Free Down by the River by Robyn Carr

looking out for her. She’d only been robbed once in all her years at the roadhouse and that poor fool had gotten shot in the back as he made his getaway. Every last patron in the bar gave evidence that he’d fired a weapon, but Tom never did find the gun that killed the man. “Thicker than thieves” had real meaning in the backwoods.
    There’d only been that one robbery, one death, but Rocky’s place had been busted up by fights more times than anyone could count.
    A situation at Rocky’s might be the only case in which law enforcement personnel from three counties were willing to cross town and county lines to help out, because the counties of Humboldt, Trinity and Mendocino met in the bar itself. It sat in the shadow of Legend Mountain, down the Windle River from Grace Valley several miles and well out of the way. At least there was always someone to back up Tom and his deputies. Just the same, Tom had told Rocky a hundred times that if a good wind came up and blew that damned old shack ten feet to the northeast, his life would be measurably improved. To which she would always say, “I’d miss the hell out of you if that happened.”
    He didn’t run the siren, but he flashed the lights atop his Range Rover and made some serious tracks to Rocky’s. The flashing lights of three patrols greeted him; the place was all lit up. He saw a Humboldt County car, a state police vehicle and Ricky’s squad car. There were a few ratty-looking men hanging out by the front door and Rocky was leaning against the county squad car with a cup of something in her hands. The culprits had their palms against the building and their legs spread.
    Tom drove his Range Rover up close and jumped out.
    “Hey, Toopeek, what’s your hurry?” Stan Kubbicks asked.
    “How’s it going, Stan?” he replied.
    “We’re just mopping up here,” he said. “You coulda stayed in bed.”
    “I like an early start,” Tom said, approaching the building.
    Ricky was patting down one of the MacAlvies while Bill Sanderson handled the other. Ricky pulled a knife out of his suspect’s sock and tossed it onto a small pile of contraband that had been removed from the two of them. Tom saw three knives, one of them a switchblade, brass knuckles, a shank—the type made by prisoners in jail—and some unlabeled pills in a small vial. Both MacAlvies were dripping blood from their faces. Both law enforcement officers wore rubber gloves and took great care with their searches.
    “Nice little armory,” Tom said.
    “Yeah, and they left half their artillery in the bar,” Bill answered. “I already told Ricky, you’re going to have to take ’em, Tom. We got a full house tonight.”
    “Must be a full moon,” Ricky said. “I was busy all night.”
    Once the cuffs were on them, Tom shone the flashlight in both their faces. There were some cuts and swelling and bruises, but nothing that looked too serious. “These two ought to be all right with some ice and tape. We can let the lady doctor sleep. Put them in the back of your squad and I’ll follow you in,” he told Ricky.
    “Figures. I spend half my life washing out the back of that car. Now they’re gonna bleed all over it.”
    “Mine’s clean,” Tom said. And smiled as he added, “And I’m the chief.”
    “Yeah, Chief, you’re the chief.” He yanked his suspect around. “Come on, asshole. Let’s get you to jail.”
    Ricky’s man, Ben MacAlvie, moaned and complained, but the other one took one step and went down. Bill crouched down, rolled him over and looked for a carotid pulse. By the time the pulse began to beat under his fingertips, Vern MacAlvie was snoring. Bill looked up at Tom. “He’s passed out,” he said, incredulous.
    Rocky sauntered over on her short, thick legs and poked him in the ribs once with her toe. He snorted a couple of short ones, but didn’t rouse. She looked up at Tom. “If he’d passed out an hour ago, either he’d be dead or the fight woulda petered out.