I didn’t count it, but there were bundles totaling in the millions. More cash than I’d seen in my life. I flipped through one of the bundles just to get a sense of it, but quit counting after I hit three hundred grand. Now, there are some things I know, and more that I don’t understand— but I can guarantee that no one will find the body I buried under the oak. He’s out there in a Georgia field, adding to the landscape—beautiful in its own way. He’ll be there beside that dirt path long after my days on the road have ended, long after guys like Jimmy Poppa have had their way with the world. But I doubt he’ll care. And I doubt Jimmy will ever find the rig, parked inside a shipping crate bound for the sea lanes of Saudi Arabia. And, most certainly, Jimmy Poppa—whoever he is—will never find his money, or me. I’ll be on the road in some unmarked car, bound for the outback destinations I’d driven by a thousand times but could never stop to visit. Places not on any map. Roads they don’t talk about in town. Greasy spoons inhabited by people who wave at truckers and welcome them home with bottomless cups of coffee and warm conversation. People who don’t care where you come from, or where you are going—only that you are there for the moment before taking to the road again. I should know. I’ve been there. I drive safely. I don’t ask questions. It’s a big country.
33