Here by Mistake (16 page)

The expression on Quint’s face could have peeled paint, but the word “police” had gotten his attention. “Y’all come on then.”

They ran for the gate. Two young men saw Brandon coming and cheered as he passed them. The bearded man in boots saw him, too, and, clasping his hands over his head, yelled “Hooray!” Quint looked at them as if they were crazy, but he didn’t slow down. He dashed out the gate and led Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah to where he had parked the Edsel. The doors flew open and they jumped inside. The key turned, the engine roared, and they were off.

“Y’all get below the windows,” Quint ordered them.

They drove slowly back the way they had come. No sooner had they passed the festival when a siren split the air and flashing lights appeared in front of the Edsel. Quint pulled to the shoulder as a police cruiser and an ambulance flew past. Then he got back on the road.

Stephen and Sarah were talking excitedly from their crouched positions in back. They told Quint how the pony had bolted and dragged the girl and how Brandon had stopped it. Sarah gushed that Brandon had saved the girl’s life. And Stephen added that the girl was the daughter of the former governor of Pennsylvania.

Quint’s temples were pulsing. “Y’all can sit up now,” he said as they passed the turnoff for I-81.

“You missed the highway,” Brandon said.

“I didn’t miss anything. We’re goin’ t’have this out.”

They drove another mile and stopped at the edge of a meadow. Quint stepped hard on the brake and leaned into Brandon. “Do y’have some plan t’screw everything up, or do y’just make it all up as y’go?”

“I did what I had to,” Brandon cried.

“Had to, my eye. I told y’not t’draw attention to y’selves. I told y’we can’t afford questions, police, anything like that. Y’could’ve let someone else get the pony. But no, not Mr. Hot Shot. Mr. Hot Shot’s got t’be front and center.” He grabbed Brandon’s jacket and shook him. “Now look—Mr. Hot Shot’s covered with mud.”

Brandon smacked Quint’s hand away and threw open his door. Quint grabbed for him, but Brandon jumped out of the car and ran into the meadow. Quint flung open his door and went after him. Stephen and Sarah scrambled out of the back seat and followed them.

Quint caught up with Brandon and seized him by the arm. Brandon yanked himself free. “I had to do it,” he yelled. “I had to.”

“I thought y’
had
t’get back home,” Quint shot back. “So what
do
y’want? To screw around here, or get back home?”

Sarah got between them and pointed her finger at Quint’s nose. “You need to shut
up
,” she yelled. “
You
weren’t even there, and
you
don’t know what you’re talking about.” She backed him up several steps. “For
your
information, no one else was close enough to the pony. Only B was close enough and fast enough, so what was he supposed to do, Stupid?”

Quint stopped and stood his ground. “He was not supposed to get involved,” he yelled back. “Y’said y’self it was a pony ride for little kids, a damn pony. It would’ve slowed on its own.”

“It was a big pony; it was almost a horse,” Stephen said calmly. “And that girl really got hurt. Sarah’s right. You didn’t see it, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His face purple, Quint stepped to Stephen and leaned over him. “Is that a fact?” he roared.

Stephen stood on his toes and put his face in Quint’s. “YES,” he roared back.

Quint stumbled backward and fell hard on his tailbone. He looked up at Stephen with wide gray eyes.

Stephen straightened his glasses and looked down at him. “I thought you were better than that,” he said coldly.

“He . . . is,” Brandon said, amazed by what he had just seen. “If Quint’d been where I was he’d have chased the pony too. I know it.”

Quint got up and slapped the grass off his khakis. “Y’do? Don’t be so sure. If I were in y’all’s shoes and had t’get back home, I’d do what I had t’do t’get there.” He scraped a burdock off his sleeve and flicked it away. “No matter what y’all say, I don’t believe that girl would’ve died. B, y’damn near set the police on us. If y’had, they never would’ve let y’all near the niche. It would’ve been all over. All over. Y’all should think about that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah said.

“What?”

“She means,” Brandon said grimly, “I had to go after the pony even if it killed our chance to get home.”

Quint looked at Brandon as if he couldn’t have heard right. “That’s . . . the way y’all feel about it?”

“Yes,” Stephen said.

“Yes,” Brandon said.

Tears were rolling down Sarah’s face. “Yes,” she gasped. “Go ahead and leave us if it bothers you so much.” She put her arms around Brandon and clung to him.

A siren rose in the distance and died away. Quint looked off in its direction and ran his hands back through his hair. “Well, I will be damned,” he said. He took two steps in the direction of the Edsel, stopped, and turned around. “Well, I’m goin’ t’New York. Y’all comin’?”

Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen followed him to the car and got in.

Quint turned the key and the engine started smoothly. He reached over and fingered the muddy sleeve of Brandon’s jacket. “Today’s a hard day,” he said quietly. “What if we just make it out of Pennsylvania and find a motel? We’ll clean up and rest, and tomorrow we’ll be in Rollin’s. Y’all okay with it?”

“We’re okay,” Brandon said.

They drove back to the turnoff and got on I-81. Quint’s makeshift repair had worked. Climbs and descents were now fairly smooth, even at low speeds. They made decent time and passed Wilkes-Barre before dusk.

Clouds rolled in, and rain flecked the windows. Brandon leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes. Sarah curled up in her corner. Stephen read
David Copperfield
by flashlight for a time, then put it aside and sat in silence.

They passed Scranton and picked up I-84. The rain gave way to a heavy fog, and Quint slowed to half the speed limit. After an hour of crawling, the Edsel’s headlights cut through the mist and blazed a sign that said: “Welcome to New York—The Empire State.” Quint cleared his throat.

“What d’y’all think, should we stop like we said, or make Poughkeepsie?”

They were the first words spoken in the car since Wilkes-Barre. Brandon, mildly surprised, said, “Sure.” Stephen said, “Yes, Poughkeepsie.” Sarah, half-asleep, mumbled, “Okay” and turned over on her side.

They crossed the Hudson River at Newburgh and followed Route 9 to Poughkeepsie. They stopped at a market on Worrall Avenue and bought bologna, cheese, and bread for dinner. Less than a minute after leaving the market, Quint spotted the floodlit black-and-white sign for Binder’s Motel. He turned into the lot.

They carried the bundles into the room—Number 7 this time. When they were settled, Brandon made the sandwiches and gave out the Dr. Peppers. He ran out to the Edsel when he realized he had forgotten the bottle opener. No one spoke during dinner.

Stephen finished his sandwich and switched on the TV. He turned the channels until he found a newscast. The announcer was wrapping up a story about the recent World’s Fair in New York City. He read the next item from notes: “Tragedy was averted today at a fall festival in Pennsylvania’s Schuylkill County. The daughter of former Governor Austin Stanhope fell off a horse and was dragged for more than a hundred yards before a teenaged boy caught the animal and subdued it. Five-year-old Victoria Stanhope was taken to Hazleton General Hospital, where she is listed in fair condition. The teenaged boy disappeared from the festival before the arrival of medical personnel and police. Former Governor Stanhope expressed relief that his daughter’s injuries were not more severe and the hope that he will be able to properly thank the young man who stopped the horse.”

Stephen switched off the TV. Brandon was on the floor, his back against the bed board, his face a blank. Quint tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” he said.

Brandon nodded. “Me too. But, like you said, she might’ve been okay anyway.”

Sarah sucked her teeth and started picking up the napkins and bottles from dinner. Stephen opened
David Copperfield
and started reading. Quint sat on his chair at the bureau, watching them. Then he asked, “My man, can I see y’book?”

Stephen glanced up. He offered
David Copperfield
to him.

“No, not that. The political one.”

Stephen took
The Almanac of American Politics 2005
out of his backpack and handed it to him. Quint opened it and flipped some pages.

“What’re you looking for?” Stephen asked.

“Probably nothing. Just a thought.”

Quint stopped at an entry and started reading. After a few seconds the color drained out of his face, and he closed the book.

Brandon straightened up. “What’s wrong?”

Quint pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “I am,” he said hoarsely. “Y’all listen t’this.” He found his page again and read aloud: “‘The political landscape of Pennsylvania today owes much to the legacy of Austin C. Stanhope, 1915 to 1993, governor from 1959 to 1963.’” He scanned ahead to the passage he wanted and continued: “‘Stanhope’s tenure, while brief, was therefore dramatic. It was widely believed after he left office that he would again seek the governorship in 1966. However, he abruptly retired from public life following the death of his five-year-old daughter in a 1965 horseback-riding accident.’”

Quint softly closed the book. “Will y’all sit down here, please?” he asked, gesturing to the foot of the bed.

Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah did as he asked.

“Y’did save a life today, B,” Quint said, looking squarely at Brandon. “I guess I was so fixed on reachin’ the niche I wasn’t thinkin’ of anything else. I just didn’t believe that girl would die. But she would’ve if y’hadn’t moved in. I’m so sorry I reamed y’for it.”

Brandon shifted awkwardly on the bed. “That’s okay, Quint, I’m not mad. But thanks for saying that.”

“And Sarah,” Quint continued, “y’stated the matter plain when y’said I didn’t see the pony—horse—whatever the hell it was. I was just fillin’ in the blanks with guesses. Thanks for pointin’ it out t’me.” He scraped his teeth over his lower lip and asked, “But tell me—did y’really think I’d drive off and leave y’all in that field?”

“No,” Brandon said.

“No,” Sarah said. “I was just mad.”

“And rightly so.” Quint gave Stephen back his book. “Well, my man, who’d’ve guessed such a soft-spoken guy could knock me on my tail with a single word?”

Stephen’s eyes smiled. “I don’t know, sir.”

“‘Sir,’” Quint said ironically. “My man, if gettin’ knocked on my tail helps earn me some pardon for actin’ like I did today, it’s a bargain. I’m sorry.”

Stephen said politely, “Thank you, sir, it’s okay.”

“Quint,” Brandon said.

“Uh-huh?”

“My dad says that what he owes his dad he can’t pay with money. He just owes his dad too much for that. That’s where we are with you. Like I said before, we wouldn’t have a chance without you helping us. And if you want to help us so bad you yell and freak sometimes, we can deal with that, it’s okay. It’s okay because . . . we can’t pay you with money.”

Quint chuckled at the “yell and freak” part. “Okay, B, thanks.” He yawned into his fist and gave his head a shake. “Too much damn drivin’.”

“I’ll help.” Stephen smiled.

Quint reached over and tried straightening Stephen’s glasses, without success. “Y’do help all the time, my man. Back in New Orleans y’said some test might need t’be passed for y’all t’get home. Maybe today B passed it. Maybe y’all did.”

“I guess tomorrow we’ll know,” Brandon said.

“I imagine so. We should be in Rollin’s by mid-afternoon.”

A bottle slipped out of Sarah’s hand and rolled under the bed. She got down on the floor and groped for it.

“Jumpy?” Brandon grinned.

“You know it,” Sarah said. She brought out the bottle and set it on the bureau. “The niche might not work. And even if it does, we might burn up like those keys.”

“We’ll have to set it up so we don’t meet ourselves,” Stephen said.

“Like my dad says, first things first,” Brandon said strongly. “First, we’ve got to get to Rollings. Then we’ve got to get to the niche. Then we’ve got to get it working. Then let’s worry about the rest. Not now.”

Sarah wiped her eyes with her napkin. “Well, thank you, B, but I’m not made of steel,” she said, her voice quivering. “I’ve been scared to death since New Orleans.”

Brandon got up and put his arms around Sarah. For once he felt completely comfortable doing so. They sat down together.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that,” Brandon said. “I’m not made of steel, either. I’ve been so scared since we got here I didn’t know what I was doing sometimes. And I’ve cried a lot, like a little kid. What I meant was, we’ve come too far to let anything stop us now. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it.” He smiled warmly at Sarah. “We—us together—will get us home, Sarah. It won’t be just me doing it. So forget the promise I made back in New Orleans and the way I shot my mouth off.”

Sarah looked at him as if he couldn’t be the Brandon she knew. “Well . . . okay, B.”

“What do you think, Stephen?” Brandon asked, clasping his friend’s hand. “Can
we
get us home?”

Stephen grinned so broadly his glasses finally sat straight on his face. “Absolutely, B.”

Quint leaned back on his chair and took it all in. “Little kids,” he whispered. “There’re no little kids on this trip.”

“Howard Johnson’s!” Stephen exclaimed as he stepped out of Room 7. “I didn’t see it last night.”

The orange tile roof across the street gleamed in the early morning sun. Stephen ran over to the sidewalk for a better look. He had no jacket, however, and a cold gust of wind sent him scurrying back to the room.

“Did you say Howard Johnson’s?” Brandon asked as Stephen came through the door.

“Uh-huh,” Quint said, finishing up with his comb at the mirror. “There’s one next door. We’re havin’ breakfast there.” He took his wallet off the bureau and pushed it into his pocket. “We’re doin’ better’n I expected with money.”

“YES,” Brandon and Stephen said together.

Sarah, in the bathroom with the water running, proved there was nothing wrong with her hearing. “Works for me,” she called out. The water stopped and the door flew open. “A hot breakfast,” she squealed, running to her bundle in the corner.

Brandon pulled on his Eminem T-shirt and tan collared shirt. “I’m going home just the way I came,” he said with a grin.

“I don’t think so, B,” Stephen said.

Brandon looked at Stephen and was about to ask him what he meant by that, but Quint was waving everyone to the door.

“Let’s go, y’all. We’ll eat before we load the car. We’ll need the strength for Sarah’s bundle.”

Brandon patted his jacket, still damp from a scrubbing the night before. He pulled it on anyway and ran out the door after his friends.

They crossed the street and cut through the Howard John-son’s parking lot. As they came around to the entrance, Brandon felt like he was back in Virginia. The free-standing white metal sign displayed the same specialties in the same order as in Marion. The manicured lawn surrounding the sign was the same as the one in Marion (except the grass was brown). They entered the same vestibule and stopped at the same cigarette machine. The price on the machine, however, was thirty-five cents.

“A nickel more. New York taxes, I suppose,” Quint said, with a sidelong glance at Brandon. “Better get ’em now, though, before they jump t’five bucks.” He dropped a quarter and dime in the slot and pulled the knob under Marlboro.

They walked past Simple Simon and the Pie Man and took the same booth by the front window. The sameness of it all left them feeling silly.

“The only thing missing is the Edsel in the handicapped space,” Sarah said, giggling.

“And the Karmann-Ghia next to it,” Stephen put in.

“Can we get fried clams for breakfast?” Brandon cracked.

“No,” Quint said, “but if y’all want a suggestion, try the blueberry pancakes.”

The faces around him lit up. A pleasant waitress in the same light-green uniform—but without the rhinestone-studded glasses— arrived with menus and a pitcher of water. Quint waved away the menus.

“Y’all correct me if I get this wrong,” he said. “Four orders of blueberry pancakes, four glasses of orange juice, two milks, two coffees. I forget anything?”

“An order of sausage,” Brandon said.

Quint nodded. “Good idea, same for me. Stephen? Sarah?”

They shook their heads. The waitress filled their glasses with water and headed for the kitchen.

Brandon glanced out the window at the long, low cars zipping by on Main Street. The last ten days felt like ten months after all they had been through. His heart leaped at the prospect of seeing his mother before the day was done. But there was something else, too. Nineteen sixty-five had been scary one minute, cool the next, crazy throughout. He had been part of the craziness and had even made some of it happen. He hadn’t realized his dream of getting to know his aunt better; he’d only seen her for a moment. But he had seen her time—seen it, hated it, loved it, lived it. And now he was almost as sad as he was happy to be leaving it behind and going home.

The waitress returned with four fluted glasses of orange juice. Quint swallowed his in one go as he pored over a New York State road map. Brandon heard him mutter, “Damn it” under his breath.

“I messed up yesterday,” Quint said. “We didn’t need t’cross the river. The Thruway’s back on the other side.” He folded the map into a square and slid it into his back pocket. “No problem. We’ll cross back and pick it up in New Paltz. In the meantime, y’all got t’see beautiful downtown Poughkeepsie.”

“I’m so glad,” Sarah said.

Brandon was making figure-eights on the table with his glass of juice. “Quint,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“When we get to Rollings can we drive around a little? Just to see what it’s like now? It’d be cool.”

Stephen gulped his mouthful of juice. “It would. Can we, sir?”

“I don’t see a problem with it, so long as we get t’the niche in time t’get it workin’. How ’bout it, Sarah?”

“Fine. Just so we get home today.”

“I’ll show you your house, Quint.” Brandon grinned. “And I want to see where the Internet Café is—will be. My mom says it used to be a movie theatre.”

“Where’s she go t’the movies now?” Quint asked. “Out of town?”

“No, she doesn’t like the Plex in the mall. She just rents.”

Silence.

“I prob’ly shouldn’t open up this whole movie thing again,” Quint said, “but just how do y’all rent a movie?”

Brandon laughed. Then he realized it wasn’t a joke. “Oh, um, they come on DVDs, which are little disks about this big,” he said, showing the size with his hands. “You rent them for four dollars and run them on your machine at home. They play on your TV.” He saw that Quint was impressed. “I can’t believe you don’t have video. Stephen, when’s it come out?”

Stephen was following a shiny 1962 Rambler up Main Street. “I . . . don’t know, B,” he said distractedly. “My dad says he got his first VCR in 1986.”

“
No video
,” Brandon went on. “What’s that word you use, Stephen? Primitive? I should’ve guessed when the TVs didn’t have remotes.” Sarah kicked him under the table, and he stopped. “Um . . . sorry, Quint,” he said sheepishly.

“Nothing t’be sorry about, B. Now I have something t’look forward to.” Quint looked around the table. “Any y’all care t’clue me in on what an ‘Internet Café’ is?”

“A café where you can use the Internet,” Stephen said mischievously.

Quint reached over and took off Stephen’s glasses. He turned them upside down and put them back on his face. “Thank you, my man.” He smiled.

“We’d better save that one for the drive,” Brandon said.

Their breakfasts arrived quickly. Brandon inhaled the warmth of his plate and realized he was hungry. He poured the blueberry syrup over his pancakes and cut them into large squares. One forkful after another flew into his mouth until they were gone, whereupon he attacked the sausages. “Mmmm, good,” he mumbled.

Sarah held her milk halfway to her lips, staring at him.

“Don’t worry, Sarah,” Quint said coolly. “Just keep y’fingers away from his mouth.”

Brandon swallowed the last morsel, smacked his lips, and set his fork down. “Great. Sure beats cornbread.” All eyes were on him. “I’m full,” he added happily.

Half an hour later Quint, Stephen, and Sarah finished eating. Quint paid at the register, and they walked back to the motel.

By nine thirty the Edsel was loaded and idling. They pulled out of the Binder’s lot and followed Main Street to downtown. After crossing the Mid-Hudson Bridge they drove through Highland to New Paltz and picked up the New York State Thruway. The final leg of the trip had begun.

Clouds had rolled in, and tiny snowflakes swirled in the air. Brandon was again picking out the names of towns on the road signs. Only now the names were familiar: Catskill, Coxsackie, Ravena. Albany was coming up. After the Capital District, he knew it was only an hour to Rollings.

Stephen was sitting in back with him. As the Edsel approached Delmar he leaned over and whispered, “B, did you really cry after we went through the niche?”

Brandon was surprised. He nodded.

“Me too.” Stephen straightened up and looked out his window for a few minutes. Then he leaned over and whispered again: “I cried really bad after they jumped us in the park. The big one was choking me . . . I was so scared. Thanks for coming when you did.”

Brandon whispered back, “Sarah knocked him off you before I got there. And she got him with the brick.”

Stephen smiled. “She’s tough, isn’t she?”

“Tell me about it.”

Stephen looked past Brandon as a black 1964 Corvette zoomed ahead of them. He followed it until it was out of sight. Then he continued, “And I cried after that Fatty guy dumped out my backpack.”

“Fatty,” Brandon sneered, trying to keep his voice low. “That—”

“I wasn’t scared he’d grab me. But his eyes burned right through me. He hated me. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but it did— does. And I . . . cried three times after it happened.” He let out a quick breath. “So I’m soft, right?”

Brandon shook his head. “No.”

“If I am, I am,” Stephen whispered. “But Fatty was really bad. He was worse than Jonesy.”

“Jonesy,” Brandon said, louder than he intended. “That —”

“Who’s Jonesy?” Quint interrupted.

“Nobody,” Brandon said.

Sarah drew away from her window. “Jonesy . . . You’re talking about Jonesy? What brought him up?”

Brandon replied curtly: “Nothing. No one brought him up.”

“Who’s Jonesy?” Quint repeated.

“B’s next-door neighbor back home,” Sarah said. “He’s really nasty. Stephen cut through his yard on his way to B’s house and he went off screaming. It was the day we went through the niche.”

“Picky about his grass, huh?” Quint chuckled.

“Then he shouldn’t walk on it himself,” Brandon said.

“He’s really big, maybe four hundred pounds,” Sarah said. “And B doesn’t like him.”

“Y’kiddin’?” Quint smiled.

“No, she’s not,” Brandon snapped. “Can we just not talk about him?”

They passed Albany and picked up the Northway. Quint spotted a sign for the New Langston Rest Area and decided to gas up. He made the turn and followed the spur to the fueling area. The price for regular—thirty-eight cents—gave him pause and also a thought. “I don’t think I asked y’all—what’s gas go for in 2005?”

Silence.

“Well, it’s a little more than now,” Sarah said, finding her voice.

“After all, sir, prices will go up in forty years,” Stephen observed.

“Forget it, Quint,” Brandon said.

They gassed up and decided to have a quick lunch in the visitors’ center. Stephen pulled together the last scraps of their food stock into four sandwiches. Brandon collected four Dr. Peppers from the trunk. They filed into the center and took a booth by the window facing the parking area. Quint and Sarah headed for the restrooms while Brandon and Stephen waited with the food.

“B,” Stephen said.

“Uh-huh?”

“When were you scared the most?”

Brandon wondered what was going on with Stephen, but he didn’t mind talking about it. “I guess . . . the first day, when we were trying to get Quint to believe us. I was scared he’d throw us out and the police’d grab us. It got me in the stomach, and I thought I’d throw up. I still feel sick sometimes if I think about it.”

Stephen nodded.

“And I was really scared that day in the park.”

“Yes,” Stephen said.

The fight and their escape from the park flashed through Brandon’s mind. Before he knew it he had blurted out a question that sounded crazy to him after what they had been saying: “Will you miss it here when we get home?” He braced himself for a sharp reply.

“I sure will,” Stephen said softly. “It’s been great—even the bad parts.”

“What? You do want to go back, right?”

“Sure. I want my parents. But you asked me, so I told you. I got a lot out of this. Nothing I ever did before even comes close to it.” Stephen smiled knowingly. “Don’t act so shocked, B. You know you’ll miss it too.”

“I never told you that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Brandon was taken aback. How had Stephen read him so well? “I . . . I’ll . . . like Quint says, I’ll be damned. So . . . you’re not mad I brought us here?”

Stephen slowly shook his head.

Brandon felt as if a hundred-pound weight had been taken off his shoulders. “Not for nothing; your fighting in the park that day was great.”

Stephen beamed and sat up tall in his seat.

Sarah returned from the ladies room and slid into the booth next to Brandon. A minute later Quint arrived with napkins and took his seat with Stephen. He picked up his sandwich with both hands and bit into it. His eyes bulged.

“What’s in this?” he asked through his mouthful.

“Spam, the rest of the bologna, and pickles,” Stephen said. He peeked inside his own sandwich. “Oh, I forgot. We had one more can of sardines. That’s in there too.”

Quint swallowed the lump in his mouth and downed half of his Dr. Pepper. “Thanks, my man,” he gasped. “My daddy always says, ‘Waste not, want not.’ But even so . . .” He opened his sandwich and flicked out the pickles and sardines. Sarah did likewise. Brandon aimed his sandwich at a trash barrel and made a two-point shot.

Outside the window a man hurried across the parking area, chased by a gust of wind. Quint and Brandon watched him.

“We’re a long way from hot old New Orleans,” Quint said. “Bet y’didn’t think the Edsel could make it this far, Sarah.”

“I didn’t. And we’re not there yet.”

Quint tapped his watch and smiled. “One hour.”

Brandon’s heartbeat quickened.
One hour to Rollings. Rollings!
How much of it would he know?

They finished their lunch and returned to the Edsel. In five minutes they were sailing up the Northway again. Brandon was now in the front seat. Quint was keeping to the speed limit.

Or maybe not. Five miles out of New Langston a siren burst made Sarah jump.

Brandon looked back. “State trooper.”

“Damn it,” Quint said, scowling at the mirror. “Y’all be cool and let me talk.” He signaled to pull off the highway. “I don’t know what the hell it is, but he’ll tell us.”

They came to a stop on the shoulder. The trooper pulled up behind them. He remained in his cruiser, talking on his radio. Minutes passed.