Chapter Four

Twenty minutes later, I took to the off-ramp from Interstate 90 onto Highway 2, which ran right through downtown Prairie View, population 4,222, or so the thirty-year-old faded sign declared. The town had died back to about 3,000 over the past two decades, but nobody seemed to notice, except me. Just like nobody seemed to notice that two grade schools, two drugstores, and several clothing stores were boarded up. Bars were doing great, though.

I cringed at the rural dinginess shrouding my childhood landmarks. Muting the CD player to gather myself, I was aware of the railroad tracks to my left that used to be a mighty arterial for the Great Northern Railroad Line. Now it was a through track for freight trains that barreled east and west, ignoring the little town that waited like a puppy trying to get attention.

On the other side of the tracks, across a large weed-strewn field, was my old high school. I could just make out the bronze statue of a wolf, the high school mascot, howling at the occasional cloud that would bother to drift overhead. That poor statue, always looking like a fat husky, was the butt of many pranks over the years. Nobody liked the darn thing when it was placed there as a crowning achievement of the community. Thirty years later, it still sat there dumpy and ridiculous. I suspect it had become part of the landscape, just like the bald hill looming behind the school, and nobody even noticed it anymore.

To my right ran a string of businesses in familiar worn buildings. At the truck stop, the locals were filling their fuel-inefficient cars, each car having at least one disturbing bumper sticker condemning gun control, environmentalists, or abortion. All the men wore either ball caps or cowboy hats and walked like their bones ached. Many of the women were puffy and pasty from spending the last seven months indoors. They all glanced at my car, out of the small-town habit of needing to know who was breaching their city limits. I didn’t like this behavior when I was young; I didn’t like it now. But I caught myself checking out whoever drove down my street in Seattle whenever I was outside.

There was the Dew Drop Inn, now a smoky casino, where I had my first job when I was fourteen. Daddy got it for me, said I needed to learn responsibility. But they let me go a few months later, after I ran my dad’s truck into the owner’s car, smashing the taillight. I didn’t know I was supposed to report it. I had a learner’s permit but hadn’t learned anything.

Each building I passed, whether used or abandoned, held some history for me. Every once in a while, in the empty parking lots, a little dust devil would coil up then peter out.

Just as I was about to turn onto Main Street, I heard the whoop whoop of a sheriff’s cruiser behind me. Having lived in Seattle for the previous twenty years, I drove closer to the shoulder so the cop could pass me and get on his important way. But the cruiser had its lights flashing and wouldn’t move around me. I was getting irritated. Then I heard a graveled voice from the police speaker order, “Pull over, please.”

“What? Shit. Ah shit! He’s stopping me? Me? What did I do? Does he fuckin’ know who I am?”

Then I faced the cold fact that he might not know who I am. I didn’t live there anymore, hadn’t in decades. It’s true: you never got to be famous in your hometown. They knew too much.

I inched the Murano into the abandoned parking lot of what used to be Holmes Ford Dealership and recognized that my father’s dominance in this tidbit of a town was over. The leadership torch had passed to people I went to high school with. A surreal and disturbing thought. I also realized that nobody around here gave a rat’s ass about my two Pulitzers and all the aggressive skill it took to get them. The cop was parked behind me and not getting out of his car.

“Stay in your car, please.” That speaker needed some work because it was distorting his voice, making it difficult to understand.

I slumped behind the steering wheel, rolled my forehead right and left on the warm leather wheel cover, and reviewed all the reasons he could have stopped me. “Hell, I was going a little fast, but everyone goes fast on that stretch of road. Maybe my taillight is out. Did I stray across the center line? No, must be the taillight.”

Heartened by the taillight theory, I straightened and checked the rearview mirror. Officer Annoying still hadn’t turned off his flashing rack of lights, making me embarrassed, agitated, and, truth be told, a little scared.

I noticed I was jiggling my left leg, a lifelong nervous habit, and it was making the car wobble. I thrummed my fingertips on top of the steering wheel and glued my eyes to the rearview. My face heated from a mixed bag of anger, mortification, and scorching sun on the windshield. Just when I realized he must be running a check on my license plate, I saw his car door open.

“Oh sweet… Mary… mother of God… who is that?”

And she emerged. Yeah, she. The cop was a girl… no, not a girl… a woman… a vision. And tall, taller than me, six feet at least. Officer’s ball cap, long black braid, and reflecting sunglasses. And she wore a uniform, the two-toned chocolate and gray uniform of a county sheriff. I admit, I whimpered when I got a full view of those miraculous legs with the gray uniform stripes down the side.

“Definitely not a local girl. Be nice, Jilly.” Then I remembered she was a damn cop bent on hassling the grieving me, and I forgot the babe angle. I was pissed off. Babe or not, she was making a bad twenty-four hours worse. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

I used my side mirror to watch her approach, but could only see her from the waist down. I stared at her nearing black gun belt, complete with handgun and the brass belt buckle covering a flat belly. The ironed creases in her pants hung from her waist straight and smooth, accentuating the surrounding assets.

She was using two strong fingers to make a circular motion, so I opened the car door and started to climb out. Her left hand blocked the door from opening farther and her right hand rested on her gun.

“Remain in your car, please, ma’am, and roll down your window.” Monotone. Controlled. Damn bossy. Well, I’ve weaseled my way around law enforcement officials in dozens of countries, so I figured this small-town frustrated detective wouldn’t be able to stand up to my experienced machinations.

I decided to try the puzzled and conciliatory method first. In other words, kiss ass. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Officer. Was there something I could help you with?” They loved being called “Officer.”

“Driver’s license, proof of insurance, and car registration, please.” She sounded bored, but her jaw was twitching under those exceptional cheekbones. The damn sunglasses hid her eyes.

I ruffled around in the glove compartment for all the car rental papers and fumbled through my purse to extract my driver’s license. I remarked to myself that whenever I needed to produce my license under pressure, it became stuck in my wallet, making me look guilty because my hands trembled. There was a little bead of sweat trickling down the middle of my forehead.

“Excuse me, Officer, but could you please explain why I’m being stopped? I’m not sure what—”

“Please, ma’am, I would like to see your driver’s license, proof of insurance, and car registration first.”

I hate being interrupted when I’m speaking, and I really hate taking orders. Another bead of sweat. I decided to use the reasoned but still friendly method.

“Officer, uhhh…” I squinted at her badge. “Terabian, is it? Officer Terabian, I haven’t done anything, as far as I know, to warrant being pulled over. I grew up in this town. I know the rules around here. I know—”

“Ma’am, this is my last polite request. Either produce the items I requested or we can visit the station together.” Same bossy monotone. I handed her the license and papers.

“Okay, okay, but I have to tell you, I feel unfairly targeted here.” I was slipping into the irritated but cooperative method.

“Keep your hands on the steering wheel, ma’am. Please stay in your car. I will be back in a few minutes.”

“Why? What the hell? Where are you going?”

“Be patient. I’ll be right back.” That time there wasn’t any “please.”

Good thing she walked away because now I was into the pissed-off bitch phase and there was no methodology to that one. “Shit!” I was unraveling. I couldn’t seem to find my diplomatic self. Then I remembered my dad had just died. “Oh God, Daddy.” He wasn’t around to save me.

Right there, sweating, detained by the police, the weight of my loss hit me in the gut. I was abandoned. Doubling over my aching belly, resting my head on the back of my hands, I pushed out body-tossing sobs.

Then I remembered I had to pull it together. Too many people would drive by and see this drama. I couldn’t let that happen, not in this town. I did my shoulder relaxation technique from yoga, wiped away tears and snot, took some shaky breaths, and sat up, composed…sort of.

“That bitch is running a check on me. Wait ’til I go see her boss. She will rue…the…day.”

Sheriff Terabian unfolded from her cruiser and returned to my car, carrying my papers and her ticket pad in her left hand. There was an intricate woven leather braid on that wrist. “Hmmm…definitely not from around here.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to write you two tickets. The first is for going forty miles per hour in a thirty mile per hour zone. The second is for not coming to a complete stop coming off the interstate. You will find the address for the county treasurer on the back of the tickets. You may mail your check there.”

“And, Sheriff, can you tell me how much my increased insurance rates will cost?”

“Ma’am, that’s not for me to consider. I expect that next time you will be better educated about the rules of the road.”

“Well, Sheriff, I’d like to know where all the understanding cops went. You know, the ones who stop you, give a warning, then gossip about who’s in jail and who got married? You know, those ones who care when someone’s parent dies? How ’bout those ones?”

“Ma’am, I can’t be concerned with your personal tragedies. My job is to keep the people of Prairie View safe. You were driving unsafely.” She tore off both tickets and handed them to me. “You can contest these tickets with the justice of the peace, Ms. O’Hara. He’s located in the courthouse—”

“I know where he’s located, Officer, and, trust me, I will contest your targeting me on one of the worst days of my life.”

“That’s your right, ma’am. I’m sorry for your loss.” And she strode away. Didn’t even look back.