Page 44 of Outsider

“Burkholder!”

I spin toward the sound of my name to see Gina running full out, thirty feet away, parallel with me. The creek has curved, putting her closer to the man we’re pursuing. She points with her uninjured arm. “There!”

I follow her point and catch a glimpse of camo through the trees. Thirty yards ahead and to my left. “Police Department!” I launch myself into a run, plunge into deep snow, nearly go down, right myself just as I come out of a drift.

Gina and I are running straight north. Ten yards apart. She’s having a difficult time because of the sling and her injured arm, but moving at a decent clip.

I hear her shout something at the running man. For the first time I spot the rifle he’s carrying, one hand on the stock, the other clutching the barrel. Relief skitters through me when he makes no move to raise it. He tosses a look over his shoulder, not slowing down.

He disappears into a thicket of trees. I’ve no longer got eyes on Gina. “Dammit,” I pant, run headlong into another drift, stumble on something buried in the snow, and go down hard. My face plows into snow. In my eyes. My mouth.

“Stop!” comes Gina’s voice, ahead and to my left. “I’m a police officer! Get on the ground!”

Spitting, I scramble to my feet, follow the sound of her voice. I round a fallen log and a bramble of blackberry. I’m nearly to the road when I spot Gina. She’s standing over a man the size of a bear. He’s lying facedown in the snow, arms and legs spread. I watch her pick up the rifle with her uninjured hand and toss it aside. She kneels, sets her knee against his back.

“Do not move,” I hear her say.

A few yards away, a blue pickup truck with big tires and a camper shell covering the bed sits parked on the shoulder.

I reach them, taking in the scene. I’m so out of breath I can barely speak into my radio. “Ten-twenty-six.” I pant the words, using the code for detaining subject—expedite.

I look at Gina. She’s mussed and covered with snow, cheeks red, breaths puffing out in front of her. Looking far too satisfied with herself, she grins when my eyes meet hers and mouths, “Got him.”

Shaking my head, I walk to where the man is lying on the ground. He’s huffing, his entire body heaving with each breath. He raises his head and looks at me as I approach. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.

I get my first good look at his face, and I recognize him. I busted him on a DUI last year. He wasn’t very nice about it and I ended up having to call Skid for assistance.

“What are you shooting at?” I ask, noticing that the door of the camper shell is open.

“Saw a coyote,” he tells me.

Because of coyote overpopulation in Ohio, the animals can be hunted legally year-round, unlike game animals such as deer, which can only be hunted during a narrow window.

“Do you have permission from the landowner?” I ask.

Shaking his head, he looks away. “Didn’t know I needed it.”

“Are you armed?” I ask. “You got another gun on you?”

“Just the rifle,” he says.

“You can sit up,” I tell him. “I need to see your driver’s license.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He rolls over, sits up, digs out his driver’s license, and hands it to me. “This is a bunch of shit,” he mutters.

Ignoring him, I look at the ID. Bruce Winslow. Painters Mill address. Thirty-eight years old. “You have your hunting license on you?”

He looks down at the ground, shakes his head.

“Is that your truck?” I ask, motioning toward the pickup.

“Last time I checked.”

“Do not move,” I tell him.

I walk to the truck. I do not have the right to search any vehicle without the owner’s permission or a warrant. That doesn’t mean I can’t look through the open door at the rear to see what’s inside. The sight of the deer carcass laid out on a blue tarp, a big buck with a nice rack of antlers, shoved hurriedly onto the bed, makes me shake my head.

“Big coyote.” I turn to him and frown.