Page 30 of Existential

I spin, eyeing the second lawman as he bends on one knee to check the wheel arches. “Do you do this thorough of a search for everyone?”

“Nope.”

“Not so routine then, huh?”

The first officer smirks, casually wandering back to his cruiser. The sun is unrelenting while I wait on him to run my details. I’d kill for a drink about now.

“Okay if I reach into the cab to get some water?”

“Stay where you are, please.” The second officer continues his search of the vehicle after flashing me one hell of a hate-filled stare.

Who the hell do they think I am?

The first officer returns as I run my tongue over my lips in a futile effort to feel refreshed.

“This vehicle is registered to a Melanie Porter. Were you aware of that?”

I shake my head, opting to be as truthful as I can so it doesn’t tangle me in a web of too many lies. “No, I wasn’t. I was loaned the vehicle by an acquaintance I made at my last stopover.”

“You don’t find that a little strange,” the officer grills, “being loaned a vehicle by somebody you’ve only just met?”

“Nope. Each to their own, Officer.”

“Walk to the rear of the vehicle and place your hands on the tailgate, please.”

“Why?”

“Do it.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation.

I reposition myself at the back of the truck and watch as the second officer starts pulling absolutely everything out of the cab and dumping it onto the roadside.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” I ask, frowning as I’m pretty sure he crushed every potato chip in the bag with the force my groceries hit the pavement.

“Let you know when I find it.”

The “raid” on the truck lasts barely ten minutes, and yet the mess the two of them make is unbelievable. Nothing is left untouched. Especially not the handgun in the glove compartment.

“Registered to you?” Officer One asks with it held high in his right hand.

“I didn’t even know it was in there,” I protest. “Like I said, I’m borrowing the truck. You know the vehicle’s not mine.”

“Doesn’t mean the gun isn’t either.”

Great. I’ve got one of those ”guilty until proven innocent” types.

“I swear it’s not mine. Confiscate it; I don’t care what you do with it.”

“What about this?” Officer Two asks from where he’s still half in, half out of the cab. “What’s this for?”

He lifts the scrap of paper Hooch tucked into the visor before I left—the message. I never read it, never had the desire to know what exactly I was getting into until now.

“I don’t know what that is, sorry.”

The officer looks down at it as he smoothes the paper between his hands. “An address. Who for?”

“I really don’t know. It must have been in the truck already when it was loaned to me.”

“Guess you won’t mind us taking this too, then?”