Chapter 12: The Concrete Bridge Over Route 9
The brown sedan hummed with a tired vibration that rattled the loose change in the console. Arthur kept both hands gripped at ten and two on the steering wheel, his knuckles pale beneath sun-spotted skin. In the backseat, wrapped in thick brown manila folders and bound with thick rubber bands, sat the ledger pages, the bank statements, and the notarized receipts we’d pulled from the print shop basement.
"Keep your eyes on the mile markers," Arthur said, his voice gravelly from cheap cigarettes. "If a county cruiser comes up behind us with lights on, we don't pull over on the shoulder. We make it to the state line or we don't make it at all."
I didn't answer. I kept my face turned toward the passenger-side window, watching the endless stretches of dry scrub pine and rusted chain-link fences blur past. Every time a set of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror, my ribs tightened. I reached down, my fingers brushing the edge of the cardboard box beneath my boots where the final backup copies rested.
We crested a long, sloping rise, and the green metal sign for Route 9 North loomed ahead, marking the official boundary of the county. The letters stamped into the reflective paint felt like a border between two entirely different worlds—one governed by quiet intimidation and closed courthouse doors, and another where things might actually be logged, recorded, and investigated.
"Almost there," I muttered, mostly to myself.
"Don't breathe easy yet," Arthur grunted, glancing down at his speedometer.
Right as we crossed the white painted line over the county drainage ditch, a set of red and blue strobes burst to life from the shoulder fifty yards ahead. A state highway patrol cruiser nosed out from behind an overgrown thicket, blocking the right lane. Arthur didn't slam on the brakes, but he let off the gas smoothly, bringing the sedan down to a crawl.
"Hands on the dashboard where they can see them," Arthur muttered under his breath, sliding his window down as the cool highway air rushed in.
The patrolman walked slowly, his boots crunching on the loose gravel of the berm. He had a pair of mirrored aviators on and a heavy leather holster strapped low on his hip. He tapped twice on the driver's side glass with a gloved knuckle.
Arthur rolled the window down the rest of the way, offering a tired, grandfatherly smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Morning, Officer. Something wrong with a tail light?"
"License, registration, and proof of insurance," the trooper said, his voice flat and routine. "You were doing sixty-four in a fifty-five zone back near the creek bend."
"Must've had my foot heavy on the gas, trying to make it to the capital before noon," Arthur said, reaching slowly into his glove compartment. "Visiting family."
The trooper leaned down, his gaze shifting from Arthur's weathered face over to me in the passenger seat. His eyes lingered on my dark jeans and blue t-shirt, then dropped to the bulk of the manila folders visible on the floorboards. The air inside the car turned cold.
"What's in the boxes?" the trooper asked, his hand drifting slightly closer to his belt.
"Just old tax records and accounting ledgers," Arthur said smoothly, pulling out a folded paper and handing it across. "Moving my grandson's things up north. Paperwork's a real headache."
The trooper took the registration, tapped it against his palm, and stared for a long, agonizing moment at our license plates. He knew the county prefix. Everyone in the region knew what those letters meant. For a second, I braced myself for the radio call, the backup, the sudden demand to step out of the car and hand over the evidence.
Instead, the trooper handed the papers back, tipped the brim of his hat, and tapped the roof of the sedan twice. "Slow it down. State capital's another forty miles. They don't take kindly to speeders on the loop."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Officer," Arthur said.
He eased the sedan back onto the asphalt, accelerating gently as the cruiser faded behind us in the rearview mirror. Neither of us spoke for five miles. My palms were slick with sweat against my jeans.
By early afternoon, the flat scrub pine gave way to the towering glass and gray stone facades of the state capital. Arthur navigated the wide, bustling boulevards with a grim focus, dodging delivery trucks and commuter traffic until he pulled up directly in front of the state attorney general's regional office building. A massive glass-paneled revolving door stood beneath a polished limestone portico, flanked by stone pillars and security cameras.
"This is it," Arthur said, cutting the engine. The radiator hissed softly, cooling down against the city air.
I picked up the heavy cardboard box from the floor, my fingers curling securely around the edges. I looked over at Arthur, then up at the towering glass doors where investigators in suits walked briskly with briefcases in hand.
"I'm going in alone," I said, pushing the passenger door open. "You stay here with the backup copies. If I don't come out in an hour, take the box to the newspaper office downtown."
May you like
Arthur started to argue, then saw the look in my eyes and stopped. He just nodded once.
I stepped out onto the concrete sidewalk, took a deep breath of the city exhaust, and walked straight through the glass doors.
