She hates it when he does this shit.
He answers but not really. It's on purpose. His defensiveness with her floats on the surface of their relationship and she doesn't know when it started or how it will end; the defensiveness or their relationship. At this point, she's not sure either is worth fixing much less worth fighting for or about.
"Why do you have her license, Walt?" It's a sick game she plays with herself much less him.
"She didn't have time to take her purse, Vic."
He looks at her subtly daring a response. Though she suspected they were together his confirmation slugs her in the stomach. She can read his conceit and her pain is only tempered by her anger. The anger she feels for allowing herself to feel this way about him. Of course, she is overreaching. Intellectually, she understands she cannot really allow or disallow feelings. They are feelings.
She clenches her jaw and mumbles, "You move fast."
The brim of his hat snaps in her direction, "So do you."
How does she tell him that she slept with Eamon in a moment of jealousy and weakness. She grinds her teeth and focuses her eyes to the road ahead and the thought that he did the same in reacting to her false confession never enters her mind.
"We're poaching in Cumberland County."
"We should call this in."
He radio's Ruby and gives her the address requesting she notify Cumberland County Sheriff's Department.
"Ok, Walt."
Ruby's voice squeaks back through the radio and he's thankful that she's not the type of woman to give him a verbal ration of shit but he is not looking forward to her huge blue eyes of disappointment.
Vic seeks solitude within herself. Her reversion to solid policing strengthens her and provides a temporary salve over an open emotional wound. She parks a solid distance from the Southwestern style single story and hops out of the truck gently closing her door as not to make any unnecessary sound. She walks point and directs Walt to the east side of the house looking for anything suspicious. When they meet at the rear of the Greystone colored home they both discover the rear sliding door ajar. Her Glock 19 is out before Walt can fully extend his fingers motioning that he's taking point.
The sliding door makes a soft cling as the metal frame door sinks into its pocket. They clear the kitchen and follow the narrow hallway before announcing, "Sheriff's Department!"
She hears the tussle of the mini-blinds and enters the office to see a pair of blue Hawaiian Vans push up and over the window seal.
"Runner!" She yells as she holsters her weapon and bolts through the window after him.
She doesn't have to think about Walt's reaction. She knows he's not behind her. He's cutting off the angle. His long legs carry him out of the front door and toward the sound of her voice. This is what they have always done well as partners and it is the only thread of comfort she still feels with him. She tackles the sophomoric framed young man to the dampened earth beneath them.
Her fingers are agile as she cuffs him and Walt yanks him to his feet. She can't tell if he's mad at him for being in Donna's house or mad that he ran from her or maybe both which puzzles her more. She decides it doesn't matter and brushes off the flakes of dirt embedded in the knees of her jeans.
"My mom lives here." The scraggly faced man says.
"Why'd you run then?" She retorts.
"I didn't know who you were." He says.
"What's your mother's name." Walt asks and without hesitation he answers, "Donna Monaghan."
Vic's eyes travel the length of Walt's frame and they roll back to the handcuffed prisoner. She pats him down for any weapons and reaches into his back pocket retrieving his wallet. She rips open the black Velcro closure and hands Walt the California driver's license.
"Andrew Price." He says looking at him, "Huntington Beach, California."
Andrew snaps his neck forcing his hair back and out of his face, "Yeah."
"How'd you get in the house?" Walt asks.
Andrew looks between them. "I don't have to talk to you. Ask her yourself, why I'm here."
"I will." Walt says and grips the bony elbow of his young arrestee, his long fingers swallowing the flexible joint, as he guides him to the truck.
"Walt, we should call Cumberland and have them transport plus we'll need some help with the search."
"Yup." He says as he looks up toward the sky as if the answers will descend from the patchwork of clouds above.
Ten minutes later the first deputy rolls his silver Charger to a stop next to the truck.
"What you got?" Eamon asks.
With each break in her sentences Walt's stomach clinches and he's not sure if it's his outright disdain for the young handsome deputy or the images of Vic in his arms that are causing him the most anxiety. His mind spins and the inner chastisement begins. He submerges his confusion about her and stands with his hand on his hip holding Andrew Price by the elbow thankful she's telling the brief sanitized version of events.
"I can transport for you, Walt." Eamon says his big brown eyes don't shift from the older powerful man.
Walt hands over his prisoner without a word exchanging between them. He exposes the top of his hat as his head dips down before he turns on his heels and walk back toward the house.
"What's his problem?" Eamon asks.
"What's not his problem?" She replies.
Eamon secures Andrew in the backseat of his cruiser and turns to Vic, "So what's up, Vic? How'd Walt's Bronco come up stolen?"
Her face flattens and she shakes her head. Her ponytail flops from the motion while she processes the fact that despite everything she is strangely loyal to the man who seemingly dismisses her.
"His girlfriend may have a stalker as a patient."
"Walt's girlfriend?" His eyebrows arch at her response.
"Yeah, some dude named Desmond Chan, as far as we can tell."
She knows that he's deciding right now at this moment if she's worth it, if she's too damaged for the effort it would require. Before he can respond the familiar rumble from the big block V8 silences him.
The Ferg steps out of the Atlantis blue Firebird and says, "We may have a lead on the Bronco."