by Rick Mofina
“It’s a huge crowded place,” John said. “We could’ve easily missed her.”
“Oh God.” Grace’s stomach tightened. She rushed to her seat and reached for her phone. “I’ll call her!”
“You can’t,” Blake said. “You took our phones.”
Grace unlocked the glove compartment. Sure enough, the phones were there. She banged it shut then spotted her own handwriting on the note she’d left Riley. It had fallen to the floor.
Did she even see it?
“Turn around, John! We have to go back now!”
“I know. I’m looking for a spot to turn!”
John searched for an exit ramp, an overpass, but saw nothing but six lanes of traffic cutting a straight line across the desert.
“Why doesn’t she call us?” Grace said. “She could get to a phone and call me!”
“She’s probably mad at us,” John said.
Grace plunged her face into her hands and swore to herself. Then she rummaged through the bag of snacks until she found a receipt for the Silver Sagebrush. The telephone number was on the top. She punched it into her phone.
After several rings an automated voice mail greeting answered: “You’ve reached the Silver Sagebrush, Nevada’s largest...” Grace bit her bottom lip as the emptiness rolled by. This call was her best way to contact her daughter. “For directions, press ‘1’... For hours of operation, press ‘2’... For fuel sales and truck services, press ‘3’...”
“Oh please!” Grace said as the message tortured her.
“...the casino, press ‘4’...”
Grace squeezed her phone.
“For restaurants, press ‘5’... For the motel, press ‘6.’ To repeat this message, press the pound key. For a Silver Sagebrush customer agent, press ‘0.’”
Grace jabbed the 0 key. It rang twice.
“Silver Sagebrush,” a female voice sounding no older than Riley’s said, “this is Brandy, how can I help you?”
“Brandy, we were at the Sagebrush a little while ago and we’re on our way back because we accidently left without my daughter. Her name is Riley Jarrett, she’s fourteen.”
“Oh my.”
“Do you have a public address system?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.”
“Could you please page her, ask her to come wherever you are, so I can talk to her?”
“Hold on a moment.”
“Don’t hang up!”
“I won’t, just hold on.”
Brandy didn’t put her on hold. She placed the receiver down and Grace could hear her talking with someone then a moment later she heard the echo of Riley being paged.
“Hello, ma’am?” Brandy was back on the line. “We’ve just paged her so give it a moment.”
“Thank you so much, Brandy.” Grace exhaled a measure of relief. Then she pointed with her free hand. “There! There!”
“I see it,” John said.
Ahead in the distance they saw an opening in the dividing barrier where it was possible to make a U-turn.
John switched on the flashing hazard lights. Slowing the RV, checking his mirrors and traffic, he cut across two more northbound lanes triggering horn blasts as he came to a stop at the U-turn’s opening.
Traffic rushed by them in both directions as John read the signs posted at the opening, warning that only authorized vehicles could execute a turn there.
“Hurry, John!”
“I know!”
Grace was still holding, hoping to hear Riley’s voice, expecting her to be upset at them for leaving without her.
After waiting for a safe gap, John entered the stream of southbound traffic to the blare of a semi’s air horn, then another burst from a charter bus. Cursing, keeping his hazard lights flashing, John pressed down on the accelerator and made his way to the far right lane.
“Brandy?” Grace feared she’d lost her connection.
“We keep paging her, ma’am. We’re still waiting for her to come to the desk.”
“Maybe she went outside. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with the Friends TV show logo on it.”
“We’ll get Security on it, ma’am.”
Exceeding the speed limit, John passed slower vehicles for about a mile when out of nowhere a car blurred by the RV’s left side before swerving into their lane cutting too close in front of them.
“What the hell!” John shouted.
To avoid colliding he stomped on the brake pedal and twisted the wheel. The RV swayed, lurched wildly to one side. John wrenched the wheel to correct it but the RV veered violently the opposite way, weight shifting, tilting the vehicle, lifting the wheels from the road.
“John!” Grace grabbed a side handle.
“Dad!” Blake gripped the dinette table.
The RV left the road, tipping, throwing everything into a maelstrom hammering the vehicle to the ground as it crashed on its side.
Grace screamed.
The driver and front passenger airbags deployed, the windshield blossomed with fractures. The front dash separated, spewing components in an explosion of wires, cables and plastic shards. The interior broke apart, the sink, the fridge and counters fragmented, doors flew off, shelving fell out and ejected food and kitchenware as Blake tumbled through it all.
The RV slid along the paved shoulder at high speed, trailing a plume of sparks before stopping.
Dust settled amid the acrid smells of burning rubber and melting plastic. Fluids dripped everywhere, hissing on the hot engine.
Buried in the heap, a small voice called from Grace’s phone.
“Hello? Ma’am? We’ve made several announcements. I’m sorry, we can’t find your daughter.”
Three
Nevada
The RV’s shattered windshield crackled as it was peeled away, then a man’s face appeared in the opening silhouetted against the sun.
“Everybody okay in there?”
“I think so,” John grunted. “I can’t move.”
John and Grace were still buckled in as the RV had come to a rest on its side. But the front dash had shifted, trapping them in their seats. Reaching down, John found Grace’s hand under the deflated airbag and gave it a gentle squeeze.
She squeezed back.
“I’m okay,” she responded to the man. “Help us please—our daughter—where’s my phone?”
“Blake!” John called out.
“I’m all right, Dad. I landed on the cushions.”
They could hear Blake moving through the interior’s wreckage, maneuvering his way toward them while the sweet, maple smell of vaporizing engine coolant battled the sewer stench of the leaking black water tank.
“Try to relax, folks,” the man said. “Help’s coming.”
“Are you hurt bad, Grace?” John asked.
“I’m okay, just stuck, and bleeding a little. Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay. I’m stuck, too. I’m sorry this happened.”
“It’s not your fault.” Grace fought tears then pulled her hand away to feel around. “Where’s my phone? They were paging Riley—I’ve got to talk to her—”
“We’ll get to her,” John said.
“That truck stop is so big, John! How will we ever find her there?” Grace fought her sobs.
“Hang in there, Grace,” John said. “Blake, can you look for Grace’s phone back there?”
“Okay.”
John wedged his hand into his pocket in an effort to reach his phone, but it didn’t work. They could hear Blake lifting loose and broken things. At the windshield they could hear tense, adrenaline-pumped snippets of multiple conversations:
“...see what happened?”
“They got cut off.”
“Road rager maybe after they pulled a U-turn.”
“Lost control, rolled to t
he side.”
“I called 9-1-1...”
“Should go help those guys clear debris off the freeway...”
Amid the destruction, through the RV’s broken rear window, Blake, his shoulder throbbing, saw several motorists who’d stopped to help. People were kicking and carrying pieces of wreckage from the highway to the shoulder, while others waved away slowing cars and trucks.
Somewhere in the hum of passing traffic came the sound of sirens as the yellow emergency trucks from Clark County Fire Department and units from the Nevada Highway Patrol began arriving. First responders got to work. One of them stuck his head inside the RV.
“Everybody’s conscious?”
“Yes,” John said.
“Anyone in pain?”
“No, I don’t think so, but we’re pinned in here,” John said.
“Don’t worry, folks. We’ll get you out ASAP. I’m Mark Cook. I’m a paramedic. Don’t move at all. I see you back there, son, are you okay?”
“Yes,” Blake said. “But I can’t get out. I’m blocked.”
“No, you hang tough until we get your folks out first,” Cook said.
“But our daughter’s—” Grace started to cry. “Our daughter—”
There was a loud series of radio dispatches.
“How many people are in the vehicle?” Cook asked.
“Three,” Grace said. “We left our daughter, Riley, behind by mistake at the Silver Sagebrush. She’s fourteen. She’s alone. We need to locate her.”
More static popping with radio dispatches.
“Sorry,” Cook said, “where’s your daughter?”
“She’s alone at the Sagebrush truck stop. Please send someone to find her! Her name is Riley Jarrett, she’s from San Diego. She’s wearing a white Friends T-shirt!”
“Okay, we’ll alert Metro Police, just hang on.”
What followed was a spurt of conversations, radio dispatches, the thump and clink of equipment.
“We’ve got to go through the dash here to get to you,” Cook said. “We’ve got to hose things down first because of leaking engine fluids, then it’s going to get noisy. Whatever you do don’t move.”
Some water sprayed into the cabin, then with a deafening roar rescuers used a hydraulic cutter to work through the RV and in short time they cleared through the wreckage and extricated Grace, John and then Blake. They helped them to the back of an ambulance. All three were shaken and bleeding from cuts and abrasions. Cook and another paramedic, Laura Farrow, cleaned and bandaged their wounds while assessing them for other injuries.
“Any pain in your chest?” Farrow asked Grace, who shook her head.
“It’s my daughter I’m worried about.”
“I know. Let us take care of you first.” Farrow continued working.
“Take a deep breath for me,” Cook told John while listening with a stethoscope. “Do you remember what happened?”
“We were cut off, I swerved to avoid a crash and we rolled,” John said.
When Farrow finished with Grace, she moved on to Blake, checking his breathing, his overall condition.
“You folks are lucky,” Cook said while he and Farrow evaluated the family’s level of consciousness, signs and responses. “You got bashed around pretty good, but you don’t appear to have any serious injuries. Still, to be safe, we’ll take you to the medical center in Las Vegas for further assessment.”
“No,” Grace said. “We need to go back to the Sagebrush to get our daughter.”
Cook and Farrow exchanged glances.
“We advise that you be transported to the hospital for assessment for any underlying injuries,” Cook said.
“I’m an RN. I know the protocol. We’re not seriously hurt, and you can see by our mental condition that we’re competent to refuse further treatment and leave the scene.”
After a moment, Cook said, “All right, then you’ll need to sign a release.”
“We will and we need someone to take us to the Sagebrush right away.”
As Farrow went to the front of the ambulance for the documents, a Nevada Highway Patrol trooper, who’d been observing, spoke into his radio: “Vehicle’s been searched. We’ve got three. No other occupants.” Then, with his notebook in his hand, he approached them.
“Excuse me, I’m Michael Hicks, Highway Patrol. Looks like you’re wrapping up here. Everyone okay to talk?”
“We need your help finding our daughter at the Sagebrush,” Grace said.
“Yes, ma’am, I understand we’ve alerted Las Vegas Metro and they’re responding.”
“Thank God! We need someone to take us there now, please!” Grace said.
“We’ll look into that, but first, we have to take care of things here. I need names and IDs of the occupants, driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance.”
“I’m John Marshall.” Wincing, he reached for his wallet. “My wife, Grace Jarrett, our son, Blake Marshall and our daughter is Riley Jarrett. Most everything’s in the RV. It’s a rental.”
“My purse is in there with my phone. Blake’s and Riley’s phones are in the glove compartment and we need everything.”
Hicks nodded, reached for his shoulder microphone and spoke into it, then turned back.
“We’ll have someone retrieve those items,” Hicks said. “Now, who was operating the RV?”
“I was,” John said.
“Sir—” Hicks stared hard into John’s eyes “—have you been drinking, or using cannabis, or illicit drugs, or are you under any medication?”
“No.”
“Were there any mechanical problems with the RV?”
“No.”
“Tell me what happened.”
After John gave Hicks his account of the crash, a second trooper emerged with the items from the RV. Grace seized her phone, sent Hicks her most recent photo of Riley and gave him a detailed description of her. Then Hicks relayed the information to his dispatcher. As Hicks completed his preliminary work, Grace, John and Blake signed the medical statements for Cook and Farrow.
“All right.” Hicks had finished. “No charges at this time, but we’ll continue to investigate. Your RV’s going to be taken to our on-call tow yard in Las Vegas. You can get any other belongings from there later. Looks like it’s a write-off, so you better alert your rental company, check your policy, make arrangements for transportation. All the contact information you need is here. You folks are lucky. This could’ve been much worse.”
Hicks gave John his copy of his preliminary report.
“Can you please take us to the Sagebrush to get Riley?” Grace asked.
“Stand by. I’ll get someone.” Hicks reached for his radio microphone.
At that moment, she and John noticed that Blake was no longer with them. He’d stepped away to take a closer look at the RV, as if in awe of the crash that they’d survived. No gas had leaked out, but he watched firefighters continue hosing the wreck as a precaution. Blake looked to the south then north. An army of emergency vehicles, their lights flashing, had responded to the accident. Troopers had closed the far right lane backing up traffic, crawling bumper-to-bumper lines for as far as he could see.
Traffic in the northbound lanes slowed and people gawked.
He walked around the RV, studying the undercarriage, looking at it in silence. He glanced at chunks of the RV that had been scattered to the shoulder until he heard Grace call him.
“Come on, Blake, we’re going to the truck stop to get Riley!”
Four
Nevada
Riley Jarrett smiled at Officer Nate Rogan of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police.
After studying her photo on his phone, he turned it to Carl Aldrich, operations manager for the Silver Sagebrush.
“Just got this,” Rogan said. “I’m sending it to you.”
Seconds later Aldrich’s phone pinged. He tapped a message to go with Riley’s photo and description then sent it to every staff member and every affiliate working at the Sagebrush.
“Like I was telling you,” Aldrich said as they resumed walking briskly through the complex. “We started searching after we got her mother’s call. I put people on all the doors looking for any girl wearing a Friends T-shirt and fitting her description. This picture will help. And, we’re paging her every five minutes.”
Rogan nodded, absorbing the info.
He’d been a few miles away in Primm following up a vehicle break-in and the theft of a cell phone when he was dispatched to a possible missing person case involving a fourteen-year-old girl at the Silver Sagebrush.
Given her age and the location, they had to act fast.
As a resident officer working from Metro’s Jean substation, he’d been to the Sagebrush countless times after it opened a year ago. Still, Rogan never ceased to be amazed by its scale, surpassing all casinos, hotels and roadhouses in the area, like Whiskey Pete’s, Terrible’s and Buffalo Bill’s.
The Silver Sagebrush was one of the largest truck stops in the country.
The new sprawling complex had seven hundred truck parking spaces and another thousand for general vehicles. It had truck service bays, scales, inspection zones and truck washing facilities. It had sixty commercial diesel pumps, 160 gasoline pumps, fifty car charging stations and over twenty RV dump stations.
Aldrich and Rogan moved through its huge main building. It was noisy and active with hundreds of travelers. It housed four table-service restaurants and a food court with ten major fast-food outlets. The aroma of deep-fried food swept through the air. The complex also had a huge gift store, grocery store, convenience store, an arcade, ATMs and a pet area. There was a drivers’ lounge, auto parts supply store, a barber shop, a chapel, a public laundry, a fitness room, showers, major courier outlets and an adjoining two-hundred-room motel.
Rogan and Aldrich walked across the huge main lobby with its information desk and massive floor-to-ceiling maps and murals celebrating grand American landmarks. The chimes and jangle music of a couple of hundred slot machines spilled from the casino as they passed it.
