The Question
Eternal
THEMIS SNARE
John Kane was only doing 40 when he called out, “Sex Lights!†It took him a second to realize that it was, in fact, he who was fucked. “What the hell does Mr. Piggy want from me, I’m under the limit…†Still rounding a tight starboard curve on this lonely country road outside some no-name town in Georgia, heading home to New Mexico, Kane rapidly developed three competing explanations:
First, the possibility that this was nothing more than a friendly country cop who wanted to warn him about getting lost out here on these country roads. Well, that had been the plan, more or less, when John started out of the Radisson parking lot on his way home. You don’t get a brand new Charger with a Hemi in it just to play it Dullsville on some nameless, featureless freeway for more than a day. Bo-ring. Ol’ Johnny wanted to see what this big black badass V8-totin’ monster could do, you dig?
The second possibility was, his ungodly-bright projector headlights had induced some farmer’s chickens to lay omelettes, or set off a new backwoods religious cult or something, and Officer Friendly was going to lecture him about it.
The third possibility… the third possibility was something that had been creeping and whispering around under the conscious part of Johnny’s mind since he got into the Deep South, all the way up until he made it into Atlanta for his one year follow-up interview with CSC Microsystems’ Board of Directors – had made him wish he’d just left this shiny new four-door toy at home and flown out the way he’d done to get the job in the first place. But flying was such a pain in the ass nowdays… but now, out here in the wild, tangled dark… getting The Finger from some onion-breathed TSA stooge just might still beat the ominous little shark-thoughts swimming under the surface of his rational mind as he pulled to a stop and the cruiser slid past, ever so slowly, then crunched to a halt itself.
They felt a little like Deliverance kind of thoughts. Thoughts where the faces were all crumpled, toothless mouths surrounded by thickets of wiry beard beneath squinting, yellowed eyes full of hunger and hate. Only this particular face comes with a badge and a gun.
The cruiser’s door swung open; a figure climbed out, long and lanky, one hand going briefly to a shoulder-level mounted radio before a Smokey The Bear hat took its place and the cruiser’s door swung shut again in a long, lazy arc.
Johnny kept his hands firmly at 10 and 2; a short, wild youth had taught him more than a few valuable lessons, one of which being that one does not, if one values one’s safety, remove his hands from a law enforcement officer’s line of sight at any time until so instructed. Bootsteps crunched to a stop alongside his window, and a pair of gloved knuckles rapped gently at the glass. He thumbed the “down†control, and an instant blast of damp, chill air punched into the car.
The officer leaned slowly into view – John was taken by surprise by her pretty brown eyes, her cheeks flushed against the cold, and her… this struck him as oddly amusing… very professional looking lips. They were absolutely the perfect lips for a female cop. Thin, not masculine though, just thin and very… professional.
“How we doin’ this morning, sir?†she inquired blandly. “Need you to show me your license, registration and proof of insurance.â€
“Okay, sure thing, Officer.†Johnny leaned toward the glove box, managed to pop it open, fumbling through a week’s worth of miscellanea in the dark.
“I’m-a ask you some questions, you don’t mind.†The officer interjected.
“Sure, sure.†Johnny caught himself too late. How many times? How many times had he coached himself to answer with “I have nothing to say.†And nothing but that? This cop-chick was slick, he decided. Waited until she’d gotten his attention onto something else. Well, fuck it, too late now…
“Where you headed tonight?â€
“Uh,†he grunted with the effort of hauling himself back from the glove compartment, his registration and insurance in hand. “Santa Fe.†He handed her his license.
“Well, you don’t sound none too sure about that, fella.†She cast a disapproving look first at him, then at the bundle of paper she now held.
He blinked. “No, that was – “
She waved his protest aside. “You just sit tight for me, right there. Go ahead and put your hands back up there on the wheel now.†She began to read his information into her radio with one hand while shining a penlight at the papers with the other.
This can not be happening. He thought to himself. All I want is to get to a damn rest area, get nice and cozy and get some damn sleep. That’s all I want. Jesus Christ. An icy gust whipped at his face through the open window. Mocking him.
“You know why I stopped you, fella?†having finished reciting his information, the officer leaned down again, peering at him intently.
“Well… not really, no.†He wasn’t about to go to mentioning the crumpled mouths and greedy yellow eyes theory.
“Seems we had a few complaints come in from the good folks out here like to get their sleep durin’ the hours God intended. Seems they were havin’ some bit of trouble with that on account of someone racing a hot rod up and down this road. You wouldn’t know anything about that, I guess.â€
John simply stared, dumbfounded that she was actually going to try to railroad him. “Well, did they say what kind of car it was?†he tried finally. “What it looked like?†Slowly, he started to feel his arms and legs succumb to a low but persistent tremor against the cold. Shit! He thought in dismay, She’s gonna think I’m shaking ‘cause I’m scared! Fuck!
“Naw.†She looked thoughtful, then lit up as if struck by inspiration. “Said they couldn’t see nothin’ but her lights. They could hear her real good, though, said she sounded like a hot rod. Now… if it was a black car like this one…†she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, as if there was still a point to this whole charade. “What kind of engine you got in this car, fella?â€
“Doesn’t really matter, does it?†he asked, his voice hopeless and forlorn. He stared straight ahead, no longer bothering to look at her.
“Beg pardon?†Her radio crackled to life on her shoulder. “Hold on.†She listened to the staticky garble from the boxy transceiver. “10-4, show me Code 6.†She stepped back away from his door, but didn’t turn. Well, that was it, here it came: “Go ahead and step out of the car for me, sir.â€
“Yeah, great.†He muttered as his heart sank and he swung the door open, slowly, then raised his hands, no longer bothering to conceal the shivering as the full force of the icy wind hit his body. The rest was all by the book – the turning around, placing hands wide apart on the roof of the car, the pat-down which missed nothing and spared no dignity, the cuffs, the call to the towing company after he was made suitably uncomfortable on the cruiser’s hard plastic rear bench.
And so here he sat, hands cramping between his ass and hard, chill plastic, the bitter chemical reek of the cruiser’s pine air freshener nauseatingly thick in his nostrils, staring through the achingly clear rear passenger window of this car at his own. But along with the despair was just as strong a tide of confusion.
“Ma’am?†he asked. There was no acknowledgement. “Hey!†Now her head turned, if only barely. “What am I being charged with?†Throughout the whole frisking and cuffing and stuffing, she hadn’t said, and he’d had no opening until now to ask.
“Santa Fe County Sheriff has a warrant for you, and they want you back.â€
Well, that didn’t make any damn sense –he last time he’d been in trouble with the law had to be at least a decade ago, and that had been dealt with a long time gone now. “A warrant - for what?â€
“You can ask the judge that in the morning, fella. They don’t tell us what a warrant’s for, just that it’s there and whether they want you transported on it.â€