"I pride myself on knowing every professional driver who comes through Pine Hollow," he said, closing the gap with measured steps. "We're a close community, God-fearing people who look out for each other." He gestured toward a black SUV idling nearby. "Perhaps we could discuss your concerns somewhere more private."
"I've filed my complaint," Immani replied evenly. Van's smile didn't waver. "Complaints can be such formal things. Cold paperwork doesn't solve problems like a good conversation can."
He lowered his voice to a confiding murmur. "Besides, I'd hate to see your rig held up by inspections. They happen so randomly these days. Department of Transportation's very thorough."
From the corner of her eye, Immani spotted Mina Dwarte partially hidden behind a courthouse pillar, phone raised discreetly. Smart woman. "Is that an offer or a threat, Sheriff?" "Now, why would you take it that way?"
Van spread his hands, the picture of wounded innocence. "I'm trying to help. These roads can be dangerous for outsiders who don't understand local ways." "I understand plenty," Immani said.
"Do you?" His eyes hardened slightly, though his smile remained fixed. "Because from where I stand, you seem like someone about to make things harder than they need to be." Immani met his gaze steadily.
"Harder for whom?" Van chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You drive safe now," he said, turning away. "God bless."
The walk back to the truck lot took ten minutes. Immani's rig sat exactly where she'd left it. But something was off. A patrol car rolled past slowly, the deputy inside making a show of checking his phone.
Near her trailer, fresh bootprints marked the gravel. When she got closer, she saw it. Someone had photographed her cargo seal, documenting it for whatever story they planned to tell later. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into Preach's Auto Shop.
The old mechanic waited by the bay door, expression grim. He waved her around back, out of street view. "They're watching," he said as she killed the engine. "Been driving past all morning."
Inside the shop office, Preach poured coffee into Styrofoam cups. His hands were grease-stained but steady. "County uses these roads like their personal ATM," he explained. "Traffic stops, civil asset forfeiture, mysterious fines that vanish if you know who to pay."
He settled into a creaking chair. "But it's more than money. They target folks who don't fit their idea of who belongs here." "How long?" Immani asked.
"Got worse when Van took office. Man talks Jesus but practices something else entirely." Preach glanced out the grimy window. "You eaten today?"
Immani shook her head. Preach pulled a sandwich from a small fridge, wrapped in wax paper. "Not much, but it's clean," he said. She'd just taken her first bite when the siren started.
Red and blue lights strobed through the window glass, painting the walls in emergency colors. Car doors slammed. Heavy boots crunched on gravel. "Pine Hollow Sheriff's Department! Anonymous tip about suspicious activity."