Out of Time by Deborah Truscott

Author:Deborah Truscott [Deborah Truscott]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Amazon: B005C2COA0
Published: 2011-07-09T14:00:00+00:00

Well, actually, it was two Dare County sheriff’s deputies who had seen a suspicious number of cars piled into a pull-off spot along the road, and no doubt instantly thought of bonfires and beer cans. Fortunately, they were in a four-wheel drive authorized vehicle, which meant they could charge their way to the crest of the dunes without either breaking the law or getting stuck in the sand. This gave them the element of surprise, allowed them to blind us with their spotlight, and permitted them to capture a number of drunk and disorderlies in one fell swoop.

The Colonel, not knowing what to expect, grabbed my wrist and shoved me behind him in a noble, gallant gesture that both touched and amused me.

“They’re the good guys,” I whispered.

“We’ll see,” he replied.

The cops were very efficient. Not only had they managed within a very few minutes to sort through a crowd of about thirty people, issue more than a dozen citations, and call in another police car, they also (and most unfortunately) asked to see everyone’s IDs. And everyone had theirs, even the drunks, the disorderlies, and the guys who made animal noises. Everyone, it appeared, except the Colonel and me. As punishment, the cops included us in the eight they selected to actually haul off to jail. That is, the Colonel, me, and half a dozen of our more aggressive comrades who were about to converge on the Colonel and beat him to a pulp.

This was not going well. In the back of the police cruiser where we were packed in with two of our close, personal friends (including the guy who tore my dress), the Colonel fixed me with a long-suffering gaze.

“I believe you said these were, the, um … good guys. Wasn’t that what you called them?”

I dug an elbow into his ribs and we rode the next few miles in silence. At the police station we were escorted inside and led to a desk where a deputy with graying, reddish hair and a pleasant, square-featured face wordlessly motioned us to sit. He looked at us wearily, sighed audibly, and got with up to consult with the arresting officers. A few minutes later he ambled back, sat down heavily, and drew a couple of sheets of paper from a drawer.

Mercifully, he turned to me first. “Name?” he asked.

I told him.

“Address?”

I told him that, too.

“You a summer visitor?” Summer Visitor was a polite term for tourist.

“Not exactly,” I told him.

He raised his eyes to look at me. “What, exactly?”

“Well, I live there. Here.”

The deputy sighed. “Ma’am, what state is your driver’s license issued in?”

“Virginia.”

“So you are not actually a resident of North Carolina.”

“Well, I live in Virginia, too.”

The deputy laid down his pen and gazed at me. “I see. You own the house at, ah…” He looked down at the page to the address I had given him. “Six Gull Lane?”

“Yes. Our family does. My mother. And me.”

“And you live here part of the time?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How many years of residency at, ah…six Gull Lane?

“All my life.

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