Slow Motion Weekend — a novel in progress
Chapter One
As far as beat up trucks went, JD King knew his old Ford wouldn’t let him down.
It wouldn’t run down much either.
It had a seven foot truck bed, a big bench seat and a sometimes disagreeable V-8 when the mornings were cold.
Which JD understood.
He sometimes felt disagreeable on cold mornings too.
Blame it on learning to sleep anywhere and anytime, or years of physical abuse that no amount of training really prepared a body to do.
Nothing a pot of coffee and thoughts of sunshine wouldn’t cure, which wasn’t necessarily the solution to a grumbly engine.
It rumbled now as he drove along the road, warm enough for the window to be down, elbow on the door and one hand on the wheel as he thought about the almost antique lineage of the truck.
The “Welcome to Ferraday” sign was the reason.
Home.
Though no home of his.
Not for twenty years.
He took a deep breath of the humid southern air through his nose.
It smelled the same.
Pine forests and pulp mill and maybe just a hint of desperation.
One of the reasons he left.
Blue swirling lights popped don behind him.
JD glanced down at the speedometer.
Forty.
He wondered if the limit was thirty five and this would be the kind of lawman that was a stickler for those five miles over.
JD eased off the gas and pulled into a parking lot to keep the road clear.
He killed the engine and put both hands on top of the steering wheel where anyone approaching could see and waited.
A moment later, the man in uniform got out of his cruiser.
No time to run the plates, thought JD.
He watched the Sheriff walk up, face hidden in the shadow of a straw cowboy hat and silver mirror aviator shades.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the Sheriff drawled. “To say Welcome Home you son of a bitch.”
What do you think so far?
