“I asked you,” Dale Junior said, “if you’re gonna bring me up on a charge.”
“You hear your tone of voice?” the marshal said, sitting over there in the dark. “I’m not your problem.”
It was quiet in the car following the headlights along the Turnpike, neither of them saying another word until they came to the tollbooth and the marshal paid the man and they got off on Okeechobee Boulevard in West Palm. The marshal told him to go east to Military Trail and turn right and Dale Junior told him he knew the way to Gun Club. Okay?
Now there were streetlights and signs and stores lit up, back in civilization.
“Your problem,” the marshal said, “you can’t accept anyone telling you what to do.”
Dale Junior only grunted, feeling another sermon coming.
The marshal saying now, “If you can’t live with it, don’t ever get into law enforcement.”
“If I can’t live with what?”
“Being told what to do, having superiors.”
Dale Junior said, “Oh,” slowing down and braking for a yellow light turning red, thinking, Jesus, what I always wanted to do, get into law enforcement.
It was as they coasted to the intersection and stopped they got rammed from behind.
Raylan felt himself pressed against the seat harness, his head snapping back and forward again. He heard Dale Junior say “God damn!” and saw him gripping the wheel, looking up at the rearview mirror now. Raylan got his seat belt undone before looking around to see the headlights of a pickup truck close behind the Cadillac’s rear deck. Now it was backing up a few feet, the driver making sure the bumpers weren’t locked together.