    My brother and I nodded, letting him talk. But he stopped again. We waited for him to bust us now, to end all of this, but he didn’t. Was this really the guy meant to find and kill the world-famous Sniper? Or, worse, to apprehend him peaceably? How the hell was that going to work? You could practically read the question on his face.
    In a blink, the darkness was punctured by a flash at the far end of the lot. The young cop jerked up and pulled away from the Camry. We saw a pair of headlights dip and bob, as they bounced over a speed bump a hundred feet away. The driver slowed down suddenly as he picked out the police cruiser in the shadows.
    The young cop reared up, with a hand on his gun belt, as the vehicle began to veer off in a slow, sweeping turn. And, all at once, it was there: a white van!
    â€œStop!” the young cop shouted, following this vehicle into the distance. “Stop!” he yelled again, as he ventured out into no-man’s-land. My brother didn’t hesitate. He turned the key in the ignition, and the Camry fired back up.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked in a panic.
    The cop turned, too, holding out his pistol in a disoriented way. He took his eyes off the van as we pulled away in a rush. The young officer was going to