Miller followed for two miles. The landscape rolled by, monotonous and bleak. The sky was darkening, the threat of rain hanging heavy in the air.
Finally, the truck’s right rear tire clipped the white fog line, holding it for three seconds. A lane violation. It was minor, but enough for probable cause. Miller flipped the switch.
The red and blue lights exploded into life, reflecting off the damp asphalt and the polished chrome of the trailer ahead. The blue truck didn’t pull over immediately. It continued for another 200 yards, slowing gradually before drifting onto the wide gravel shoulder.
Dust billowed up, coating Miller’s windshield. He brought the cruiser to a halt, 20 feet behind the trailer, canting his front wheels to the left. It was a safety habit designed to deflect a rear impact into the road rather than into him.
«Showtime, buddy,» Miller said to the rearview mirror.
Duke spun in his kennel, letting out a sharp, eager bark. The dog sensed the shift in Miller’s biochemistry: the spike of adrenaline, the sharpening of focus. Miller stepped out into the cool air, adjusting his utility belt.
The wind was biting, carrying the smell of ozone and diesel. He walked towards the truck, his hand resting lightly near the holster of his sidearm. He wasn’t gripping it, just aware of it.
He approached on the passenger side, using the tactical approach to keep the trailer between him and the traffic. As he passed the hay bales, he scanned them. They were massive, easily five feet in diameter, wrapped in white net wrap and secured with those yellow straps.
They smelled like sweet, dried alfalfa. Nothing seemed amiss, yet the hair on the back of Miller’s neck was standing up. It was the weight.
He could feel the heat radiating from the trailer’s brakes. They had been working hard. He reached the passenger window of the cab.
The glass rolled down with a grinding screech. The driver was a man in his fifties, wearing a stained baseball cap and a plaid shirt that had seen better days. His face was weathered, mapped with deep lines, but his eyes were wide, darting between Miller and the side mirror.
The cabin smelled of stale cigarettes and something else: acrid sweat.
«Afternoon,» Miller said, his voice flat and professional. «Sheriff’s Department. Reason for the stop is you crossed the fog line back there. You okay? You seem a little tired.»
The driver’s hands were on the steering wheel at ten and two, gripping the plastic so hard his knuckles were the color of bone.
«Wind,» the man stammered. His voice was raspy. «Wind caught the trailer. Sorry, Deputy. Just trying to get this feed to the barn before the rain hits.»
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