The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 49

                 

Sam and I hit the road to Williston. The pavement aches like bedsprings in an hourly rate motel. Isn't designed for traffic. Not this kind.

Just ask the farmer a mile back. Stuck in his pickup. Trying to turn left out his driveway. He probably lived his whole life never even looking both ways. Now he's just in the way.

You'd expect that in Minneapolis. Or, shit, BisMan. But not out here. Nothing but horizon and trucks now.

It's mostly sand trucks. I can tell from the license plates. Minnesota and Wisconsin. The fracking kicked off a sand boom in those states. Big sand mines popped up on either side of the St. Croix and Mississippi.

Lots of money in sand over there. Farmers used to complain the stuff would tip tractors. Wouldn't grow shit, either. Guess they lucked out after all.

It's got a down side, too. Who wants to live next to a sand mine? I remember reading about how mad the locals got when those farmers sold. How they pressed for mining moratoriums. So much for Minnesota Nice.

I guess they use the sand for fracking. Not sure how. But I know one thing. All those jokes about dirt farmers? The ones who could only grow dirt? You can't tell them anymore.

"Holy shit, watch out," Sam says.

I hit the brakes. The tractor-trailer in front of us careens to the right. Slips on the loose shoulder. No surprise there. Half the roads are glorified goat paths.

The state tries to keep up with it. Upgrades the roads. Builds new shoulders and ditches. But it's a slow process. A lot of the state's money – and attention – is wrapped up in abortion legislation.

The tractor-trailer corrects and swings back onto the road. Then it brakes hard. I follow suit. Looks like a water truck slipped the ditch trying to turn off the road up ahead. Clogs traffic.

I spot an oil rig in the distance. The water truck was probably heading there. Takes a lot of liquid to run those things.

"We're going to run out of gas if traffic's this bad," Sam says.

She's right. I turn the truck off. It's going to be a while.

"They'll hire anyone to drive truck out here. It shows," I say.

"This is a lot of hassle for fucking trash bags," Sam says.

"Yeah, well, meth labs won't clean themselves up," I say.

Sam cracks her neck.

"About that. We need to talk," she says.

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