Page 29 of Existential
FOURTEEN
Dagne
Cruising on the highway, I reach across and tap the GPS to find out where the hell it is exactly he has me going. The estimated time of arrival is seventeen hours from now—I’ve already been on the road for one. Wherever the hell the destination is, he could have warned me I’d be spending half a goddamn week driving this truck.
Iron Mountain.
Holy hell. He has me headed to Michigan. Better get my ass comfortable then, I suppose. I indicate left and head to the far lane, settling into position as I cruise the light traffic. With one hand on the wheel, I reach around the passenger’s seat and feel my way through the bag of food Hooch bought. I wrap my fingers around something plastic, and square, and pull it into my lap. Jerky. Cool. I can do that.
Five minutes later and my fingers are coated in the delicious mix of spices they used on the meat. I lick each one in turn, returning for a second sweep to catch any hint of what’s left, when a flash of light catches my eye.
Red and blue flicker in my rearview.
Damn it.
I had one job. One job, and I fucked it up.
Apprehension grips my throat, each breath heavy to take, each swallow an effort to push through. I indicate to the shoulder and pull off, the cruiser coming in to stop behind me. Using my mirrors, I track the officer as he climbs out of his car and stands at the tail of the truck. He scrutinizes every damn inch as he makes his way lazily up the side to my open window.
“Afternoon, Ma’am.”
“Afternoon.”
“Just a routine stop.”
My heart slows a little … but not much. His partner exits the passenger’s side of the cruiser and begins the task of checking under the body, in the tray, and looking inside the cab. All the while, the first officer smirks at me from behind his tinted shades.
“License and registration.”
Fuck. I’ve got a license, but registration? Hoping like hell Hooch keeps it the same place as anybody else with half a brain, I reach over to the glove compartment and open it up. Something heavy, something metal, clunks as I pull the door open.
The registration papers sit on top of it.
Holy shit.
I whip the sheets out, pretty damn certain it was the end of a gun I saw peeking out from under the shop manual, and hand them over.
“My license is in my pocket.” I raise both hands and indicate to my hip with my eyes.
The officer nods, and steps back as he opens my door. “If you could step out, and I will retrieve it for you.”
I oblige—what other choice do I have—and step into the warm sunshine. The rays beat down on my head and shoulders as I face the bed of the truck, placing my hands wide on the edge.
The officer pats me down before retrieving my card file from my pocket, and flicking through until he gets to my license.
It doesn’t take long; I don’t have many cards.
“Dagne Alderson.” The way he pronounces my name—Dag-Nay—irritates the hell out of me, but I let it slide. “What’s your reason for travel today?”
“I travel everyday,” I state. “No set abode.”
“Homeless?”
“Sort of.”
He grunts behind me, returning the card wallet. With or without my license, I have no idea.
“You can turn to face me.”