One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 5

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı glanced skyward as he stepped outside. The gas giant Zhaké was nowhere to be seen. It took Bhanar a second to realize it was only natural since this was the planet Rívorí and not his home planet of Kètnít. Rívorí had no gas giant, but orbited the sun directly. Without Zhaké filling a handspan of the sky directly overhead, holding everything down, it felt as if Bhanar would lift off the cement walkway and float away.

The cute policewoman’s firm hand on his arm, though, kept him definitively earthbound as they walked toward the driveway and the waiting police cruisers. Several policemen were walking up the driveway from the highway. Only two cruisers and an ambulance were parked up near the house. The rest were down there by Bhanar’s truck, the cruisers’ rooftop lights flashing bright red and green. The police helicopter flew low in the distance, the loudest sound in the desert.

Bhanar craned his neck to get another view of the black-haired beauty walking behind him. She caught his eye briefly, but looked away. A hint of possibly a smile crossed her full lips. Bhanar grinned widely and turned his view forward. She hadn’t replied to his attempt at conversation, but he could tell she was interested. After he got this unwarranted-arrest mess cleared up, he’d have to get her name and telephone number.

A deep scream rent the air, unending. Bhanar and the policewoman both stopped and looked back toward the house, toward the source of the inhuman noise.

What the plagues? thought Bhanar. Someone’s dying. It must be Pí‘oro.

He tried to start running back to the house, to help the old man, but the policewoman held him back with both hands.

Bhanar tugged at her grip. “We need to go to help him!”

“The medics can handle it.” Her voice wavered.

“They kill him!” Bhanar twisted free of her grasp, but stumbled as he tried to run. With his hands cuffed behind him, he landed hard on his shoulder.

The scream finally stopped, dying out with the last of the old man’s breath.

As Bhanar attempted to get up, the policewoman jumped on top of him, pinning him to the cement. He struggled to roll her off, but she was tougher than she looked.

Through heavy breath, she said, “Do you know what ‘under arrest’ means?” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

“Yes,” snapped Bhanar. It meant he had lost all freedoms to help those who had helped him. It meant that he would be treated as a criminal until he was proven innocent.

The police from the driveway swarmed around the two of them, some running to the house but others kneeling down, putting all their weight on Bhanar’s arms and legs, squishing them into the rough concrete.

“Cover him! Cover him!” they shouted to each other.

Several radios burped with static, broadcasting overlapping reports.

Bhanar had no choice but to relax under their combined weight.

“It’s all right,” the cute policewoman said with a clipped voice. “I had him pacified.”

The other police began to slowly stand up. A big guy ground Bhanar’s forearm into the pavement one last time before he got to his feet.

“You should watch him more carefully,” another one muttered as he turned to the house.

The police radios staticked again. From the policewoman’s radio, Bhanar understood words such as “suspect,” “collapsed,” and “cardiac arrest.”

If it was the police and paramedics killing Pí‘oro, there was nothing Bhanar could do. They would overpower him again or just shoot him. If it wasn’t the police who were hurting Pí‘oro, then they’re trying to help him. Either way, Bhanar was useless.

“Let’s go,” he calmly said.

As they stood up and resumed walking toward the automobiles, the policewoman refused to look Bhanar’s direction, as if she were hiding her face in shame.

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