Route 80, beyond Casper
They crested a hill but saw no relief.
A train of taillights choked the highway as it entered a valley, crossed it, and climbed the slope on the other side. There was nothing to do in the pouring rain except show patience, forbearance, and fortitude.
“Agh,” said Alberto.
“Easy, easy,” said Juba. At the end of their tunnel, they had found a small shed enclosing a Honda Civic, with all necessary documents, twenty-seven hundred dollars in cash, and a full tank of gas. Menendez had plotted well, knowing that if flight became necessary, a car and money were equally necessary.
Now they were on I-80, in traffic, in the rain, headed east. He was on the tail of an 18-wheeler whose trailer dwarfed him, while behind, pressing in, another 18-wheeler threatened to devour him. There was no passing, as the lane to the left was as jammed as his was. There was no exit. There was nothing to do but wait, as they crept along. Top speed: eight miles an hour.
“It must be an accident ahead,” said Alberto.
Juba said nothing. The situation was self-evident. The rain crushed downward, smearing the lights into fragments, while the old windshield wipers tried gamely to scrape it away, though to not much avail. The only reality was rain distorted, turned kaleidoscopic and fractured by diffusion. Whacka-whacka-whacka, went the blades. The old Honda coughed alarmingly now and then.
“Suppose . . .” said Alberto, almost as if he were frightened of an answer. “Suppose it’s a roadblock. Suppose they have your description. Suppose they know of me. Suppose they are looking for two Arabs heading as far away from Rock Springs as possible.”
“Suppose we spend the rest of our lives in an American prison. Suppose the FBI sends us to the Jews. Suppose we are killed. Suppose we do not go to Heaven. Suppose Allah is without understanding of our failure. And without empathy.”
“Everything you say could be true.”
“And everything I say could be untrue. Pray, brother, even if you don’t believe. That is all that remains. You are in the hands of God.”
“You are said to be a practical man. Perhaps the practical thing to do would be for you to jump out and head cross-country on foot. We can pick a rendezvous site, and if I clear the roadblock, I will head there and pick you up.”
“Outside is the one place I am not going. I have no idea where we are. I hardly speak the language. I am being hunted by all men and women with badges. No, it’s much better to wait this ordeal out, and if indeed we get to a police blockade, to bluff our way through on the strength of our excellent credentials, all of which are professional. You have a glib tongue in Arabic and Spanish, I’m guessing that you speak English as well.”
“I do.”
“Then our weapon will be your charm.”
“Right now, I feel as charming as a goat.”
“You will astonish yourself as you rise to the occasion. I know. I have been hunted as many times as I have hunted, and under the duress of being the prey, one is capable of amazing feats.”
They reached the crest of another hill. As before, what lay ahead was a long, slow transit by a barely moving convoy through the rain and the dark, across a valley, and up another hill, beyond which, no doubt, lay exactly the same.
Alberto saw it first.
“God be praised. Or cursed! Look, do you not see it?”
Juba squinted, trying to focus through the smeared light.
It was a blinking light at the top of the hill.
“Roadblock,” said Alberto.
It seemed to take hours, when, in actuality, it took hours. Finally, they edged up to the crest and could see the light just over it, casting an intermittent blaze against the low clouds, illuminating the slanting rain and the engine vapors and the tire spray.
“All right,” said Alberto, “should I drive? Should we switch?”
“No, this is fine. If it goes bad, and we have to make some kind of escape attempt by auto—we’ll almost certainly die, of course—but if that happens, we have a slightly better chance with me driving than you. I have taken many advanced courses in tactical operations, and high-speed driving is part of them. My skill might let us escape, where yours definitely would not.”
“Fair enough,” said Alberto. “I can hardly see in this rain anyway.”
And now it was here. They reached the crest, and, over it, just a few dozen yards, the commanding sign, even if its message was blurred in the cascade of water. Beyond, on the downslope, they could see the traffic speed up and separate.
Juba began to calculate the strategy he would take if escape became necessary. This old car, with its worn tires and problematic acceleration, trying to outrun speedy American police cruisers! The only chance would be to veer across the median, head in the other direction, look for a soft spot where he could get off this highway, and perhaps onto a smaller country road, and, if far enough ahead, abandon this car and head cross-country. But he didn’t like the chances at all.
“O Jesus, please show mercy,” prayed Alberto.
“You are not even of the faith!” exclaimed Juba.
“I never said I was. My father was Catholic, my mother Egyptian. I studied for the priesthood!”
“God laughs at me,” Juba said. “He sends me to death with an infidel.”
“I am, at this point in my spiritual life, quite flexible. If you want me to pray to Allah, I will happily do so. O Allah, I beseech Thee—”
“Shut up.”
With a lurch, the 18-wheeler ahead pulled free and began to speed up, and Juba knew police would be on him with their flashlights in seconds.
But there were no policemen.
There was nothing except the sign, by the side of the road, blinking furiously as it beamed its message to the traffic it had slowed to a jam in the rain and dark.
“What does it say?” asked Juba.
“It says ‘Welcome to Wyoming, Speed Limit 75.’”