I made a big show of reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. I opened it wide enough for the trooper to see the badge, then removed Corbin’s Homeland Security ID card and handed it to him. The trooper looked at it, looked at me for comparison, then looked at the ID again as if he wasn’t convinced. “What’s all this about?” Laura asked with big-eyed innocence, leaning across the console.

The trooper ducked down to get a better look at her but did not ask for her ID. Obviously this was just a preliminary check. “We got a heads-up out on a suspect,” he said pleasantly. “A handicapped guy in a wheelchair.”

I kept watching the red car in front of me. As long as it stayed within the gap-distance we were okay.

“No luck?” Laura asked.

The trooper took off his tan Stetson and frowned. “Not so far. Funny thing, though.” He waved his hat at the traffic jam. “It’s like all of a sudden every Canadian in a wheelchair decides to go home tonight.” He handed me Corbin’s ID and stepped back. “It’s like a wheelchair convention.” He put his hat back on and squared it. “Thank you, Agent Corbin.” Then he turned and waved the car behind us forward.

Laura’s dye job had passed its first test. Corbin was taller and thinner than I am, but when you’re seated behind the wheel in a dark vehicle, it’s pretty much impossible to determine height and weight. Most important, I was driving what appeared to be a standard pickup, while this guy they were looking for would be driving a specially equipped van or, more likely, be a passenger.

A wheelchair convention? Either we were in the middle of the greatest coincidence in history or there were forces at work I knew nothing about. “Now isn’t that interesting,” I mused as we finally moved forward.

“What was he talking about?”

“I’m not sure.”

But more and more, as we were absorbed foot by foot into this traffic jam, I felt like I had been transported to some kind of disabled wonderland. Once I began looking around, it seemed like every other vehicle was transporting a chair. We were in a veritable sea of SUVs and vans and modified station wagons; there were other trucks, pickups, and rented box trucks with their rear door rolled up. Another pickup slid past us in an adjoining lane; a young man was sitting in a wheelchair in its bed, engrossed in a book. “Look at that,” I said with growing excitement. I didn’t know who or how, but the community had been mobilized. “No way that can be legal.”

Laura was equally perplexed. There was a look of absolute wonder on her face, like she had just opened her closet door and discovered E.T. “You think that’s illegal,” she said, looking in her side mirror. “Wait’ll you see what’s coming.”

Seconds later a motorcycle with a sidecar squeezed past on our right; the sidecar had been modified to hold a wheelchair in place. A teenage girl wearing a crown was sitting in the chair, as if it was her throne, and as the bike passed the pickup, she waved to us with the beneficence of a queen.