We were nearing Baton Rouge, speeding like steel bullets, before we came upon the next hurdle to slow us down. The scale house along I-10 was open -- only the second active weigh-station I'd had to enter since the beginning of my trip.
One of the reasons I generally try to run during the late-night hours is that most of the coops are generally closed. I had the proper permits to be hauling the overweight load strapped to my ass, but I still didn't like the idea of driving past the D.O.T. man's house when I was in such a hurry.
"Shit." I said to myself as I slowed and moved into the exit lane to approach the scale.
Since it was early evening, I had my lights on. Looking in my driver's side mirror, I saw that dragging my trailer across that truck back at the bar had taken out two of my markers. The aluminum body had creased and bent around them, pinching them until they popped. They would stop me for sure if they saw that; maybe even shut me down until I could have someone come to fix it.
The building the cops would be watching from was to the right of the scale in the road -- so the damage was on the opposite side of the truck than they would see. Still, I wasn't going to chance it... I flipped the switch to turn all my lights off, hoping they wouldn't notice and get curious about why.
Hughes didn't take the ramp to enter the station. He slowed, but kept rolling forward. I guess he figured that I would be in and out; he could simply wait until I emerged, then resume the race. Unfortunately, that was not to be the case.
Several rigs crossed the scale in front of me, slowing to five miles-per-hour, per the posted notices, and creeping across the pad at a crawl Each of them got a green light, their trucks roaring as they took the invitation to get the hell out of Dodge and sped back onto the interstate.
When it was my turn, I moved forward just as slowly -- rolling down my window as the signs around the scale advised. Neither the green nor the red light came on as I approached the signal, so I slowed even further.
This particular scale house had just one little pad in the ground that weighed each axle individually as they rolled over it. I felt the bumps when each of the tractor's axles cleared the pad, and could see in my mirror that the trailer tandems had passed as well. The weigh process was over -- but there was still no indication as to what the operator wanted me to do. At this point, the nose of my truck was lined up with the signal, so I stopped where I was.
"Driver, please back up over the pad." An official sounding man called over a bullhorn by my window.
In all my experience, I'd never been asked to actually reverse at a weigh station. I've been told to pull around back and approach the scale again, but never to back up where I was. The order was coming from a man of the law, though, so I couldn't just tell him he was crazy and keep rolling down the road. There were other rigs lined up behind me, two of which had to back up themselves to allow me the room to maneuver. I'm sure they found it as strange as I did, but -- what can you do?
When my trailer tandems were back on the pad, the man called stop... so I did. After a few seconds, he ordered me to continue back... so I obliged. He told me to halt again when my tractor tandems were on the scale, then a third time when my steers were being weighed.
Since they were clearly concerned with how heavy my rig was, I pointed at the permit in the corner of my windshield that gave me clearance to have it on the road. Apparently, that wasn't good enough. The red light finally came on, and I was asked to park the truck behind the scale and enter the shack with my paperwork.
For a fraction of a second, I considered slamming it into gear and making a run for it. There were two D.O.T. cruisers parked behind the building, though, so I wouldn't have gotten far without some resistance popping up. My haste to get to Florida might've ended in a blaze of glory, had I decided to be a cowboy.
All I could do was hope that the delay would be minor; there's no way I could sit still for long with the knowledge of what had happened to my ex-wife -- the mortal danger that Sammy was in, if he was still alive. I scanned the road ahead for Hughes and the Navigator, but there was no sign of him. He looked like he ought to be involved with some sort of law enforcement himself; I could really use him now.
After parking Big Red, I immediately got to work on my log. I hadn't made any entries at all since Van Horn and the incident at the strip club. Not enough time had passed since then for me to have legally traveled as far as I had -- that was a problem.
If I'd stuck to the eleven hours driving, ten hours down rule, I'd be parked for a nap back near the Texas border. Hiding my transgression wouldn't be possible without reworking several days worth of the log -- I figured there was no way the cops would allow me enough time in my cab to do that without coming to see what I was up to.
Hoping they were more concerned with my overweight permit than my log, I filled in that I had reached my present location in just ten hours out of Van Horn. That suggestion was ridiculous, of course, unless my tractor was capable of pulling about eighty-five miles an hour -- and that would open me up to a speeding ticket (yes, they can do that). Still, it was all I could do... I said a little prayer and grabbed my registration binder before hopping out of the truck.
As I was walking to the scale house, I noticed that my trailer was leaking something from its little drainage channels. The display on the reefer said that it had reached thirty-eight degrees inside my box -- whatever was back there was melting. It looked like water, for the most part. Christ, I wish I knew what it was...
Had I seen this dripping under any other circumstances, I would've been concerned about a potential cargo claim. When a shipper puts a load of perfectly good anything on the back of a truck, it assumes that it will arrive in the same condition on the unloading dock of their customer. Bills of lading they prepare clearly state that the trucking company is responsible for any damage that occurs to the load between point A and point B.
This is why truckers are required to carry cargo insurance; generally amounting to $100,000 worth of protection. If my unit were to break-down and cause a load of milk to spoil, my insurance would be required to pay the shipper for the loss of revenue. There's a deductible, of course, and I would generally be getting concerned about how I was going to cover the cost at this point.
In this instance, a $2,500 bill was the furthest thing from my mind as I approached the scale house. Hughes had hinted at the possibility of whatever was in my trailer being alive... what risk was there in it melting? Would it die? Perhaps worse yet, was it something frozen that might wake up when it thawed?
Even those concerns were fleeting in the face of what was happening to Sammy... this would have to be a very quick detour.
The scale house stunk of smoke, which was okay by me. There were three troopers on duty; they apparently were not the favored sons of Louisiana, as the place wasn't air conditioned at all. The heat was oppressive, slapping me in the face as soon I was in the door.
"Howdy." One of the men greeted me, stepping up to a counter that separated me from the three of them. He was wearing a pair of PD-Issue aviator sunglasses along with that silly hat that State Troopers often wear.
The other two had their backs to me, monitoring computer display as trucks rolled over the scale pad. Neither of them turned around to look me over -- at least I wouldn't be subjected to the third degree by all of them.
"Looks like you're a little heavy this evening." The man with the shades said with a smile.
"Yeah -- but I've got a permit." I replied, pulling the paper giving me authority to be overweight for this trip out of my binder and presenting it to him.
He looked it over for a second, examining all of the legal mumbo-jumbo. "Looks like it's all in order." He eventually said. "May I see your registration, proof of liability insurance, cargo insurance, and proof of authority please?"
"Sure," I said cordially, passing him the binder in its entirety.
He took just a few seconds to look over all of its conten
ts. Apparently satisfied, he passed it back. "Now your operator's license and logbook, please."
Shit... this could be a problem, I thought. I handed it over nonetheless, clearing my throat nervously. He flipped through the pages of the past seven days quickly... too quickly. At the rate he was going, he was either not really looking -- or was some kind of human calculator like you see on those late night talk shows.
"Uh-ohhhhhhh!" He said suddenly. "Looks like we've got a little problem!"
"What might that be?" I asked, trying to play it cool.
"Gee, I'm sorry." He replied. "I think I'm gonna have to shut you down for the night."
"For what?" I asked, knowing full well that my forgery was enough to earn that penalty. I didn't think the officer had looked closely enough to spot it, though, so I was curious as to what issue he took with what he did see. Why was he picking on me?
"Such a shame, too -- I hate to make drivers late for their delivery appointments!"
"I don't understand, sir -- on what grounds are you doing this?"
"You should be okay, though." He continued as though he wasn't hearing anything I was saying. "Your delivery bill here says the load's not due for several more days. You'll still have plenty of time to make it."
"Officer," I continued. "Can I get an explanation please? I know you don't care, but I have very important obligations at home that I need to attend to. I can't just sit here for ten hours because you feel like flexing the muscles of the law."
"Go to your truck, Mister Johnston. Since it's seven o'clock now, you'll be able to get going again at -- ummm -- five in the morning. We'll write up your citations now, just come in and fetch them before you roll out."
"Sir," I objected vehemently. "Please, can you at least tell me what I've done?"
"Tell 'em, Chip!" One of the other officers chimed in. "You've had enough fun with him!"
"Well, Randy." Chip said, the corners of his mouth tightening into a devious smile. "You're in a world of trouble here. There are numerous problems with you log -- you're gonna be looking at some serious fines."
"For what exactly?"
"There is, however," he began. "A way that we can work it all out without tarnishing your undoubtedly spotless driving record."
Here we go, I thought... I'd heard this before -- plenty of times, actually. It was essentially a shake-down. Turns out being a state trooper doesn't pay all that well; some of these guys rake in a little coin on the side by taking bribes from truckers when they're bent over the barrel. They're usually pretty cheap, though, in comparison to what they can cost you with a stroke of their empowered pen.
"Okay guys, I got it." I said, smiling back at the officer I now knew as Chip. "What's it gonna cost me this time? Twenty each? Maybe fifty? I can't do much more than fifty each though, just so y'all know."
"No no no no no." Chip answered. "It's nothing like that at all, Mister Johnston. We don't want your money... we've got something all together different in mind."
I was confused... if they weren't after cash, what was it? Having absolutely no idea, I asked.
"It's simple, really." He replied. "Just pull that load to Dallas, Randy... that's all you have to do!"
Chip pulled down his shades, resting them on the tip of his nose. Doing this revealed a set of familiar glowing eyes underneath, their purple depths sucking me in and shaking me to my core.
My face must've shown my shock, and Chip found my expression humorous. He chuckled coldly, pressing the glasses back to his forehead to conceal his nature once again.
"Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed, stepping back from him slowly.
"What?" One of the troopers at the computer said, spinning around on his stool, looking equally as surprised as I was. "What's wrong with you, Chip? Take his load to Dallas? Get the damn money and get him out of here so we can get another! Momma needs a new pair of shoes, brother!"
Chip turned to face his partners, his smile still wide and evil. Without another word, he drew his service weapon so fast it should've been accompanied by thunder. Before the poor soul at the computer could react, Chip had shot him right through the eye.
The second officer snapped around now, spilling a cup of coffee he was holding all over his uniform as he tried to dig out his own gun. He never stood a chance either, catching a bullet in each shoulder, and finally the head -- as though Chip had sought to paint him with the cross.
I bolted for the door, sprinting for my life. It slammed closed in front of me, though, and a beam of light danced around it that was so hot it singed my eyebrows.
"Just do it, Randy!" Chip shouted. I looked back at him in terror, his shirt and face stained with blood spatter. "We'll let you and Sammy live -- we promise!"
The room lit up brightly as a loud mechanical roar sounded from outside, drawing my eyes past the scale pad to the interstate beyond. Over Chip's shoulder, I saw Hughes' Lincoln Navigator speeding directly at the shack, grass and mud flying up behind it as it tore towards us.
With little time to react, I dove towards the wall on my right and tucked myself into a ball on the ground. The windows exploded and splinters erupted in a deadly torrent as the truck met the building with a crunch. Out of the corner of my shielded eye, I saw Chip mowed down, the counter he was standing at being toppled as well by the big black missile in a split second of chaos. The truck finally came to a halt, a good portion of the shack collapsing around it.
"Come on, Randy!" Hughes barked as he leapt from his destroyed vehicle.
The wreck had opened up an egress through which I could escape. Not wanting to risk seeing the cop rise with a chip on his shoulder, I broke for the pink daylight with my savior by my side.
I essentially flew into Big Red, reaching over to unlock the passenger door and allowing Hughes to jump inside. This was the second time he'd saved me -- taking him along seemed the only wise move to make. This would be my chance to get the answers I longed for as well; the man would be a captive audience.
Chapter 17