by Nancy Cupp
Bruce was standing outside the door when she stepped out into the fresh air. He was still sleepy and walked her back to the truck in silence. In the distance they could see the highway disappear into the mountains. “Are you okay driving through the mountains?”
“I think so, Joyce showed me how to use the Jack-Brake.”
“Jack-Brake?” Bruce laughed, “What’s that?”
“I mean Jake—Jake Brake.”
He couldn’t keep from laughing, and soon they were teasing each other about their inexperienced driving. Margret tried extra hard not to grind any gears when they left, and was almost successful until she scratched the last one. “Dang, I was trying to show you how smooth I was.”
“Oh you’re smooth all right,” he laughed, “you and ‘ole Jack.”
Margret smirked, thinking how pleasant he could be, when he wasn’t trying to be tough. The highway started up a long slow grade, and she downshifted smoothly for once. “See, I’ve got this.”
“I’m stayin’ awake for a while anyway. What goes up will have to go back down eventually.” He grinned at her, “I want to make sure Jack stays awake too.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to end up like the wreck we saw this morning. I wonder what happened there?”
Bruce was suddenly serious, “I don’t know, but it got to me. I’ve never actually seen a truck wreck like that before. You talkin’ about trailer ghosts and stuff made me think about my Dad.”
“What happened to him?”
“Arnold tells me he’d been up for days and he was trying to make a haul overnight that should’ve taken three days. They got caught in a snow storm in the mountains, and went over the edge.”
“Oh jeez—I’m sorry to hear that. It must’ve been hard on you,” she said. “Arnold was with him?”
“Yeah, I’m still not sure, but it might have been Arnold driving. He didn’t have his license yet, he was too young—but the old man used to make him drive sometimes when he got tired. That’s how Arnold got his limp, he was messed up bad from the wreck.”
They entered a narrow canyon, and the highway twisted between high rock walls. Margret slowed down, and tried to remember everything about driving on a steep downgrade. Soon other trucks were backed up on the highway behind them. “Okay, Jac—Jake brake on, gear down, stay off the brakes.” She could feel the heavy load pushing them from behind. She muttered, “Stab-brake, watch the RPMs, stab-brake. Don’t shift on a down grade.” They could hear the rumble of Jake-Brakes from a dozen trucks echo off the walls.
One truck passed them, keeping up with the cars zooming through the tight curves. “Damn, that guy’s nuts,” said Bruce. They could see tail-lights as the driver rode the brakes on the steep down grade. “Can you smell it? That’s his brakes burning.”
Traffic on the up-hill side slowed to a crawl as heavy trucks labored in low gear to climb the steep grade. Margret was aware she was slowing down traffic, but it was all she could do to navigate the tight turns. She knew better than to try to go too fast. Several cars whipped around her, cutting close in front as they got back in the right lane. The warning device blared each time as the cars sped away. “Jeez, I wish they wouldn’t do that,” said Margret, she wiped her sweaty palms one at a time, keeping a white knuckle grip with the other hand.
When they emerged from the canyon and the grade leveled out, Bruce said, “Nice job, it was really cool in the canyon. You could see the river way down below when we crossed the bridge.”
“I wanted to look, but I was too afraid to take my eyes off the road,” laughed Margret as she shifted to a higher gear.
“The signs said it was part of Zion National Park, the Virgin River Gorge. It would be fun to look around there sometime.”
“Maybe in a car,” she laughed.
They hadn’t gone far when an open weigh station pulled them in to weigh. Neither of them were laughing now. “Do this right,” warned Bruce. It looked like every truck had to park, drivers were going in with log-books and papers. Their turn was no exception. “Just ignore it, go back on the highway.”
“I updated my log-book, I’m legal. It’ll be less trouble if we just let them look at it, if they chase us down we’ll get caught for sure. Did you fill one out?”
Bruce looked panicky but he relented, “Don’t screw this up, they better not get suspicious.” He found a stub of a pencil, grabbed his log book, and made a few entries to up date it. “Okay—lets go in.”
Inside, a long line of drivers waited while DOT officers looked over log books and BOLs. There were only three drivers ahead of them when one officer said to the other, “Hey quit pulling them in, it’s almost quitting time, and I’m getting out of here on time today. I’m shutting down my computer.” Bruce nudged Margret to move over to that officer’s line.
“Team drivers?”
“Yes, sir,” said Margret.
“Let’s see your log books and BOL please, we’re just checking paper work today.” The officer glanced at the clock and then quickly fanned through both log books. He asked for their driver’s license. He gave Bruce’s a quick look, but studied Margret’s a little longer, comparing her picture with her face. “Margret Malone—you must have gotten a hair cut,” he said, “okay—you’re good to go.” The officer stood up, putting on his cap, “I’m outta here—see you Monday Joe. I’ll collect on the bet then—my team wins it all tomorrow!”
Margret stood there for a moment, not able to comprehend how her name didn’t trigger some kind of alert. Bruce gave her a gentle shove toward the door, he looked visibly relieved when they got outside.
Margret wasn’t sure how she felt, she didn’t want anything to happen to Rosa, but she thought they’d be detained when her name came up. Surely she’d been reported missing by now. How was it possible she wasn’t noticed? The officer didn’t even question the bruises on her face and arms, as if it was common for bruised and battered women to pass through.
Bruce called Arnold on his cell. “Hey Bro… yeah things are going good, we’re just getting to Las Vegas….She ain’t givin’ me no trouble…got right past the DOT, they don’t suspect nothin’…”
She drove across a little corner of Arizona and into Nevada, despair was starting to set in when she saw it again. Painted on a bridge support just outside of Las Vegas, Trust Jesus was written in blue paint. Margret drove on wondering about who wrote the message on so many bridges, over such long distances. How could they even do it without getting caught or run over? It didn’t really matter, it gave her the courage to hang on.
17
Investigation
Martian Malone got out of his car with a stack of books under his arm. He glanced around the nearly deserted college campus where he worked. Students were on summer break, except for the few that stuck around for summer classes. Huge trees shaded the walkways and carefully manicured flower gardens added splashes of color.
“Hello Mr. Malone,” said a student from his last semester class. He nodded to the student, but didn’t stop to talk like usual. He couldn’t bear to make small talk, nobody knew the pain he was in.
He’d just come from the police department where he’d been interrogated for more than an hour. They wanted to know more about his daughter, Margret. Where was she? Had she called, who were her friends, had she been acting differently lately? He answered honestly, he didn’t know.
He had contacted them first, when she quit answering her phone. They weren't very interested then, when he said she hadn’t called. Now they were all over the case, apparently she’d disappeared along with the truck and a million dollars worth of freight. The police suspected her of the theft.
Her cell phone was inactive, he had called it so many times it was almost a reflex action. He even woke up at night with his phone in his hand, her number ringing with no response. The last time they spoke, she said the new job was going all right. She was excited when she left, learning something new and challenging.
He dropped the books on his big oak des
k, and sat perched on the edge of a thickly padded chair, head buried in his hands. He thought back to last fall when Margret managed to stumble on a murder case. She got home safe after that, but maybe she did get involved with some kind of weird friends.
☙
Joyce was doing her best to make the orientation class she was in charge of interesting. She showed endless safety videos and collected reams of forms as new drivers filled them out.
Her patience was getting thin, she’d answered the same questions about health insurance over and over while bored drivers dozed off in the back row. “Who can tell me why it’s important to set your anti-theft device every time you get out of the truck?” She looked around the room, she could have been talking to herself.
Finally, a guy who looked fed-up with the whole orientation thing, said, “So you don’t have to fill out a bunch of paper-work?” That answer brought volleys of laughs and smart remarks.
“So you don’t have to walk home?” There was more sneers and laughter.
“Well, now that you mention it,” said Joyce, “both of those are pretty close to the truth. Let me tell you a true story that happened to me…” She told how she’d lost her truck and a million-dollar load,“So the reason you need to set your anti-theft device every time is so you don’t get stuck teaching this class.”
The guys had been listening while she told her story, most of them had never thought about the possibility of getting robbed. There were mumblings,“It couldn’t happen to me,” said one guy.
“It was an inside job.”
“The student drove off.”
“Lets take a break guys, be back here in a half-hour,” said Joyce. The class filed out of the claustrophobic room in search of a place to light up. Joyce followed them out, then went to talk to John.
“Hi Joyce, how’s the class going?”
“Boring, I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. Any word about my truck?”
“Nothing—it’s like the thing fell off the edge of the earth.”
“What’s her name—Margret, she hasn’t turned up either?”
“Nope. I did get a call though, corporate transferred it through. The guy says he’s her father. He was asking about you, wanted to know if you were a suspect.”
“Am I?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why am I teaching orientation class?”
“I thought you were thinking about retirement.”
“I’ve had a few days off, and you know—I’m a driver. I need to know what’s going on out there.”
“I’ll talk to them again, would you take another student?”
“I’d rather teach orientation for the rest of my life.”
“Okay, but we really need trainers…”
“No.”
“All right, I get it. Do you want to talk to this Malone guy—Margret’s dad?”
“Not really, but I’ll take his number just in case I change my mind. Ya know, she really didn’t seem like a bad sort. She was just kind of naive, maybe that’s what makes her a good thief.” Joyce turned to go back to class.
“Joyce—do you think somebody like Margret would have the confidence to steal a truck?”
She thought about it for a minute, “Maybe she’s a good actress?”
☙
Joyce leaned back in her recliner watching television. Her small apartment was nice, but she really hadn’t done anything to decorate. There were no pictures on the walls and she didn’t have a lot of furniture, only odds and ends she got at the Goodwill. It didn’t seem important to fix up the place; she spent most of her time in the truck—until now.
She’d have time for friends again now that she’d be home for a while. Joyce thought about her friends. They’d kind of moved on without her. Of course they’d be happy to hear from her, but she didn’t fit in anymore. They were all couples and she was alone.
She fingered the phone number in her pocket. I wonder what this Malone guy knows. Maybe he’ll slip and say something that will lead to—something. She fiddled with the paper for a few more minutes, then muted the TV.
“Hello, Mr. Malone?”
“Yes?”
“This is Joyce Hart. I was Margret’s trainer when she—uh…”
“Yes,—have you heard something?”
“Um—no, I was hoping you could tell me something, like—I don’t know, where she could’ve gone?”
There was a short pause, then a deep breath. “Ms. Hart, I assure you, my daughter did not steal the truck. She’s just a young woman trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life.”
“Look Mr. Malone, I didn’t know her very well. We were only in the truck together for a few days. They—Hometown Carriers, aren’t telling me anything about the investigation. Right now I think they suspect me of something—they aren’t letting me drive.”
“I see. Has anyone considered a third party may be involved here?”
“I—um, I don’t know. They would’ve had to be watching and waiting for an opportunity…Oh my God—there was a guy; I saw him get out of an old beat up car, and he was going toward the fuel island when I went in…”
“What kind of car? You have to remember! Did you report it?”
“No, but I will. It was kind of gold colored, I don’t know much about cars.”
“Do you have internet? Could you identify it if you saw a picture?”
“I guess so—yes, I can go to the library for internet. Let me look on there and I’ll get back to you. Mr. Malone?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. Your daughter, Margret—she was—is—a nice girl.”
“Thank you, please identify the car. And write down everything you remember about the man you saw, and report it to the police. And call me if you think of anything…”
“I will Mr. Malone.”
Joyce got out a notebook and tried to write a description of the man she saw. Long brown hair, nice looking, young, thin, jeans. She dropped the pen on the paper, what she had just written described about half the population, and she didn’t even know if he had anything at all to do with the theft. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to go to the library.
Then she was mad again. Dammit, I’d have internet now, if my laptop wasn’t in the truck.
Joyce was late for work the next day because she spent so much time at the library trying to identify the car she’d seen. She decided it was a gold, ’98 Chevy Malibu, kind of rusty.
John was trying to keep the guys in the orientation class from wandering off. He was pretty annoyed when she finally got to work. Joyce explained things before he could unleash on her, “It’s not much, but it could turn into a lead.”
“Put in another safety video to keep these guys busy, then call the cops, or detectives, or whoever you got to call. Good, maybe we’ll get you driving again soon,” said John.
A few days later the Kansas City Police pulled up behind a rusty Malibu, parked at a Wal-Mart. They found a women sleeping in the back seat.
“Good morning Ma’am, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She sat up and with a thick voice said, “Well I know I wasn’t speeding…”
“Could we see your registration and license please?”
“You got a cigarette?”
“No, ma’am. Do you have a registration card for this car?”
“Well, let me see, it could be around here somewhere.” She reached over the front seat and pawed through cans and trash. “Maybe in here,” she opened the glove compartment. “What would it look like?”
“Is this your car ma’am?”
“Um—yeah, a nice young man gave it to me. I’ve been using it to go to work every night.”
“He gave you his car?”
“Yeah, he didn’t want it any more. See, I got the keys right here. You sure you don’t have a smoke?”
“Where do you work ma’am?”
“Oh—lots of places, at the Pilot, Loves, Flying J. I like to circulate a
little, this here car helps me get around better, good for business.”
“Can you describe the man who gave you the car?”
“Humm, young fella, he had black, no—brown hair I think. You gonna take my car away?”
“The car isn’t reported stolen. We’d appreciate it if you could help us identify the young man who gave it to you. Do you remember where you were when he gave it to you?”
“Well, damn! It’s my lucky day, ain’t it. I think I was at the Flying J, that’s where I used to do most of my business.”
The officers finished their interrogation. They ran the plates on the car and found it registered to Clara Lade. She’d died a couple months ago. The car and all her belongings went to her sons, Arnold and Bruce Lade.
That’s where the trail ended. They could find no new address for either of the sons, both of them were still listed at the rented house their mother had. They’d quit renting there and left no forwarding address. Neither of them had a motor vehicle registered and they didn’t use credit cards.
The attorney handling Clara’s will had no information on the boys either. All he could offer was that Bruce was planning to go into business with his brother, somewhere in Colorado. Their father had been a truck driver and he thought they were going to buy a truck.
“The two of them may have had enough to buy a truck if they pooled their money together, but they didn’t get much. I deposited Arnold’s money in his bank account and the other one picked his up.”
“Where was it deposited?”
“I can’t give that information, but the bank was here in Kansas City.”
18
The Nuke
They crossed into California and Margret slowed down to fifty-five. “What are ya doing?”
“Speed limit is fifty-five for trucks,” said Margret.
“Aw, they ain’t gonna stop us out here, ain’t nothin’ but desert.”
“Do you really want to mess this up because of a speeding ticket? Arnold would be pissed.”
