64. Louise
LOUISE
Sean came awake fast, but there was nothing we could do except glance helplessly at one another. I slowed and pulled over at the side of the highway. The cop car’s siren cut out and it was suddenly very quiet: just the soft roar of passing cars and the desert wind whipping across the hood.
It stank of weed. The cop was going to smell it as soon as he got close.
“Open the windows,” Sean said quickly. “Open all the windows!”
I wound mine down—the truck was too old to have electric windows—and he did the same on his side. The wind blew through the car and lifted away some of the smell but, every time the wind died, it came back.
I heard a door slam. In my side mirror, I saw the cop climb out of his car and amble towards us.
I looked across at Sean and he was grinding his teeth, hands twitching as if looking for something to hit, something to smash.
But for once, violence wasn’t going to help us.
Fighting the cops was out, as was running—we’d just wind up with every cop in the state on our tails.
All we could do was sit there and accept it. It was over.
The cop strolled up to my window. God, he’s going to get a promotion for this, I thought, imagining his face when he found the crop. Cop of the year, probably.
I tensed as the cop leaned against the door and took off his sunglasses. “You know why I pulled you over, ma’am?” His voice had a deep Texas twang, homely and warm. At any other time, it would have been comforting.
“No,” I said gingerly.
“You were drifting out of your lane,” he said almost sadly. “Maybe drifting off a l’il bit? White line fever?”
My heart sank. That?! All my tension and care and it came down to that?
I’d been worrying so hard about the cartel, I’d lost concentration for a few vital seconds.
At the same time, I felt a tiny spark of hope.
If that was all it was, maybe there was a slim possibility we could get out of this.
The wind was blowing steadily through the truck, carrying the scent of weed away from the cop.
Please keep blowing. Please keep blowing.
“Um. I am kind of tired. Early start this morning. Forgot to have my coffee.” I smiled my most ingratiating smile.
“I’m really sorry. I’ll pull over and take a rest at the next gas station. ”
The cop tilted his head to one side. “Where are you folks from?”
I could still feel the wind against my cheek. I tried to do the same puppy-dog eyes that Kayley did to me when she was in trouble. “LA, sir,”
“Well, now don’t they have coffee in LA?” the cop shook his head. “You get yourself off the road at the next gas station and don’t get back on it until you’ve had a bellyful of joe—you hear me?”
The wind died a little, then came back stronger, tickling my hair against my neck. I willed it to keep going, thinking of hurricanes and tornadoes, gusts strong enough to lift you off your feet. “Yessir. I will. I promise.”
The cop sighed, straightened up and turned to walk away. “You drive careful, y’hear?”
The wind died. And then gave one solitary gust—just a tiny little breath—in the wrong direction.
The cop took a single step away. And sniffed.
He could have a cold. He could be wearing so much cheap cologne it drowns out the smell. He could have been doing lines of coke for years and lost his sense of smell.
Just a little bit of luck. Please!
The cop put his hands on the roof and leaned right in through the window. He took a big lungful of air, his chest swelling.
“That there is weed,” he said, his voice hardening. “Ma’am, step out of the vehicle.”