by Corey Brown
Not knowing he was holding his breath, Cody exhales, tries to relax. Then Cody looks right, realizes the tractor-trailer is parallel to his car. It is chugging along, matching his speed. Both vehicles start to cross the Atchafalaya at exactly the same time. Cody tries to get a look at the driver but all he can see is the company logo, a ram’s head, outlined in white on the cab door.
Cody wants out of this situation so he punches the accelerator, it is time to go. As if reading Cody’s thoughts, the trucker downshifts, the Peterbilt shudders as the driver pops the clutch and mashes the gas pedal to the floor.
The two vehicles surge forward in tandem. Surprised by the analogue of motion, Cody wonders how a semi tractor-trailer can have so much thrust. Don’t those things weigh tens of thousands of pounds running empty? And what if this guy has a load, how can the rig match my acceleration?
But it does. The tractor-trailer mirrors Cody’s speed. The roadway over the river has a full shoulder on the right, but not on the left. As the two vehicles crest the bridge, truck and rental are traveling over eighty miles per hour. Cody is considering backing off, maybe tapping the brakes when the decision is made for him.
At the center of the bridge span, the semi lurches toward Cody’s lane then jumps back but Cody has already reacted, once again cranking the steering wheel to the left. This time his escape route does not offer eight or ten feet of pavement; this time Cody bites the guard rail.
For Cody, the next few seconds unwind as successive images popping into his brain. The truck seems to lunge at him then it retreats. He reacts, turning the wheel to the left and standing hard on the brakes. The Ford bounces into the railing, drags against it for some interminable length of time, various auto body parts shattering off into the air, then the car hops back onto the main roadway.
The entire thing, the flashpoint of wreckage, the Oh Shit, and the rush of adrenaline lasts only a few seconds but Cody’s heart stutter-pumps inside his chest, it feels like every ounce of blood is draining out of his body. The car coasts, slows down, and Cody presses neither gas nor brake pedal. Drifting into the right lane, he rolls onto the shoulder, brings the Ford to an uneasy stop at the side of the highway. Below, the Atchafalaya slips away, lazy, uncaring.
Feeling weak and depleted, Cody looks out the windshield; watches the truck roll away, expecting the driver to pull over and stop. But the semi keeps going, crossing the river, reaching the other side as if nothing has happened. Seconds later, a Louisiana state trooper races by, emergency lights flashing, siren whining. Cody watches as the policeman overtakes the truck then continues past. In moments, both vehicles disappear from sight.
“Hey,” Cody says. He makes a face, stares out the windshield. “What the hell, is that cop blind?”
Cody sits a few seconds longer, replaying the entire incident in his mind before pushing the car door open. Cody plants his feet on the pavement, hesitates, looks at his Smith and Wesson lying on the front passenger’s seat, tucked into a removable belt holster. Cody thinks about what just happened, thinks about everything else that has happened; Nick and Julia getting shot, almost Jamie, almost him. Cody leans back and grabs the gun, clips it to his waistband.
Standing on the pavement, Cody stares at the driver’s side of the car. He is frustrated, angry at the idea of paying for the damage. Cody’s eyes sweep from bumper to bumper. “Damn it,” He says. “My insurance won’t----”
Cody frowns, looks hard at the vehicle. Squatting to inspect the car more closely, Cody runs his hand over the smooth, unblemished paint. There is not a scratch anywhere on the vehicle.
“How can that be?” Cody says, his fingertips still tracing the clean sheet metal. “I sideswiped that guard rail, I know I did.”
Cody looks at his undamaged car a moment longer then stands, shoves his hands into his pockets and looks west, looks in the direction the truck had gone. How can this be? Truck or no truck, hitting the rail would have ripped the car to pieces, scratched paint, something. But the front and back fenders are fine, the doors are clean, there is no damage.
Cody is sure he slammed into the guard rail, and that thought leads him to think about the railing itself. If he clipped it, there will be physical evidence. Cody looks east, checking traffic before crossing the roadway and he sees a tractor-trailer rig coming his way. The air brakes screech as a bright red Peterbilt with twin, chrome exhaust stacks shudders to a stop thirty feet behind Cody’s rental.
The truck driver pops the door and half stands, half leans out, his arms hanging over the top edge of the window frame.
“Hey there,” the driver says, with a redneck southern drawl. “Everything okay?”
A ram’s head logo on the door and white lettering denote the trucking line. Cody re-reads the company name: Bighorn Logistics. He squints at the man hanging out of the cab, stares at the logo again.
It is the same design as on the truck that just ran him off the road. Cody reconsiders, is it really the same logo? He thinks about what he saw, thinks about the other semi. The trailer was nondescript, nothing out of the ordinary. But wasn’t the cab red? Didn’t it have a pair of chrome stacks? A Peterbilt, maybe?
That tractor may or may not have been the same, but Cody has no doubt about the logo. The truck stopped behind him now has the same white outline of a ram’s head with white lettering above, just like the semi that had manhandled him off the highway.
Cody studies the driver. He is middle-aged or just short of it, with a five o’clock shadow leftover from yesterday. Is this the same guy who pushed Cody around just a few minutes ago? But how could that be, how could he have looped around so fast?
Confused, still unnerved by the near miss with the other truck and wondering if this is some kind of set up, Cody shifts the Smith and Wesson from the small of his back to his right hip then folds his arms across his chest. Cody is dressed down today; no sports coat or tie or shoulder holster, just a gray tee shirt, blue jeans and the forty-caliber out for everyone to see.
“Something I can do for you?” Cody says.
The driver starts speak but looks at Cody’s gun, holds his tongue.
“I’m a New Orleans police officer,” Cody says. “I’m permitted to carry a sidearm.”
The driver nods and says, “It’s cool. I just thought….well, the way you were skidding around, I thought maybe you needed….I mean, no one else was stopping.” The man shrugs, glances away. “I’m just trying to help.”
“You saw that, you saw what happened?”
The man gives Cody a look, as if to say, who didn’t see it? “Well, yeah. I was about a quarter mile back.” The driver jabs a thumb over his shoulder, back toward Baton Rouge. “I saw you cut left then it all happened, you blew the tire.”
“What about the truck, the one like yours?”
The driver shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t….what truck?”
Cody wants to ask him the same question, but instead of what truck, he wants to know which truck. Cody wants to know who to call about the incident.
“You didn’t see a rig like yours cross….” Cody hesitates. The driver’s tone seems genuine. This guy really didn’t see another tractor-trailer force his rental into the rail. Cody looks at the driver then says, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
The driver swallows, suspects something is wrong. “Look, maybe I should get going.”
“Hold on, I just want to know what you saw. That’s all.”
“You’re really a cop?
Pulling his wallet, Cody flips it open to show his badge. “Yes, I’m a detective out of New Orleans, District One. My badge number is eighteen forty-five.”
Cody closes his eyes for a second, mentally cursing. He shouldn’t have given out the badge number. If this guy decides to check things out, if he winds up talking to Russell Laroche, things will get messy.
Make that messier, much messier.
Cody slips the wallet into his back pocket and says, “Any other trucks from Bighorn Logistics on this road
today?”
The truck driver shrugs and pulls the corners of his mouth down, his lower lip sticking out. “Could be,” he says. “It’s a big company. I’m out of Port Allen, you know, just this side of Baton Rouge but we got guys all over Louisiana, all over the south and southwest.”
“You say it looked like I blew a tire?”
“Huh-uh.” The driver points. “You did, I can see it from here, driver’s side, front.”
Sure enough, the left front tire is not only flat, it is torn to pieces. Cody stares at it for a moment, wonders how in the hell he didn’t see it when he was inspecting the little car for damage. He looks back at the truck driver. And that is when Cody sees the trail of debris, shredded chunks of rubber strewn along the shoulder. Why had he not seen the mess before? Of course, Cody thinks, this shit could be from a hundred other vehicles. It doesn’t have to be from my car. Still…
Then Cody remembers how the other truck bumped his right front fender. He walks around the nose of the car and examines the passenger’s side. Looking down, Cody stares at the right front fender, where the semi nudged the car. But, just like the other driver’s side, this side is completely intact. Where a crease in the sheet metal should have been, where the paint should have been ruined is a perfectly finished, unblemished white fender.
“What the…” Cody says, a look of confusion on his face. “I don’t get it.”
He moves back around the car, walking the painted stripe delineating roadway from shoulder. A gust of wind from a passing car catches him in the face and Cody squints against the dust particles peppering his skin. Several more blasts of wind from passing cars buffet his body. Vehicles sweep by as if he isn’t even there.
“Hey buddy,” the driver shouts. “Be careful, don’t get hit.”
Cody looks up at him, nods, steps in between the Peterbilt and the rear of his Ford. Standing there, listening to the menacing idle of the truck’s diesel engine, Cody thinks about his flat tire again and shakes his head.
“You need help with that tire?” The driver calls down. “I can radio Triple A.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Cody looks up at the driver. “No thanks, I don’t have the time. I’ll change it myself.”
“Uh, okay, well…” The guy is still nervous. He has offered to call a tow truck, he wants to be helpful, but has no intention of sticking around any longer than necessary. “If you’re all right,” he says. “Then I’ll just get going.”
“Listen,” Cody says, walking toward the Peterbilt. “Do you know how far it is to Opelousas?”
The driver drops back inside, slams the door and rolls down the side window. Cody sees him check his side mirror, sees the big front wheels crank right and he takes a step back.
“Exactly twenty miles,” the driver calls out, glancing once more in the mirror than back at Cody. “Just keep goin’ down One-Ninety.”
The cab shudders as the trucker puts the Peterbilt into gear and eases off the clutch. The semi starts to pull back onto the highway and the engine roars as the rig gathers speed. Cody starts to thank the driver but there is no point. Instead, Cody nods and waves his appreciation.
Sweating in the one hundred percent humidity, his gray NIU Huskies tee shirt sticking to his skin like a wash rag, Cody places both hands on the trunk lid and slams it closed. The spare is on and the blown tire is stowed, Cody wipes his palms on his jeans, rotates his neck and shrugs his shoulders, trying to loosen up. He checks the time. Twenty-five minutes gone, he has to get moving.
Left turn signal flashing, Cody eases back onto U.S. Route 190. As his anemic four cylinder rental labors to gain speed, a green sedan blows passed on the left going at least eighty. But then the full-sized car suddenly cuts back into the right lane, the rear end heaving upward as the driver leans on the brakes.
Cody is far enough back, no need to panic; he just takes his foot off the accelerator. The feeble rental car seems relieved for the respite as it drops back, maintaining a safe following distance.
But that Crown Victoria looks familiar.
Cody tries to read the license plate. No such luck, the car is too far away. And forget a look at the driver, Cody can only see shapes. There might be two people in the car, maybe just the driver, who knows? But the vehicle….it is the exact same color, same vintage, same everything as the hit man’s. Could this be the shooter’s car?
“Can’t be,” Cody says, out loud.
Ahead, the four-door flagship of the Ford Motor Company continues to decelerate. Cody glances at a road sign indicating an upcoming exit, North Levee Road, what appears to be the only way into Krotz Springs from highway 190. But the Crown Vic keeps going, passing the exit. Then Cody sees the city’s population sign. Apparently twelve hundred souls inhabit Krotz Springs, and he realizes the other car is slowing because of residential restrictions.
Cody presses the gas pedal down, forget the speed limit, he wants a look at the license tag. He wants to know if this car belongs to the city of New Orleans.
But the exit onto North Levee Road is not the only way into Krotz Springs. As Cody quickly learns, highway 190 skims the northern edge of Krotz Springs on its way toward Texas, and a business district, of sorts, has grown up along this stretch of road. A couple of gas stations, restaurants and quick marts dot the south side of the highway. Several median crossings provide access to these businesses for westbound travelers.
It is on the second of these crossovers the Crown Victoria leaves the highway. Cody watches the green sedan turn left, the brake lights flash on as the driver checks for on-coming traffic. Cody drops his speed to twenty-five miles per hour, then twenty, trying to get a look at the other car’s occupant. The Crown Vic pulls into the parking lot of a diner, Morrow’s or something like that. The car stops, but no one gets out.
Then Cody is rolling on, leaving the green sedan behind. At the next median crossing Cody spins the steering wheel left and makes a U-turn, heads back east on highway 190. He drives passed Morrow’s and pulls into a gas station. Cody glances at the station’s sign, an Exxon. That logo always reminds him of the 1960’s slogan, ‘Put a Tiger in Your Tank’. Cody can’t help but think about how most people do not know the ad campaign actually started with Esso, not Exxon.
Driving past the gas pumps, Cody points the rental car west, brakes, parks. Behind his ten dollar wraparound sunglasses, he looks at the parking lot then scans the area around the diner. There is no good place to watch and hide. Cody decides to stay put, from here he won’t be able to see who gets in or out of the Crown Vic, but he will know when they leave.
«»
Not here.
The words jostle their way back into his consciousness. Not here, not where? Cody sits up straight, blinks then rubs his eyes. He looks around, feeling disoriented. Had he fallen asleep? The idea makes Cody’s pulse quicken. If he had been sleeping, how long had he been out? Cody glances at the digital in-dash clock, compares the time to his wristwatch. He’d been sitting here for just under an hour. Cody gives a sharp, disgusted shake of his head.
Shit, the Crown Vic could have taken off long ago.
Out for an hour? That can’t be right. Cody’s head begins to clear. He remembers going into the gas station to get a cup of coffee. As if to confirm the thought, his eyes cut to the empty Styrofoam container lying on the passenger’s side floor mat. And he remembers the cute woman who had rung up the sale. Freckles, light brown hair, a sweet smile, early thirties. The place was empty and she had tried to make small talk, Cody had wanted to stick around but the diner’s parking lot was completely out of sight from inside the Exxon station. He had to get back to his car.
He had been daydreaming, not sleeping. Vague memories of what he’d been thinking about begin to come back. He had been thinking about how Hansen and Slater had paid that untimely visit at home yesterday. Once more, Cody winces at how badly things had gone between him and Todd.
And those words, Tell Eric. Tell him now, like they had been put into his head, as if som
eone had opened his skull and planted the thoughts like a farmer sowing seeds. But…tell Hansen? Tell him what?
Worse, his deep concentration had been interrupted by another memory of planted words: Not here.
What the hell did that mean? ‘Not here’ as in not on the bridge where a phantom trucker may or may not have tried to kill him? Were both situations connected, and why were the mysterious word popping into his brain?
He was at it again, slipping away from the moment, ignoring the immediate task of surveilling the Crown Vic. Cody shakes his head slowly. He feels like he is going crazy.
“Maybe that’s it,” Cody says to himself. “I’m losing my mind.”
It occurs to Cody that, although he had not been dozing, his introspection was so intense he may as well have been asleep. It would take only a few seconds for the green sedan to back out and take to the road. Once again, Cody feels his heart rate spike. Putting the car in gear, Cody cautiously inches across the macadam between the Exxon and Morrow’s diner, but he knows the Crown Vic is gone even before he sees the empty parking space.
Stopping behind the vacant slot, Cody considers his options. He feels like an idiot, losing focus like that. A first year rookie would have done better.
Next to the now empty parking space is a Louisiana State trooper’s cruiser, white with red lettering, the state seal, and a dark blue light bar. Another Crown Victoria. Perfect.
As luck or fate or whatever would have it, at this very moment the trooper exits the diner, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. Cody watches the man in his crisp midnight blue uniform, wondering if he is the same trooper who screamed past him back on the bridge.
