Free Remote Feed by David Gilbert Page B

except the Enterprise is cold and empty and boldly going nowhere.
    Up ahead, the emerald of a road sign—"Dillon, 75 miles"—and the first thing that pops into mind is the actor Matt Dillon playing
     the lawman Matt Dillon in a movie adapted from the TV show. This high concept puts Saul at ease, temporarily.
    Out of the blue and with soundless pursuit, the flashing red of a Montana State Trooper appears in the Porsche's rearview
     mirror. Saul, exhausted yet determined, doesn't notice the approaching lights—he only has nine more miles left until Dillon,
     then he'll stop and have breakfast and maybe take a nap and think about things. "Reevaluate" is the word he's looking for,
     but at this moment he can't find any word over three syllables long.
    After a minute of being ignored, the siren wails.
    "Shit." Where did that come from? No billboards to hide behind, no trees or blind turns; everything is within sight. Saul
     clicks on his hazards—a blatant attempt at ingratiating himself with the law—and eases onto the shoulder, decelerating gradually
     and with professional care. His adrenaline, on hold for the last ten hours, now cuts loose with a torrent of epinephrine.
     Palms begin to sweat. Throat fills with saliva. And a sense of a greater guilt washes away any chance of presumed innocence.
    A trooper with the prerequisite sharp hat and mirrored sunglasses and mustache ambles up to Saul's window, his left hand casual
     on the butt of his revolver. "Hi there," he says. His relaxed manner is threatening in a Southern way: corrupt affability.
    "Hi."
    "License and registration."
    "Here you go." Saul hands over his documentation. "For some reason, I thought there wasn't a speed limit in Montana. Read
     it in the paper or something."
    The trooper smiles. "That isn't quite true. It's discretionary. If it's open road and no traffic, I'm not going to stop you
     unless you're being a real idiot. But in other circumstances I might pull you over for going seventy. Truth is, I can decide
     anything I want."
    "Oh."
    "You been driving long, Mr. Messer?"
    "Since I was a kid."
    "I mean recently, Mr. Messer."
    "Oh, I see. Yes, all the way from California."
    "Where you going in Montana?"
    Saul sees a possible opening. "Well, I'm not sure," he says. "I'm kind of here to scout locations for a project. I'm in the
     movies, business side, you see, and I'm trying to find a nice town, a charming town, a town that has a certain flavor to it.
     Do you know any?" This schmooze often works, sometimes getting him the best hotel rooms at half price.
    "Anaconda's nice. Do you have any drugs in the car, Mr.
    Messer?"
    "No. Nothing."
    "Any weapons?"
    "No."
    "What happened to your finger?"
    "Broke it. Slammed it in a door."
    "Ouch! Gotta hurt. Do you know why I stopped you, Mr.
    Messer?"
    "Not really."
    "You were going forty-five miles per hour in the left lane. That's a bit slow for this highway. Can be dangerous to other
     vehicles. We do have a minimum speed in this state."
    Saul nods. "I guess I'm tired," he says.
    "You look it." The trooper straightens, pulling himself up by the belt. "I'm going to go and run your name through the computer,
     see what comes up, then I'll come back and tell you what's going on. Okay?"
    "Sounds good."
    The trooper leaves, and Saul watches him in the rearview mirror: in the front seat of the squad car, head down, hands typing,
     eyes reading. The computer. What's being spat up onto the screen? Maybe a few parking tickets, speeding violations, a DUI
     from twelve years ago, that's about it. Nevertheless, Saul grows worried, and the longer he waits—ticktock ticktock ticktock—the
     more he becomes convinced that something is in fact wrong. Has the registration expired? Have all the fines been paid? Is
     there an outstanding debt? Has your wife filed a missing person report? Did the studio discover your slight history of embezzlement?
     Is screwing your assistant a form of sexual harassment? Does an incidental