Some ranging up to 800 horsepower. “Kinda rare,” I said.

“This one was freshly painted candy-apple red.”

“Subtle,” I volunteered.

“Some words in block letters. ‘Red’ something. Begins with an h maybe ‘Hell.’ ”

That got John’s attention. “Red Hell?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“No. If I did, I’d remember.” John appeared relieved to say he hadn’t seen it, as if it were more than just a truck speeding through the desert night.

“If you do, just let the Highway Patrol know as soon as possible, okay? Don’t either of you try to approach the truck or driver.” The concern in his voice was unmistakable, especially for John. “You see him coming, get well off the shoulder. You listening to me, John?”

John said he heard loud and clear.

For a moment I thought about mentioning the semi that had clipped me earlier and just as quickly dismissed the idea. As far as I knew it wasn’t a cab-over, though it might have been. I was too damn busy, half-blinded, and pointed in the wrong direction to notice its color. Its driver came at me fast, but his actual speed was difficult to judge. I decided against mentioning it because all I could really tell Andy was that I’d seen a truck.

Out of habit, I dropped our imaginary cigarette to the ground and rubbed it out with my boot. “You got a vintage red truck with maybe the words ‘Red Hell’ painted on it going over a hundred miles an hour. That’s a neon-blazing crazy. Anything else?”

“The trailer. Also relatively rare. Either a side-dumper or a live bottom, though he could change trailers.”

Both trailers were specialty jobs, used mostly for road construction or sometimes agriculture, at least as far as I knew. They were long trailers usually pulled by a three-axle tractor that unloaded to the side or had an opening beneath them that unloaded waste or aggregate of some kind. Either one was designed for a quick release and go and to keep the load from getting in the way of their tires or impeding traffic at a construction site. Unless you were on a highway where roadwork was being done or on a construction site the odds were you might never see one during daylight. Seeing one under way past dark was damn unusual no matter where you were.

Andy wished John and me a good and safe day and walked back to the white Ford F-150 pickup that served as his cruiser.

I followed him and leaned over and waited for him to open his window. When he did, I said, “I’ve never seen or heard of you pulling your service weapon, Andy, but you pull that truck over I suggest you have it drawn.”

After a grim nod, Andy said, “You know I still see that county deputy around. That scar on his face is hard to miss. And there’s more than a few more officers around wearing similar souvenirs you gave them. I never thought I’d live to see the day Ben Jones would warn a cop to be careful.”

“You still haven’t,” I said. “For the record, remember, that county jerk-off punched me in the gut while I was handcuffed. It wasn’t an intentional head butt no matter what he said. My attorney made it clear it was simply a reflex in response to his punch. Besides, that was a long time ago. And I was drunk.