Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

The truck leaned too far all the way around the curve, and Gramps overcorrected, sending the squealing pigs slamming into the panel on the truck’s opposite side, and causing more weaving. Then the truck stopped askew at the bottom of the ramp. Stalled out. Gramps sat there without restarting for much too long.

Another old truck was abandoned on the right shoulder, blocking Gaspar's escape route. "Doesn't anybody tow these heaps outta here?" Gaspar griped. He began tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel. “Come on, Gramps. Time to turn. Only two choices. Right or left. Pick one. This is not brain surgery.”

Eventually Grandpa leaned over and opened the passenger door. His big blue dog leapt out and ran around the back of the truck, right in front of the Crown Vic. When they saw the dog, the squealing pigs ratcheted up the volume to ear-splitting levels.

“Oh, man, Gramps, what are you doing?” Gaspar said.

Kim said, “Have a little patience, Speedy Gonzales. The dog had to take care of business. He’ll be right back. Gramps will move along. That truck has carted a lot of pork in its day.”

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” Gaspar said.

Kim felt the transmission shift into park and heard him unlatch his seat belt and open his door. He left the keys in the ignition, which caused the alarm bell to chime, chime, chime.

After the fourth annoying reminder, she opened her eyes.

Chime.

“What are you doing?”

Chime.

She saw that Gramps had exited the truck on the driver’s side. Chime. He stood on the exit ramp’s narrow shoulder, truck door standing open, and called to the dog.

Chime.

“Where are you going?”

Chime.

“To help the old guy find the dog so we can get on the road. If somebody comes down that ramp in a hurry, we could be slammed.” Chime. “You might want to get out.”

She watched him walk toward Gramps until the truck blocked her view. Then from the corner of her eye she saw a car, maybe fifty yards away, up above ground level. An old green Chevy, parked off the shoulder on the median weeds between the highway’s fast lanes, pointing north. In the no-man’s land between the southbound exit ramp and the northbound entrance ramp at the other side of the cloverleaf. The hood was up. It looked like it had been there a while. She didn’t remember seeing it before. Not surprising. Old cars off the road were so commonplace they were practically invisible. She'd noticed at least ten on the drive from Atlanta. Probably more she hadn't seen.

The old man’s dog had found the Chevy. The crazy hound was bouncing around like he wanted to play. With what? A car? Kim didn’t know much about dogs. She knew some liked to chase cars. But what did they do when they caught one?

She called out, “Gaspar? The dog is over by that green car. I can see him from here.”

If Gaspar answered, the squealing pigs drowned him out. Where was he? She got out of the Crown Vic and walked down to the truck, holding her nose because of the pigs. She saw Gramps standing with one foot on the rusted runner, the other on the ground, leaning on the open door, looking across the truck’s hood toward the Chevy.

She followed his gaze and saw Gaspar up there, bent over, looking into the disabled Chevy’s dim interior. The dog jumped up and down, ran around in circles, acting crazy. He barked a few times for good measure.

Kim hurried a few feet upwind from the pigs, released the grip on her nose, pulled her phone out and dialed Gaspar’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Is this Roscoe’s turf?”

Kim glanced around, didn’t see any city limit signs on either side of the ramp. What was it? Maybe fifteen miles into town?

“We’re a long way from the Margrave station. Why?”

Gaspar stood up and faced her across the distance. Vehicles passed between them on the southbound lanes, fast noisy blurs of color.

Gaspar said, “There’s a dead man in this car.”

Gaspar said, “I hope this is Roscoe’s turf, because we have to call it in to someone, and I’m not thrilled about going another round with the Georgia Highway Patrol right now. Are you?”

And right then the boss’s cell phone began to vibrate in her pocket.

“Bring the dog back,” she said. “Get rid of Gramps. I’ll figure out who to call.”

She disconnected and then opened the boss’s cell and winced when it pinched her hand at the base of her thumb. She looked down and noticed a crack in the phone’s case, and she wondered how she’d cracked it. She raised her thumb to her mouth to lick it, and raised the cell to her ear, and watched Gaspar take off his belt and wrap it through the dog’s collar as a leash.

“Agent Otto?” her boss said.

Gaspar started back with the dog.

“Yes, sir.” Traffic noise made it hard to hear him. She covered her opposite ear with her palm and tried to concentrate on his voice alone.

“Are you standing in plain sight of the Chevy?”

How did he know about the Chevy? She looked skyward as if she could locate the satellite he was using to spy on them. The traffic cam directly overhead wouldn't have been within his control, would it?

She said, “Yes, sir.”

Two eighteen wheelers roared past with the whine of tires and a howl of wind. She couldn’t hear her boss. Sounded like he’d said, “Get the hell out of there.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll take care of the traffic cam. GHP is on the way. I don’t want you within ten miles of that car. You haven’t been there. You haven’t seen the Chevy. You haven’t seen what’s in it. Under any circumstances. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

But she didn’t understand why he'd tell her to leave the scene of an accident. Not at all.

“Be in Roscoe’s office when they call about the Chevy. You’ve got less than six minutes to get out of sight. Move.” He disconnected the call.

“Yes, sir,” she said again, to the dead air, no chance to ask more questions.

Gaspar had covered about half the ground, pulling the gyrating dog. The dog jerked hard and Gaspar slipped on the gravel and fell to his knees. He got up again and the crazy hound jumped and pulled back toward the Chevy. Gaspar held fast to his improvised leash and kept on coming. Kim put the phone in her pocket and hustled toward the old truck. Gramps was still standing on the shoulder, watching his dog, awaiting its return. His pigs were squealing louder than ever. Kim gagged on the stench. How in God’s name could Gramps stand that smell?

“Sir, I’m sorry,” Kim said. Gramps cupped his hand around his ear. Kim yelled to be heard over the traffic and the squealing. “We’ve got an emergency here. My friend will be right back with your dog. Can we get your truck off the road here so we can get moving?”

The old guy smelled nearly as bad as his pigs. Kim gagged again. The greasy eggs she’d barely tasted an hour ago didn’t want to stay down. She swallowed twice, three times. When the old man failed to budge, she yelled, “OK?”

Gramps flashed a big, toothless grin. “Sure, honey. Anything you say. You’re a cute little thing, you know that?”

For a horrified second she thought he might touch her. If he did, she’d have to burn all her clothes. She stepped back. Smiled at him. Cajoled him toward the driver’s seat with gestures.

“Start your truck,” she yelled.

By the time Gramps got settled and moved his truck out of the way, Gaspar had returned with the leaping dog. He placed the dog inside the cab with his appreciative owner. Kim tapped her foot while Gaspar stood with his head inside the truck’s window, unable to break away from Gramps undying gratitude, wasting precious seconds. She listened for sirens; couldn’t hear any. But a silent approach was more likely than a noisy one. GHP would be here any moment. They had to leave.