The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-two

Molly and Doug were making good time on the long empty stretch of highway between Sheboygan and Milwaukee. Rolling hills and farms shimmered as the morning frost burned away beneath the endless embrace of blue Wisconsin sky. Deer peeked cautiously from clusters of autumn woods flanking the gray two lane ribbon of highway. Molly was looking out the window, sort of leaning against the door. Her gaze was distant, brow furled as she fought with Moon’s death, and if she might have done something differently to save him. Doug reached over and laid a hand upon hers, in a feeble effort to comfort her somehow. She looked over at him, struggling to smile, rescued by his touch. She held his hand in hers, filling them both with a warm rush of electricity.

“You’re not afraid?” she asked.

“For my girls, for my country…” his words faded away. Doug’s eyes were fixed upon the road ahead, as if it was some sort of metaphor.

Molly squeezed his hand. She could see herself loving him.

“Think we’ll make it?” she asked.

“Hope so.” He drew his hand away. It still felt like a betrayal to Molly that he should have these feelings for another woman, and so soon after Jane’s passing.

“If there’s still enough time.”

“That’s life,” he said, hoping to break the tension of the moment somewhat. “All about the timing, when to stay in and when to pull out.”

“Seven billion people on the planet,” Molly observed, managing a smile.

“So obviously timing is not humanity’s strongpoint.”

“So what’s this company’s connection to Iran?” she asked.

“Still trying to figure all this, but the best I’ve come up with is that somehow First Thrust is, I don’t know, some sort of operations wing for Shosa.”

“And the Nano-weapon angle?”

“Delivery?”

Operations, delivery and security all in one package,” She said.

Doug nodded thoughtfully, straining at the missing parts to the puzzle, parts he either couldn’t figure, or which were so terrible he refuse to accept them. Lost in all this he failed to notice the Wisconsin State patrol car half hidden behind the pylon of an overpass. Doug spotted the cruiser coming up fast in the rear view mirror, and had a sudden sinking feeling at the mars lights came on. He swore under his breath. Molly noticed too, straining her neck at the rear window.

“Best laid plans,” he muttered.

“Pull over and let me handle this,” said Molly.

Doug pulled the Ford off onto the shoulder, but left the motor running. It grumbled and skipped, and fought to keep from dying altogether. Doug doubted, even if the cop let them go, that they could make it to Chicago.

The cop approached cautiously, resting hand on the .45 at his hip. He was middle-aged, and of average height and build, with neatly trimmed blond hair. A pair of mirrored sunglasses beneath a wide-brimmed hat made him look ominous and omnipresent. He paused at the back of the Ford and glanced into the back. The man came up just shy of the cab, leaning warily across Molly’s window until he could see Doug as well.

“Afternoon,” he said dutifully. “Where you folks headed?”

“Chicago. I’m a Federal officer,” said Molly, out of deference to the officer pointed to her jacket. “I’m going to reach for my ID.”

The cop nodded. “Please, ma’am.”

“I’m working an investigation,” she reached for her badge. “I could use some courtesy here.”

“Are you armed, ma’am?”

“I am,” she said. “My service weapon.”

“I appreciate you honesty,” said the cop. May I have both your IDs? I’ll need to verify…”

“Can’t do that,” Molly cut him off.

“Sorry?”

She motioned to Doug. “This man is a murder suspect, but at the moment he is critical to my case.”

She slipped her Bureau ID card from her pocket and handed it over to the officer. He studied it a moment, never once taking his hand off his weapon, his eyes moving continuously between Molly and Doug. When a second cruiser pulled up the officer relaxed a bit.

“Why don’t we step back at my vehicle, Agent Karaman, and continue the conversation where it’s safer?”

Doug watched as Molly conferred with the two officers. He could tell nothing from their faces, and by rights expected to be arrested. And that would be the end of it. The war would begin, like a monumental tidal wave obliterating all reason and perspective, for there was only one thing to do in an inundation: swim desperately for life.