“Afternoon, ma’am,” he says. “Are you all right? Is there a problem?”

“No, sir, no problem,” I say, giving him a sweet smile. “I’ve been driving for a while and just needed a moment to stretch my legs. Sorry if I shouldn’t have parked here.”

He peers in, sees my duffel bag in the rear, maps in the seat next to me.

“Are you traveling by yourself, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

He steps back, and I think, All right, that seems to be it, and then he leans back in.

“Could I see your license and registration, please?”

Hancock sees the woman is in her midthirties, dark hair, tanned skin, and she’s smiling and being cooperative, but something just doesn’t seem right to him. He can’t put his finger on it, but something just seems…off.

He had been ready to send her on her way, but now he wants to dig a bit.

“License and registration?” she repeats. “Certainly. My registration is in my glove box, my license is in my purse.”

“Very well, ma’am,” he says, stepping back and putting his hand on his holstered .357 Glock Model 31 with fifteen rounds. “Take your time.”

Which is a very polite way of saying no fast movements, keep your hands visible, and if this Jeep had been filled with skinny tattooed meth heads, that’s exactly what he would have said.

So why is he talking this way to this single woman?

Because his gut tells him to do it.

He keeps a close eye on her hands as she opens a large black leather carrying bag, and she takes out a small purse, snaps it open, and passes over her Virginia driver’s license and an Armed Forces identification card.

He puts them aside and watches very, very carefully as she opens the glove box—always being ready in case something comes out besides a slip of paper—and yes, out comes a little green plastic folder, and from that, she pulls out the Jeep’s registration.

Now it makes sense, as he examines the two IDs and the registration, all in the name of Amy Cornwall. There have been lots of vehicle stops where Hancock had to wait while the driver dug and dug through a pile of papers, napkins, and ketchup containers, looking for his or her registration, like some impatient and deranged archaeologist.

At least this gal has her act together.

He holds up the paperwork and says, “Just give me a couple of minutes, ma’am, check things out, and then I’ll get you on your way.”

From my side-view mirror I watch him amble back into his cruiser, and right now, lots of options, plans, and arguments are bouncing around my increasingly overwhelmed mind.

The biggest problem facing me is if I’m listed in the National Crime Information Center system as an Army deserter. That only happens after I’ve been AWOL for thirty days or more, but with that damn Afghanistan investigation hanging over my head like a hundred-pound sack of cement, that might have changed. I’ve also blown off a meeting with a CID investigator and pissed off my CO—Lieutenant Colonel Denton—so who knows if I’m in the system or not. Having angered the official Army police and my commanding officer might just have put me in the NCIC system last night.