“Bourbonnais,” I answer.
“What’s in Bourbonnais?”
“Olivet Nazarene University. I’m dropping off clothes for a friend’s brother.”
“What’s his name?”
I lean my head out the window. “Did I do something wrong, Officer? I wasn’t speeding.”
I see more lights flashing behind us. A second state police SUV pulls off the shoulder in front of me and backs up, basically blocking me in between the two police vehicles.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” I say.
The trooper, one hand resting on his sidearm, leans in toward me. “I’d like your permission to search the vehicle.”
“Why?”
“Do I have your permission?”
“Maybe if you tell me why. Since when is it a crime to drive to Bourbonnais?”
One of the officers from the SUV in front of me steps out and joins Officer Friendly.
“Sir, I am asking again for permission to search this vehicle.”
“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle.”
The officer opens my door like he’s my prom date, and out I go.
“Sir, I’m gonna conduct a protective pat-down for officer safety. Please turn around and put your hands against the car.”
“This is ridiculous.” I’m a threat to officer safety? But I don’t have a choice. He does a full frisk, actually tickling me under the arms.
“I’m gonna need you to take a seat in the back of that trooper’s vehicle for your safety.”
They put me in the rear cabin of the police SUV parked in front of my car, a cage facing me and passenger doors without handles. It smells like bleach, which I suppose is preferable to the many alternative odors one might experience in the back of a squad car.
The transmitter on the dash is squawking and belching out communications between troopers and dispatch. “This is 2101 responding toan 810 at a Holiday Inn off Exit 340.” “We have a possible 2410 at mile marker 311, a Ford Explorer…”
Through the rear passenger window, I strain to look at the nearby mile marker, a narrow, dark green vertical sign attached to a thin rusty post off the shoulder. The marker reads320.
My phone buzzes a text from Allison:Everything ok?
Before I can respond, the transmitter squawks again.
“Dispatch, this is 3277. We have a 2014 at mile marker 320.”
Mile marker 320. That would be me.
I erase the message I was about to send.
In its place, I type,That depends on what a 2014 is.
9
Allison
