never intended on being a policeman. No, not the adrenaline surges of the physical, more like the endorphin highs of higher learning.
Like when he'd received his scholarship to Princeton. No one in his family had even gone to college, much less received a scholarship. But after four years of perfect grades and an inspired letter from his guidance counselor, Princeton had tendered him the Soren Kierkegaard Scholarship in Philosophy.
Or when he'd graduated Phi Beta Kappa and slid into graduate school.
Or when he'd been offered a teaching position at Arizona State University, charged with shaping the thoughts, ethics and futures of a hopeful generation.
After passing mile marker 44, Gibb did something he'd never done before. He didn't call in. He didn't text a message. Instead, he turned everything off. The computer, the portable radio, the console radio— all turned off. He didn't need their interruption. He didn't need for something to spoil the moment.
Usually, the interior of the cruiser was alight with police technology. But as he pulled to a stop beside mile marker 43, the interior was as black as the universe Gibb saw from behind his closed eyes. He waited several moments, remembering the words he'd said on that night his life had changed, words he'd borrowed from Kierkegaard himself. The thing is to understand myself, to see what God really wishes me to do; the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die. An imperative of understanding must be taken up into my life, and that is what I now recognize as the most important thing. That is what my soul longs after, as the African desert thirsts for water. What is truth but to live for an idea?
And that idea had been responsibility.
Gibb's eyes shot open as knuckles wrapped at his window. More time had passed than he'd realized. The interior windows had begun to fog. He turned and toggled his window down. He watched as a gloved hand gripped his door and a face hove into view.
"You gonna do this?" the biker with the Fu Manchu mustache asked. "The reverend's waiting and wants to know if you’re ready."
Gibb rubbed his face. His hand came away wet with sweat. Where had he gone? Where had the time gone? He stepped from the cruiser, leaving his hat on the seat. He glanced once at the baton resting in its door sleeve, but decided to leave that alone as well. Where he was going, he didn't expect to need either.
The other two bikers were lowering the Long Cool Woman to the ground as he approached the shrine. The Burned Man stood nearby, hands clasped in front of him, head down as if in prayer. Gibb glanced towards the bus where the mourners sat facing forward in their seats, ignoring his episode. Clearly they were not his mourners.
Gibb grinned nervously. To be able to finally speak to the man he'd killed was something very significant to him—something he'd never thought he'd be able to do from this side of the shroud. He understood that his need was selfish. Redemption was a private thing.
What had changed his mind and made him seek out the Long Cool Woman was the constant wondering about Stephen Jones and whether or not the man's soul had passed to the other side. The accident had been horrifically violent. Superimposed upon the desert, Gibb watched as a phantom car careened out of control. The car twisting through the air. A head slammed against the driver-side window as geometry and torque merged. Blood plumed. Then an explosion of earth, plastic, glass and metal as what was left of the car hit, tumbled and split asunder.
They say that the soul remains at the scene of violent deaths. Gibb remembered the crash as if it were yesterday and there was no death as violent as the one that had taken the life from Stephen Jones. If the soul remained, the Long Cool Woman would help it across. If the soul remained, perhaps Gibb would be able to tell it all the things he'd done to make up for the untimely death.
The bikers finished arranging the Long Cool Woman, then backed away. As they passed Gibb on the way back to their bikes, he noticed that they seemed afraid to make eye contact.
Rev Boscoe walked to the body and gently grasped the Long Cool Woman's left hand and placed it against the shrine. He knelt beside the