four cans of a caffeine-loaded energy drink with a ridiculous name, and a large bottle of artesian tap water.
Back in the truck, Wallace tossed his groceries on the seat beside him and studied the dash-mounted GPS. By zooming out the map, he was able to scout the area around the border without accidentally displaying his hand and setting off any “suspicious vehicle” alarms.
It didn’t take long to find a spot that appeared perfect for what he had in mind.
Following the GPS directions, Wallace kept to the east side of the interstate. At 6 th Street, he turned north and then west again on C Street. There, he drove into a seldom-used parking lot behind a large rectangular warehouse with a corrugated steel roof.
The gravel lot was bordered by a shallow grass verge that overlooked the I-5 and offered a clear view of the border patrol headquarters.
Wallace slowly turned the truck around and reversed into an out-of-the-way spot under a neglected huddle of trees on the edge of the grass.
He stayed parked for awhile with his back to the view. His palms were sweating and the back of his neck itched with the need to turn around, to locate the guard, to get some answers —
He fought the impulse and stuck with his plan, sitting in silence to make sure his presence didn’t warrant any undue attention. If a nosey patrol car came by, he would need to move fast.
Fortunately, there didn’t appear to be anyone working inside the warehouse or patrolling its grounds. On the far side, where gravel turned to tarmac and the lot butted onto 2 nd Street, cars came and went at a large Pac Can Duty Free, but everyone there was too focused on a last chance for discount liquor to even glance in his direction.
Before today, Wallace’s biggest crime had been disobeying company policy and refusing to pick up certain unstable passengers with a track record for violence. The courts may have ruled those individuals still had a right to ride the bus, but when a fellow driver could no longer do her job because of the severe beating she received over a 25-cent shortage in fare, Wallace — and most of the other drivers — believed the judges could go fuck themselves.
Alicia had worried about him. About the increasing violence that made driving a city bus more dangerous than most people realized. He had always tried to assure her that he could handle himself.
And he had.
But how were they to know that danger would arrive through a different door? A door that neither of them even knew existed.
Wallace rubbed his face. He didn’t want to think anymore. He needed to act.
After sliding out of the cab, Wallace quickly moved his supplies into the open-air cargo area and lowered the tailgate. Next, he unfurled the canvas tarp and draped it over the truck bed, anchoring it on each side to a series of welded hooks. He left the rear flap hanging loose. When he was done, he took one last look around, lifted the flap and crawled underneath.
The truck bed became a hunter’s blind, cold and damp but perfectly disguised by its normalcy.
If he’d had more cash, Wallace would have bought a sleeping bag and waterproof mat. With the RCMP looking for him, and his illegal status on this side of the border, his credit card was useless. But, then again, with comfort came sleep. And he couldn’t afford to close his eyes — even for a second.
Lying on his stomach and using his elbows for support, Wallace lifted the skirt of the tarp and focused powerful binoculars on the rear entrance to the border headquarters situated less than eight hundred feet to the north.
On the far side, out of his line of sight behind the building, border guards questioned their share of the 250,000 people who wanted to enter the United States from Canada every day. If they suspected anyone of trying to smuggle contraband across the border, or they just wanted to be jerks, they sent them to the search and seizure stalls on Wallace’s side of the building.
Wallace was assuming the
Back in the truck, Wallace tossed his groceries on the seat beside him and studied the dash-mounted GPS. By zooming out the map, he was able to scout the area around the border without accidentally displaying his hand and setting off any “suspicious vehicle” alarms.
It didn’t take long to find a spot that appeared perfect for what he had in mind.
Following the GPS directions, Wallace kept to the east side of the interstate. At 6 th Street, he turned north and then west again on C Street. There, he drove into a seldom-used parking lot behind a large rectangular warehouse with a corrugated steel roof.
The gravel lot was bordered by a shallow grass verge that overlooked the I-5 and offered a clear view of the border patrol headquarters.
Wallace slowly turned the truck around and reversed into an out-of-the-way spot under a neglected huddle of trees on the edge of the grass.
He stayed parked for awhile with his back to the view. His palms were sweating and the back of his neck itched with the need to turn around, to locate the guard, to get some answers —
He fought the impulse and stuck with his plan, sitting in silence to make sure his presence didn’t warrant any undue attention. If a nosey patrol car came by, he would need to move fast.
Fortunately, there didn’t appear to be anyone working inside the warehouse or patrolling its grounds. On the far side, where gravel turned to tarmac and the lot butted onto 2 nd Street, cars came and went at a large Pac Can Duty Free, but everyone there was too focused on a last chance for discount liquor to even glance in his direction.
Before today, Wallace’s biggest crime had been disobeying company policy and refusing to pick up certain unstable passengers with a track record for violence. The courts may have ruled those individuals still had a right to ride the bus, but when a fellow driver could no longer do her job because of the severe beating she received over a 25-cent shortage in fare, Wallace — and most of the other drivers — believed the judges could go fuck themselves.
Alicia had worried about him. About the increasing violence that made driving a city bus more dangerous than most people realized. He had always tried to assure her that he could handle himself.
And he had.
But how were they to know that danger would arrive through a different door? A door that neither of them even knew existed.
Wallace rubbed his face. He didn’t want to think anymore. He needed to act.
After sliding out of the cab, Wallace quickly moved his supplies into the open-air cargo area and lowered the tailgate. Next, he unfurled the canvas tarp and draped it over the truck bed, anchoring it on each side to a series of welded hooks. He left the rear flap hanging loose. When he was done, he took one last look around, lifted the flap and crawled underneath.
The truck bed became a hunter’s blind, cold and damp but perfectly disguised by its normalcy.
If he’d had more cash, Wallace would have bought a sleeping bag and waterproof mat. With the RCMP looking for him, and his illegal status on this side of the border, his credit card was useless. But, then again, with comfort came sleep. And he couldn’t afford to close his eyes — even for a second.
Lying on his stomach and using his elbows for support, Wallace lifted the skirt of the tarp and focused powerful binoculars on the rear entrance to the border headquarters situated less than eight hundred feet to the north.
On the far side, out of his line of sight behind the building, border guards questioned their share of the 250,000 people who wanted to enter the United States from Canada every day. If they suspected anyone of trying to smuggle contraband across the border, or they just wanted to be jerks, they sent them to the search and seizure stalls on Wallace’s side of the building.
Wallace was assuming the
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