The traffic coming in both directions have diverged and are passing each other. The steady hiss of their tires and the groan of their engines shatter the silence of the night.
I have a Glock holstered to my belt. The Kimber Micro 9 is snug in its ankle holster. A switchblade is in my pocket. A coil of nylon rope hangs at my side. I’m fitted in a harness.
More cars appear coming north and south.
Magnetic clamps hang from my belt, already threaded with the rope. A special gun hangs from my belt as well, the one Atticus gave me which is loaded with tranquilizer darts.
In my ear, Atticus says, “Two miles.”
The traffic below is speeding at sixty-five, seventy miles an hour. That means the tractor-trailer—that red flashing dot marked FGT-927—is less than two minutes away.
I stand up straight. I cross my left arm over my chest, hold the stretch for a couple beats. I do the same with my right arm. I bend down, touch my toes, keep in that position for thirty seconds before standing up straight again.
I’ve done the math in my head. I know how many feet there is from the top of the bridge to the asphalt below. I know how tall the top of the tractor-trailer will be. I know how fast it will be going—Atticus is able to pinpoint it to the exact mile per hour—and I know, because I’ve done the math, just how much time I have to make the landing.
If I miss it by a second, I’m fucked.
“One mile.”
Continuing to stretch, moving my head back and forth, I think about Casey and David. I think about Zane and I think about my father and I think about Scooter and I think about Karen and for the very first time I wonder what if it had been me coming out of the porta potty, having no idea, just minding my own business and opening the door and then bam, that was it.
A car comes up over the bridge. I don’t even glance at the driver as I continue to stretch, acting like it’s normal for anybody to be standing on a bridge this time of night with the getup I have on.
“Half a mile, second lane from the left.”
A concrete guardrail runs the length of the bridge. I have to climb up, balance myself on the tiny space provided.
My toes are right on the edge. Right on the very lip.
I close my eyes. Try to picture nothing. Try to picture complete darkness.
“Quarter of a mile, still in the second lane from the left.”
I start the countdown in my mind, the miles per hour, the seconds. The five-lane highway disappearing beneath the tires. The driver crouched over the wheel in the cab, watching the road.
I open my eyes. Glance back over my shoulder. I can see it coming, right there in the left-hand lane. Completely white. Unmarked. Just like the thousands of other tractor-trailers driving across the country every day.
It’s coming, seventy miles an hour, seventy-five, and I think about Casey and David, I think about Zane and my father, I think about Scooter and Karen, and turning back so I’m facing north, my hands squeezed into fists at my sides, I take a deep breath, listen for the sound, the roar, the moment the tractor-trailer’s grille appears beneath the bridge.
And I step off the edge.
Fifty-Eight
Half a second, that’s all it takes, my body in free fall, the wind whipping at my face, and I come right down on the top of the trailer, just smack, and the entire thing is shaking, vibrating, threatening to buck me off, and my body goes into automatic, grabbing for the magnetic clamps, slamming one down on the left-hand side of the trailer, slamming the second one down on the right-hand side, and then, as if on cue, the driver increases the speed and jerks the trailer just enough that I lose my balance.
I tilt to my left, heading toward the edge, the cold and unforgiving asphalt sixteen feet below me. The rope is already threaded through the clamps, attached to my harness, and as gravity and momentum force me to the left, I reach out with my right hand, grip the taut black nylon rope, and pull myself up straight.
Atticus says something in my ear, but it’s lost in the heavy roar of wind. I have my left foot placed just in front of my right, and with both hands on different parts of the rope, the rope that is threaded through the clamps, I’m able to keep my balance no matter how fast the driver wants to take us, no matter how many times he jerks the wheel.
They know I’m here now—or at least they know somebody is here—and right this instant a unit is being dispatched to this location; the only thing the driver and the men inside the trailer need to do is keep me busy until then.
Keeping my knees bent, my hands on the rope, I start to walk backward. I draw out more slack on the rope as I go, the coil only having a length of one hundred feet, which I hope is enough.
When I reach the back of the trailer the driver jerks the wheel again, taking us toward the right, the off-bound ramp, and once again I lose my center of gravity, start to tilt to the left, but I hold on, pull myself forward, keep my feet planted.
I pause a moment, waiting until the tractor-trailer takes us the entire way up to 495, merges with the rest of the traffic. Atticus says something else in my ear I can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter because I know what it is: if the driver keeps going straight in this direction, we’ll reach Andrews Air Force Base within ten minutes.
I take a breath. Take another. Then, gripping both lengths of
