Driving in Traffick: The Victim's Story (Margret Malone Book 2)

by Nancy Cupp

  Joyce raised her eyebrows and smiled, “Don’t know yet.”

  They went inside and the officer said, “Student and trainer?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Joyce, “I’m the trainer.”

  The officer turned to Margret, “Then I need to talk to you. Do you have your permit book, license and log book?”

  “Yes, sir—I mean no, we don’t have a log book.”

  “No log book?”

  “We’re on electronic logs, we can get a printout,” offered Joyce.

  The officer flipped through the pages of the permit book and punched the information from Margret’s license into the computer. “We’re going to do a full inspection, just routine, I’ll meet you at the truck.”

  As they walked back to the truck Margret’s face was pale, “Is this bad?”

  “Did you find any defects when you did your pre-trip this morning?”

  “No—I think it was all okay.”

  “Then it’s no big deal, just follow directions.”

  When he was done inspecting everything, the officer told Margret to come inside, “We’ll wrap this up and I’ll have you rolling again in a few minutes.” They followed him inside where he printed out a report. He gave Margret her license back and gave her a copy of the report. “You have a clean inspection—good job.”

  Joyce was laughing all the way back to the truck, “You can breathe now Margret.”

  “That was good—right? Scared me to death.”

  ☙

  Once they were rolling again Joyce said, “John wants us to have this load in Denver by tomorrow. He says the customer needs it as soon as possible.”

  “We can’t get that far by tomorrow can we?”

  “We can if I drive all night.”

  “Won’t you be tired? When are you going to sleep?”

  “I’d have to try to sleep a little today while you drive. Do you think you can handle it? It gets pretty flat after this, and I’ll be right in back if you need anything.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’ll call him back and let him know we’re going to try it, but I’m not going to promise anything. If we get too tired, we stop. Go ahead and listen to the radio, It won’t bother me.”

  After she called John back, Joyce crawled into the bunk and fastened the bunk restraint over herself. She lay there awake, noticing every click of the signal, every touch on the brakes, and every curve in the road.

  Margret was nervous at first, but soon she started to relax. She was on open highway and the terrain was flat so all she had to do was drive. She started to watch the scenery more because she wasn’t as self-conscious when Joyce wasn’t watching her every move. She had some light rock on the radio and enjoyed the drive.

  A few hours later Joyce had finally dozed off, but she woke up quick when Margret had to slow down for some road construction. She tried to sit up to see what was happening and got all tangled in the bunk restraint.

  “You okay back there?” asked Margret when she heard the commotion.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Road construction.”

  Joyce got back in the passenger seat. “Looks like you’re doing all right up here.”

  “Yeah, this isn’t too bad. Did you sleep?”

  “A little. It’ll be time to switch drivers soon, you can pull into a truck-stop so you can get something to eat and then we’ll switch.”

  Margret struggled to park between the lines in a spot with no other trucks near her. “That’s good enough for now, we won’t be here long. Be sure to set the anti-theft,” said Joyce.

  They had dinner and got rolling again. Joyce was armed with an extra-large coffee, so she could drive all night. Margret stayed up for a while, but found herself nodding off shortly after dark. “I’ve got to go to bed, I’m getting tired.”

  “Good, because you’ll have to drive again in the morning. Pull the curtain so the headlights don’t keep you awake. You’ll have to sleep on the bottom, it’s safer, and use the bunk restraint. Let me know if the radio bothers you, I’ll keep it turned down.”

  The hum of the motor and gentle sway of the truck soon lulled Margret into a deep sleep.

  8

  Kansas City

  Bruce drove back to Kansas City. It was after midnight and he sat parked in his car with the windows down at a truck-stop. He took a long drink of soda and munched a hot dog while he watched trucks come and go at the fuel island. Wrappers and cans littered the floor of the car and a cigarette burned in the ashtray.

  He toyed with the three sets of keys he had with him. I could just go, the hell with Arnold. I’ve got, he thought about it for a minute,—twenty-five bucks. Shit. Why didn’t I cash the check and keep some?

  “Hey sweetie, ya want some company?” A rough looking woman stuck her head in the passenger window.

  “Huh? No,—I’m busy.”

  “You don’t look too busy for a little sugar.”

  “No—get outta here.”

  “How ‘bout a smoke then?”

  Bruce shook a cigarette out of the pack and held it out for her. She took it and leaned in the car for a light. “You doin’ a drug deal?”

  “No, go away.”

  “Just tryin’ ta be social.” Bruce watched her hips sway as she sauntered away.

  ☙

  Joyce stretched her stiff arms and hands, cranked her neck to one side, then the other. She fiddled with the radio knob trying to find something to keep her interest. She tried munching on potato chips, and lifted her empty coffee mug for the third time, already knowing it was empty.

  I’ve got to find a place to stop and pee, and then I need more coffee. Why did I let John talk me into driving all night? He knows I hate these all night drives. I bet this isn’t a hot load, I think he just wants to rack up the miles. The more I drive—the more he makes.

  Joyce slowed as she approached a small rest area. There were trucks parked all the way out the driveway and onto the shoulder of the highway. She tried to see if there was a spot to park, but then accelerated, knowing there wasn’t at this time of the night.

  She grumbled to herself, “All I want to do is pee. Cripe, it’s forty miles to the next truck stop.” She drove on for another twenty miles, doing everything she could think of to distract herself from her need to pee and to stay awake.

  She hoped she wasn’t keeping Margret up, she didn’t want her student driving tired tomorrow. I don’t know how I’m going to cope with trying to stay awake enough to help her. Bright lights glared from the oncoming traffic, adding to Joyce’s irritation.

  Maybe I should just pull off on the side of the road; I’ve got to stop or I’ll wet my pants, she thought. Joyce’s left knee bounced up and down as she jittered around trying not to think about it.

  The shoulders of the highway were dark and narrow, and it was against company policy to park there unless it was an emergency. It would be a dangerous thing to do, she’d be a sitting duck just waiting to get hit. With the heavy load they were carrying, it would take a long time to get back up to speed when she pulled back on the highway. Just too dangerous, only ten more miles…

  As she whizzed by, Joyce read Kansas City, five miles. Good thing the truck stop is on this side of the city, or I’d never make it. She spotted a light from the truck stop sign, far ahead. It was a welcome orange and white beacon with red and green fuel prices blinking. She rocked back and forth in the seat, “Come on, come on, just a little further.”

  Joyce downshifted for the exit ramp. Impatiently, she had to wait for a red light at the top of the ramp. She drummed the steering wheel, willing the light to change. The truck-stop was packed. She knew it would be, but she didn’t intend to park anyway. She pulled up to the fuel island, then drove straight through and stopped, as if she had just bought fuel.

  With a quick glance behind the curtain, she saw Margret sound asleep. I’ll be back in a flash, she thought as she slammed the door and hurried off to the bathroom as quickly as she dared.
>
  With great relief, Joyce sat in the tiny stall. She really wanted to just sit there a while, now that she could relax, but she knew she had to move the truck. It wouldn’t be long before it would block another driver from leaving. Joyce washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face, hoping it would revive her. She got another cup of coffee and headed out to the truck.

  She walked past two trucks, that weren’t hers, wondering why she didn’t park closer. She switched the steaming coffee to her other hand, to save her burning fingers, carefully avoiding the slippery spots of diesel on the pavement. At the far end of the row of fuel pumps she stopped and turned around. Damn, I must be tired, I walked right past her. She walked back, paying attention this time.

  It’s not here. Margret must have got up and moved it. Joyce instinctively patted her pockets for the keys. Jeez, I even left my keys. She glanced around thinking she’d see her truck waiting in an open drive through area. When she didn’t she shook her head, damn student, drives for three days and thinks she can park in a lot like this. God, I hope she didn’t hit anybody, that’ll keep us here all night filling out reports.

  Joyce searched up and down the rows of parked trucks sipping coffee and grumbling. She was wide awake now. This is not worth the extra hundred bucks a week I get for training. I’m calling John tomorrow and telling him I’m not doing it anymore, he can get somebody else to train his new drivers. Joyce patted her empty pockets again for her phone. I can’t even call her to find out where she’s parked. I left my phone in there too.

  Finally, she spotted a familiar red truck with her company’s logo, Hometown Carriers. Joyce’s hand was almost on the door handle when she glanced at the number on the fender. Damn, wrong truck. She threw the dregs of her lukewarm coffee on the ground and started to circle the lot again.

  ☙

  Margret half woke up when she heard the truck door slam. She thought about rousing her self enough to get out with Joyce to use the bathroom, but moments later the door slammed again and the truck was rolling. Margret rolled over and went back to sleep.

  A little while later, she woke to the heavy beat of rap music. Joyce must really be struggling to stay awake if she’s listening to that stuff, thought Margret, pulling the pillow over her ears. She fitfully tried to sleep through the loud, angry lyrics. She thought about asking Joyce to turn it down, but decided against it.

  The smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the heavy curtain into the sleeper compartment. So Joyce made a big deal about no smoking in her truck, but she smokes anyway, thought Margret. Does she think I’m so stupid I won’t notice? What about me, why should I have to breathe her smoke. Just because I’m a student doesn’t mean she can just ignore my needs. Angrily, Margret unbuckled the bunk restraint and flung open the curtain, “Joyce…”

  The truck careened to the left and there was a scream, it yanked back to the right, knocking Margret to the floor. The tires howled on the rumble strip at the edge of the highway. There was the blast of an airhorn when they swerved left again, almost side swiping another truck. Papers and snacks cascaded down from the shelves above and groceries slammed against the door of the lower cupboard.

  Margret sat on the floor holding her head where it had bashed into a sharp corner. Hard braking threw her forward again.

  “Who the hell are you?” It was a man’s voice yelling above the din of the radio.

  Margret screamed, which brought on another bout of swerving, and cursing. She braced herself, then crab walked backwards into the sleeper area, terrified and confused.

  “Get up here where I can see you,” he ordered.

  Reluctantly she got in the passenger seat and belted herself in. “Where’s Joyce and who are you?”

  “Shut-up,” Bruce slammed his fist on the steering wheel, his mind was spinning. He never thought there could be another driver in the truck. He’d just been congratulating himself on how slick and easy it was to swipe the truck. When he saw the driver run into the store he jumped on the chance. She damn near handed it to him. He couldn’t believe his luck to find the keys in it.

  But now, this—woman, what was he going to do with her? Just put her out on the side of the road? It would just bring the cops sooner, and he wasn’t no killer. Arnold would know what to do with her. Hopefully, he wouldn’t take too much of a beating for bringing her.

  Margret softly started to cry, her head hurt. When she touched it, she could feel warm sticky blood oozing from the wound. “Wha…what are you going to do—with—me?”

  “Shut up—I gotta think.” He shut off the radio, for that Margret was grateful. It was just starting to get light out and he looked over at her. “You hurt? You got some blood…”

  “I’m—all right,” she managed, gulping air between sobs.

  “Aww—dammit. You ain’t gotta cry. I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to ya.”

  He drove on, trying to come up with a plan, but eventually he had to take a break. He pulled to the shoulder of the road in an area where there wasn’t anything but open fields.

  “I’m going out to take a piss—don’t try anything—or I’ll shoot ya!” He had no idea how he’d do it since he didn’t have a gun, but he hoped she wouldn’t test the idea. He flung both Joyce and Margret’s phones out the window and took the keys with him.

  Margret used the opportunity to relieve herself, and quickly pulled on some jeans and a proper shirt over her pajamas. At least she felt a little less vulnerable with more clothes on. Her truck key was still in the pocket of her jeans, but Bruce was back before she could use it. She found her glasses on the floor where they had fallen, and put them on.

  He gave her a hard look when he got back. “I told ya not to move. You drive, so I can watch ya.”

  Margret took the driver seat and started to log into the Zonar.

  “What the hell ya think you’re doin’ with that thing?” He grabbed it away from her.

  “I just have to log-in and do my pre-trip.”

  “Just drive, you ain’t doin’ no pre-trip,” he handed her the key.

  Margret started the truck and jammed it into first gear. She ground every gear as she pulled back onto the freeway.

  “Christ, where did you learn to drive?”

  “I’m just a little nervous.” Margret hoped like crazy a weigh station would pull them in for an inspection.

  Bruce tossed the Zonar out the window, smashing it on the pavement. Margret’s hopes fell. She knew the Zonar was the tracking device for the truck; without it, the company couldn’t locate them with satellite.

  She drove slowly until Bruce realized all the other trucks were passing them. “What do you think yer tryin’ to pull?”

  “Nothing—I jus…”

  “Mash on it—now!”

  “Mash—what?”

  “Floor it, get going, and don’t try nothin’ else.”

  Margret accelerated to the full sixty-five miles per hour the truck would do. She was feeling like she might cry again. Her head hurt a little, but mostly she was scared. As she passed under an over-pass she noticed a bit of faded blue graffiti on the bridge post. She didn’t catch what was written, but the next bridge had it too. “Trust Jesus,” it said.

  Okay—okay I’ll be all right. Just think. What should I do? Try to be friendly? Make him think I’m on his side? Get needy?

  “Um—I’m Margret by the way.”

  “What—shut-up!” Bruce scowled at her and then continued to look out the side window. A few minutes later he softened up, “Bruce.”

  Relaxing, Margret brushed the mop of hair out of her eyes and adjusted her bent and drooping glasses. She felt the crusty dried blood on the side of her face. “Ah—Bruce, there are some baby wipes in a container somewhere over there. Could you give me one please, so I can clean off this blood?”

  Bruce looked around through the stuff that had fallen off the shelves and found the wipes. He handed one to Margret. He watched her clean up, “That looks better, you got a pretty good gash though.�
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  “Thanks, it’ll be okay. Look—is that stone they’re using for fence posts?”

  “Yeah, they’ve been there for a hundred years or more. There weren’t any trees around here so settlers cut and used the native stone that’s every where.”

  “Sounds like you know all about Kansas. Are you from around here?”

  “Yeah, I grew up—never mind. Just keep driving.”

  They rode in silence for a while. Margret’s stomach was growling and she needed some coffee. “Are you getting hungry Bruce?”

  “Yeah—but we ain’t stopping.”

  “There might be some food in the back, Joyce always cooks in the truck.”

  Bruce didn’t say anything and they rode in silence for a while until there was a sign for a rest area. “Pull in there, you’re gonna cook me something.”

  Margret dug around in the rubble left from their near accident. She found Joyce’s hot pot and the eggs. Two of them were smashed all over the cupboard, but she found enough to make soft boiled eggs and some instant coffee. Bruce ate a granola bar while he waited, and seemed to appreciate the coffee and eggs. Margret felt better after eating too.

  “Any chance I could go use the restroom?”

  “Don’t try anything, I’m going with you.”

  The only other vehicle at the rest area left. Margret knew there would be no one to rescue her in the bathroom, but maybe she could leave some kind of message behind. She slid a pen into her back pocket when Bruce wasn’t looking.

  “What’s in your back pocket?” Bruce noticed the pen when they walked to the restroom, and to her dismay also discovered the key she had. He gave her a shove toward the ladies room door, then surprised her when he followed her in. “Do what you gotta do, I’m right here by the door. You ain’t goin’ anywhere. I oughta just knock ya in the head and leave ya here.”

  Margret heard the sound of a car outside and it gave her a little hope. As they were leaving the restroom a woman pulled open the door. Margret looked at her imploringly, trying to convey her predicament with her eyes. The woman was startled to see Bruce in the ladies room, but then smiled when Bruce put his arm around Margret’s shoulders. “Don’t worry honey, you’ll feel better soon,” he said.