Chapter 13 - The Roadblock On Route 9
The black asphalt of Route 9 unspooled ahead of Caleb’s truck, cutting a straight, gray gash through the dense pine forests of the valley. For nearly twenty miles, the road had been ours alone, save for the occasional flash of sunlight off a damp guardrail or the low, steady hum of the engine beneath our feet. I kept my hand resting on the weathered leather ledger tucked against the passenger door panel, its heavy pages a tangible anchor against the uncertainty that had dogged us since the diner. Beside me, Caleb drove with a relaxed focus, one thick hand draped over the bottom of the steering wheel, his gray beard catching the pale morning light through the cracked windshield. We were making good time toward the state police barracks two counties over, where the corruption running deep through our local sheriff's department wouldn't reach.
Then the trees parted.
Flashing red and blue strobes painted the canopy overhead in harsh, alternating strokes, slicing through the gray morning mist. A marked county cruiser sat angled completely across both lanes of the highway, its heavy steel bumper glistening with dew. Beside it, a traffic cone had been kicked carelessly onto the yellow center line.
"Hold on," Caleb muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he eased off the gas pedal. The truck’s heavy transmission downshifted with a low mechanical groan, the speedometer needle dipping from sixty to forty, then thirty, as we coasted toward the barrier.
My heart climbed straight into my throat. I glanced down at the thick leather ledger resting by my feet. Without a word, I hooked my fingers under the edge of the rubber floor mat and shoved the book deep into the shadowy recess beneath the seat, pressing the heavy black rubber back down until the cover was entirely concealed. My palms left damp smudges on the faded plastic dash.
"Keep your hands in your lap, don't look panicked, and let me do the talking," Caleb said, his tone flat and level, devoid of any rush. He brought the truck to a complete stop twenty feet from the cruiser's rear bumper, leaving the engine idling with a steady, low vibration.
Two armed deputies stood near the front doors of their cruiser, their thumbs hooked casually over their heavy leather duty belts, resting inches from holstered sidearms. The older of the two—a stocky man with thinning hair pressed flat by his campaign hat and a dark grease stain on his breast pocket—stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching loudly on the gravel shoulder. He raised a hand, flashing a thick brass-ringed finger to signal us to roll down the window.
Caleb turned the manual crank, the glass sliding down with a metallic rattle that seemed entirely too loud in the quiet woods.
"Morning, Officer," Caleb said, leaning his forearm across the open sill. His posture was open, easy, the picture of a tired local hauling timber or gear. "Something happen up ahead? Road look clear from the last ridge."
The deputy didn't answer right away. He leaned his weight onto his right leg, peering past Caleb into the dim interior of the cab, his small, watery eyes sweeping over the empty dashboard, the crumpled coffee napkins, and finally settling on my face pressed against the passenger door. His expression was bored, practiced, but there was a predatory sharpness hiding behind his heavy eyelids.
"Routine roadblock, mister," the deputy said, his voice gravelly and slow. He didn't offer a badge number or a greeting. " State road maintenance reported a washout near the creek bridge. Nobody passes without identification and a vehicle inspection. Turn the engine off, please."
"We didn't see any sign back at the junction," Caleb replied smoothly, keeping both of his large, calloused hands resting square on the center of the steering wheel where they could be plainly seen. He didn't turn off the ignition. "Bridge looked fine when we crossed it yesterday afternoon. Must've happened late."
"Must have," the deputy agreed, stepping closer until his belt buckle was nearly touching the truck's rusted side mirror. He craned his neck, looking right past Caleb into my eyes. "Morning, miss. You look a little pale for a joyride. You folks got IDs?"
My throat felt dry as sandpaper. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my breathing shallow and even, remembering the way Caleb had stayed calm back at the diner when the glass door chimed. I reached slowly into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing the smooth plastic of my driver's license.
"She’s just tired, Deputy," Caleb said, cutting in before I could speak, his tone carrying a firm, authoritative edge that brooked no argument. "We've been driving all night from the east ridge. My daughter didn't sleep much."
The deputy narrowed his eyes, his gaze flicking back and forth between Caleb's salt-and-pepper hair and my own blonde hair, noting the forced familial lie without challenging it out loud. Instead, his hand drifted a fraction of an inch closer to his holster, his fingers twitching against the leather.
"Step out of the vehicle, sir," the deputy said, his voice dropping its lazy drawl and hardening into an order. "We're going to take a quick look in the bed and check the cab. Department policy for unregistered trucks on restricted county timber routes."
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Caleb met the deputy's cold stare without blinking, his jaw tightening just enough to work the muscle in his cheek. The second deputy started walking slowly toward the passenger side, his hand resting firmly on the butt of his sidearm.
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