Before Munson could respond with further hostilities, the motorcycle rider pulled around them, moving into the opposite lane and was nearly struck head-on by a truck driver who laid on his horn and narrowly avoided hitting him. Seemingly unperturbed by his near death experience, the biker gunned his engine and passed Munson and Darcy as if they’d com to a full stop.
“I always heard the drivers in Detroit were nuts,” Munson said.
“We’re far from Detroit, Munson.” She stared through the windshield and frowned. She’d experienced a brief moment of déjà vu when the biker passed them but had no idea what could have caused it. It wasn’t important. She just had to make sure she avoided any uncomfortable situations while she was here.
They reached Detroit a few hours later, still much too early to go snooping around public offices. Munson wisely decided they needed to get some rest and followed his GPS to a three-star hotel in the town of Hazel Park, a blue collar town known for its women still sporting Eighties hairstyles and pick-up trucks adorned with rebel flags. However, this time of night it was a rather quiet place, deceptively peaceful, in fact, The only other traffic they saw consisted of two guys with long hair rockin’ out to hopelessly outdated hair band metal in a slow-moving Seventies-era Buick Skylark and the cop who decided to harass them.
Munson raised an index finger and thumb as he passed them and let out a loud, “Whooooooo!” Darcy laughed and playfully hit him in the shoulder.
Munson smiled. “I can feel my IQ points dropping into NASCAR fan levels.”
“I wouldn’t expect a man who believed in all of humanity’s right to know the truth to be such an elitist.”
“Who’s an elitist? I’m just rockin’ on with my bad self.”