CHAPTER FIVE
Arizona, Highway 10

Highway Patrolman Philip Porter spotted the nineties model International at the Bluebird Tallstack truck stop just outside of Tucson. It was a tired old 9200 pulling a long white trailer marked with a Sports Authority billboard practically scrubbed away by blowing sand.

He could barely make out the license plates from his vantage, parked on a hard patch just off the frontage road, but he could clearly see the truck’s federal ID number on the driver’s side door. He checked the license plates and they were clean, then compared the ID against records using his Infodeck. The ID had expired but that wasn’t unusual. Federal renewal forms had not been sent to truckers in two or three years.

Still, something told him the rig was worthy of a few minutes of his attention.

The old Cummins diesel stack had been retrofitted with a big cylindrical aluminum Grit Mitt. Was it loose? When she started up, a telltale plume of leaking soot could excite his ecological interest. The tires were looking a little worn. Any last-gasp retreads? Almost certainly he would find one on a trailer so old, and that could spur a little conversation with the driver.

Boy, it’s been hot. Just wanted to alert you. You could throw that tire. How’s she running? I love these big rigs. Reminds me of my Daddy’s old Cornbinder.

Think it’ll be cooler where you’re heading?  

Something about the truck reminded him of a swaybacked old horse on its last bandito run. It had been six months since he had pulled over a big shipment of contraband marijuana, two and a half tons hidden behind a wall of bungee-corded junk furniture. The bust had attracted prowlers from six counties. That had been fun.

Somehow, he knew that if he could find a reason to stop her on the highway--trucks were always female to Officer Porter--rust streaks below the lug nuts, maybe--he would discover that the license had expired, or the driver log was not up to date, or the bill of lading hadn’t been completely filled out. He could then reasonably perform a search. Call in a backup. Let one of Bobby Verril’s K-9s sniff her up.

Papa was hungry.

Papa wanted something besides bleary-eyed drunks and teen speeders hiding behind a mask of Zit-Ex. Besides, last week he had attended to a five-car pileup with infant fatalities, and needed to shove those memories from his mind. Such images stalked him out here, alone on the road. They always had. He would slide into a pit of speculation about life and death and meaning. Not good. A drug bust usually cleared his head.

And there was always the chance to ugly up the Wall--get his smiling portrait on the Commendation Board--perhaps to pull in a Latino Sixpack--Tart, Slick, or Shebang being smuggled north from sophisticated labs in Central America. Tart came in pretty blue glass vials tinkling away in white cardboard boxes. A box of Tart stuck in a glove box or hidden behind a door vent was better for a patrolman’s career than a hundred kilos of cocaine.

The driver exited the diner and walked across the almost empty parking lot to the International. He was over six feet tall, short-cut blond hair, in his early forties, bare-headed and wearing cowboy boots, dark blue jeans and a brown leather jacket with a wool collar. He seemed to have all the time in the world. Patrolman Porter wasn’t buying it. His prowler was visible from across the highway. The driver might be strutting casual. Besides, he didn’t look like your usual long-haul trucker.

Porter raised his visor and removed his sun glasses.

The man opened the truck’s passenger side door and climbed up and in, out of Porter’s view. He emerged again and walked around the front of the truck holding a big X-wrench. He then set about inspecting and tightening the lug nuts on a rear outboard trailer tire. Next, he walked completely around the rig and patted the tires with his hands, bending to inspect them one by one. That took five minutes, during which time he twice glanced at Porter and the patrol car. He then stowed the wrench, returned to the cab, and shifted over to the driver’s seat.

Porter tapped the prowler’s steering wheel with his thumb.

The 9200 started clean, no telltale plume of illegal soot. The truck vibrated a little, then the diesel smoothed to a steady guttural rumble.

A blue minivan pulled off the highway and followed the slight incline of the off ramp to the Tallstack’s parking lot. The side door opened and two young men jumped out and ran into the diner as if they had to go to the restroom.

Nothing of interest there.

But the trucker was nervous. He did not want to be pulled over. He was anticipating problems and hoping to avoid them, delaying his return to the highway by precious minutes.

Patrolman Porter rolled up his window and rearranged his butt on the seat. One hand played with the Infodeck, idly pressing the keys, causing the screen menu to beep, but he kept both his eyes trained on the truck. Sometimes, when he felt like this, he reminded himself of a cat about to pounce.

With a squeal and puff of released brakes, the International started rolling.

“Let’s go, mouse,” Porter whispered.

The trailer bounced as it crossed a pothole in the parking lot. Porter was familiar with that particular hole. The loose, shuddering bounce meant the trailer was not carrying a heavy load. Not tons of marijuana, surely.

Well.

So.

They didn’t need big rigs any more to haul enough drugs to blow an entire city into the Twilight Zone. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t use them. Big rigs had thousands of places to hide a small box or two. Or perhaps a thousand boxes, more Tart or Shebang than any cop had ever seen in one bust.

Porter took a deep breath. “You’re dreaming,” he said through his teeth. He gave the truck two minutes to advance up the road. Then he drove onto the highway and closed the distance to a discreet half mile or so. “Infodeck,” he said, and read the numbers from his notepad into the unit to begin a thorough background check.

When he was done with that, the patrolman focused on the trailer’s big rectangular tail, jouncing along the road. One of the trailer’s brake lights blinked erratically. He briefly weaved left into the opposite lane and thought he saw a little puff of dust or possibly smoke coming from the trailer’s tandems. Could be hydraulic malfunction, or hanging parking brakes. That sort of thing could start a serious fire.

When Porter checked his rear view mirror, he saw one vehicle cresting a rise miles behind. The blue van.

“Infodeck,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the Infodeck responded in clipped tones of female efficiency.

“Tell Dispatch my spider sense is tingling.” Messing with the Infodeck amused him on long days, but now, of course, he was just wasting time. He waited for the machine to try to parse his requests and eliminate the nonsense.

“Shall I call for backup, sir?”

Twenty seconds passed and Porter did not answer.

“Dispatch responds that nearest backup is ten miles away. There can be a spotter plane in our area in five minutes. No K-9 units are available for the next hour and a half. Advise that you do not attempt a felony stop alone.”

The blue van was no longer visible in his rear view mirror.

“I’m going for a commercial vehicle violation. Nothing major.”

“Shall I call for backup, sir?”

At times the Infodeck was remarkably sensible. It had already turned on the prowler’s three video cameras, one mounted on the light bar, facing forward, the second on the rear bumper, the third a little black beady eye in the passenger side pillar, pointing right at him. He smiled at the little eye and poked his temple with his finger.

“Forget it. It’s probably nothing.”

Then he sped up and closed the distance to a hundred yards. The Infodeck was recording everything now, including his pulse, monitored by his wristwatch. He was on the prowler’s grid. It all went into his personal chase log.

That was fine by him. Patrolman Porter had a good clean record. He was always polite and efficient and where his pursuits were concerned he had excellent instincts.

He’d make up an excuse later.

“Infodeck, query that truck. Let’s check her RFLM.” That was the federally mandated Radio Frequency License and Manifest transponder.

A few seconds later, the Infodeck said, “Bogus response, sir. Two hash collisions. RFLM is not authenticated.”

“Hello, mouse,” he said, and switched on his siren.