American Justice

by J K Ellem

  It was days like today that drove her to the edge, and she was over it. She’d had enough of rude passengers, demanding and inconsiderate mothers and their screaming children, and old men who ogled her ass as she walked down the aisle or her breasts when she leaned forward to place a meal down or pass them a drink.

  She’d had enough of forcing a permanent smile on her face while passengers hurled abuse because there wasn’t enough leg room or the onboard Internet was slow or they’d run out of the pasta dish so the salad dish would have to do. She just kept calm, took a deep breath, and smiled while grinding her teeth and silently screaming. It was all she could do to stop herself from strangling some of them.

  She didn’t mind men staring at her ass. She thought she had a nice ass, but in a few months she would hit thirty. She had her mother’s West African heritage and her father’s British ancestry.

  Twenty-four hours ago she was in Rome, enjoying the sights of Vatican City. She had just completed a transatlantic haul through London Heathrow to New York. She then boarded a domestic flight to Utah. While she’d enjoyed Rome on her day off, she’d take her own home town any day over the noisy, dirty streets of Rome.

  She cut across a row of cars in the staff parking lot and walked to the farthest end where she had left her 10-year-old VW Golf. This part of the lot was deserted and the lighting was limited but she found her car easily. It was slightly dirtier and dustier than when she had parked it, but she couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel and go home.

  Jessie dug her keys out of her handbag, popped the trunk, and loaded her luggage. Suddenly she felt the blade of a knife pressed into her side and a hand grab her roughly around the arm.

  “Don’t breathe a word,” a man’s voice hissed in her ear before she was pushed violently against the driver’s door. “Open it and get in. You scream, you die.”

  Jessie looked sideways to see if there was anyone else around—someone, anyone who could help her. In the distance she saw other flight crews wheeling their luggage through the parking lot but they were at least a hundred yards away, with their backs to her, walking away from her. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a security cart driving along the road but that, too, was heading away from her, the security guard’s attention toward the terminal and not her.

  Noticing that she was desperately looking around for help, the man let go of her arm and grabbed a fistful of her hair at the back of her head. He twisted it savagely, jerking her head straight. “I said open the door and get in, bitch.”

  Jessie gave a muffled cry, then fumbled with the handle before opening it and sliding into the seat. The man let go of her hair, opened the rear door and slid in behind her, then slammed his door shut and roughly pulled her head back against the headrest. Jessie felt the blade pressed against the side of her throat. “Start the car and drive toward the exit. Slowly, not fast.”

  Jessie nodded as best she could. “Where are we going? Where do you want me to drive to?”

  The man hesitated for a moment, surprised by her response. She seemed calm and composed, not frightened. Most women would be a crying whimpering mess, tears running down their face, begging not to be hurt or killed. But instead she asked him in a calm, composed manner where should she drive to.

  “Do you have a gun in the car?” he asked. After all, it was America.

  Jessie shook her head and replied flatly, “No. I have no weapons in the car.”

  Good, another clear, decisive response, the man thought. She would go far. It would look better if he had a passenger in the car in case he was stopped, and he didn’t like driving. “Get onto the highway and head south.”

  At the automatic exit Jessie swiped her crew pass and the barrier lifted. She drove cautiously along the road, keeping to the speed limit. As she drove along Terminal Drive, her eyes scanned the road and intersections, hoping to see a police car, but there was not one in sight.

  They passed floodlit acres of rental cars, freight facilities where forklifts scuttled back and forth loading trucks, storage warehouses, and vacant industrial land.

  Taking the flyover, Jessie peeled left onto the interstate, heading east past a string of airport hotel chains, their neon signs bright and colorful in the darkening sky.

  After a few miles the exit for the I-250 came into view. The man told her to turn off and she obeyed. He had a predetermined route to his destination.

  Jessie followed the interstate as it curved in a long wide arc to the right before joining the Belt Route where she accelerated and merged into the steady flow of evening traffic heading south and away from the airport.

  Traffic streaked past, drivers grim-faced, eyes focused on the road ahead, rushing to get home or to get somewhere, too preoccupied to notice the woman alongside them in her car, a dark shape crouched behind her holding a knife at her throat.

  Jessie’s heart sank as the city skyline came into view in the distance to her left, a glittering outline of skyscrapers and squat buildings in the foreground, the dark line of mountains in the background.

  She looked longingly at the city vista as it slowly slid past before finally shrinking from view in her rearview mirror. She knew she wasn’t going to see her home anytime soon, maybe never again.

  As they drove farther south, the traffic expanded, and so did the hopelessness Jessie felt in the pit of her stomach. She felt small, lost, and unnoticeable amongst the hundreds of cars that swirled around her.

  Then her heart skipped a beat as the dark shape of a police cruiser slid up beside her then edged in front.

  Finally! Will they see me? she thought desperately.

  The knife pressed a little harder against her neck as she watched the cruiser pull ahead in the traffic.

  Hope dissolved into tears.

  But she was a fighter, had been all her life, and she refused to give up. She was going to fight, even if the man had a knife at her throat.

  With resolve, she gripped the steering wheel harder. She had to fight because he was going to kill her no matter what. After all, she had seen his face. He wore no mask or hood, but she almost wished he had.

  4

  It was a large truck. She could tell. The headlights were bigger than a car’s, throwing a wide band of bright light across both lanes of the highway, growing in the twilight, slowly coming toward her, the large shape outlined by the truck’s running lights.

  Melanie Harris leaned out onto the road and raised her thumb, the glare brighter with each passing second, the dark shape growing bigger, bearing down on her. Melanie hoped that the driver would stop. She had been walking along the road for an hour now. It was steadily getting dark and her cowboy boots weren’t made for walking.

  He saw her on the side of the road in the distance, standing in the twilight all on her lonesome. He touched the brakes, the speed bleeding off, and down-shifted slowing the truck some more. She wore cut-off denim shorts, a plaid long sleeve shirt, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat tilted back. She looked good, real good. But it was too soon and he fought the urge to slow the truck further. He needed to keep going; he had a deadline to deliver his cargo. His mind struggled, torn between common sense and uncommon urges.

  His foot held steady on the gas pedal, keeping a constant speed but slower than what it had been. He licked his lips, his mouth dry, his tongue thick and restless in his mouth, as he watched her grow in size through the windshield. He tried to imagine what she would look like, down in her most intimate parts. Sweet and juicy, all pink and glistening between those long legs, fuzzy like a summer peach behind the shear fabric of her panties, a line of dampness perhaps. His arousal grew so much that he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

  Stop or keep going?

  His cautious side told him to press the gas pedal down, to keep going; it was too risky this soon after the last one. The demons in his mind told him to slow down, pull over, and tear her apart there and then. He gritted his teeth and inhaled, holding his breath, trying to fight the voices off. But they were just as
restless as him.

  “Kill her. Fuck her. Kill her then fuck her,” they whispered in his ear, their evil tongues twisting around his confused brain, taunting him, driving him insane. He wanted to tear her skin, swallow her whole, release her soul. It needed releasing, like the other woman’s had. How else was she going to experience salvation?

  Then she leaned out into the traffic and raised her thumb, the setting sun behind her outlining the curves of her body, the shape of her legs, the tendrils of hair waving in the breeze.

  She could hear it now, the deep rumble growing louder as the truck bore down on her. Then gears shifted, the pitch of the engine changed, and the truck began to slow, finally pulling off the highway and onto the dusty shoulder, massive wheels crunching on the gravel.

  Thank God. Melanie tipped her hat back, swooped up her backpack, and stepped back as the huge truck slid off the asphalt toward her. The main cab of the semi pulled up perfectly in line with her hip. She climbed onto the steel step over one of the gas tanks to look through the open window.

  “Where ya heading, little lady?”

  The man was old. Maybe in his sixties. Gray hair and beard, ponytail, kind eyes, almost fatherly. He looked a bit like Willie Nelson, and Melanie loved Willie Nelson. He was heavy set with powerful shoulders, not thin like Willie. His large rough hands gripped the wheel, worker’s hands, scarred and nicked.

  “I’m heading to Vegas,” Melanie said hopefully.

  The man seemed to be thinking. Finally he said, “That’s where I’m heading, little lady. Do this trip three times a week.”

  Melanie beamed, she couldn’t believe her luck. She was hoping to get to the next major town. But a ride all the way to Vegas was like Christmas had come early for her. She might even be able to catch a few hours’ sleep as well and wake up refreshed.

  “Climb in,” the man said.

  Melanie swung open the door, slid into the big comfortable seat, and slammed the door shut. She turned to the man, “I’m Melanie, but people call me Mel.”

  The man swiveled in his seat and held out his hand. His eyes twinkled, warm and assuring, crease lines at the corners as he smiled.

  Melanie shook his hand. It was huge, meaty, like a bear’s paw. Her hand was small and doll-like in his massive palm; he could easily crush her fingers like dry twigs.

  “I’m Sam. Pleased to meet you, Mel.” Melanie smiled. She felt safe with him, like she could trust him. His eyes, his voice, deep, calm, and reassuring. She liked how he called her “little lady.” She liked that a lot. She was a lady and she wanted to be treated as one. Frankie, her now ex-boyfriend, called her a lot of things but never a lady.

  A few minutes later they were heading southwest at a smooth sixty-five miles per hour. The mountain ranges in the distance rimmed in burnt orange as the sun faded and darkness spread across the sky. For the first time in a long time Melanie was feeling good about herself. Things were starting to look up for her and the new start she had wished for so long was finally beginning to happen.

  As she settled in for the drive ahead she looked around the interior of the cabin. She couldn’t believe how nice and clean it was, really looked after, better than the flea-ridden shit-hole she had spent the last six months in with Frankie. The seats were spotless, no marks, or tears, like they were brand new. Every surface from the dash, to the center console, the armrests and door trims were shiny. There were no fast-food wrappers jammed in the side pockets, no half empty soda bottles rolling around in the footwell, no food scraps stuck on the floor. And the smell. Melanie swore she could smell a faint trace of lemon mixed with something that had a hospital tinge to it.

  “Wow,” she said looking around the interior. “This is the nicest vehicle I’ve ever been in.”

  “My pride and joy,” Sam said without turning, his eyes focused on the road. “When you spend as much time on the road as I do you need to have a clean work space. This is my office.”

  Mel smiled. Frankie lived like a pig, trash everywhere in the trailer they had shared for the last six months. The last straw was when she came home from working a 10-hour shift in the diner and found him in bed with a drugged-out girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

  Melanie packed her bag and walked out, slamming the fly screen so hard it came off the hinges. Frankie dashed after her wearing nothing but a pillow he had grabbed off the bed, blabbering that he loved her and begging her to come back.

  But she knew he wouldn’t change. She cursed herself for taking him back the last time she caught him screwing around. That time it was a neighbor in the trailer park, some old cougar in her seventies with fake boobs and a blue butterfly tattoo on her saggy ass. Melanie had gone next door looking for Frankie and found the old woman straddling him on the kitchen floor, her knees squeaking back and forth on the old vinyl as she rode him like he was the last fuck she would ever get, the wings of the butterfly on her ass quivering like it was fluttering in flight as she bounced up and down.

  For the next hour Melanie told Sam her entire life story, the condensed version. It was a purge for Melanie, like she had to tell someone about all the shit and frustration and disappointment that had been her life for the last six months with a no-hoper of a boyfriend. She wished she’d had the courage to leave sooner. Now that she had though, she was excited about what the future held for her. Surely her prospects would be better in Vegas. She told Sam she would get a job as a waitress first, make as much tips money as she could, rent a room in a house until she had saved enough to rent a place of her own. Maybe she’d get into one of the big casinos, like the MGM or Bellagio, the one with the fancy water fountains that danced to music. But what she really wanted was to go back to school, get her SAT scores back up, then enroll in hotel management. She was determined to make something of her life and not be sucked back into the life she had been leading with the loser guys she seemed to be attracted to. Today was going to be the first day of the rest of her new life.

  “Well I wish you well with that, Mel,” Sam said. “I really hope it works out for you.”

  Mel smiled. He was a good listener.

  “That’s a nice piece you have around your neck.”

  Mel touched the dolphin-shaped glass pendent on the thin chain around her neck. “It was a gift from my mother,” Mel explained. “She said I was such a free spirit.”

  “Sam smiled, reached down, and slid a CD into the player mounted in the dash. “You don’t mind if I play some music do you? It helps me relax and concentrate on the road.”

  “No, not at all,” Melanie replied. She got comfortable in the seat and gazed out the window.

  Sam selected the track he wanted then reached down, pulled out a bottle, and held it toward Melanie. “Here, have a drink. I can’t because I’m driving, but you should toast your new life.”

  Melanie looked at the bottle of bourbon Sam held out to her. She shouldn’t but what the hell. She took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and held the bottle up. “Cheers.”

  Sam returned the toast with a salute of his hand. “Here’s to you, little lady, and whatever the future brings.”

  Melanie took a swig. The liquid warmed her insides and instantly she began to relax.

  Moments later the sound of rain hitting concrete came out of the speakers and Melanie sat up straight, cocking her head, waiting for the rhythmic tap on the cymbal followed by the sharp melody of piano keys. “You shittin me?” she said, a big grin on her face.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Sam replied. “It’s my favorite song.”

  “I love The Doors,” Mel exclaimed. She laid back and closed her eyes as the haunting voice of Jim Morrison filled the cabin.

  “Riders on the storm…”

  5

  They’d been driving south for over an hour on I-15. The city lights and urban sprawl gave way to a desolate highway with its rhythmic broken center line, a hypnotic monotonous movement that pulled Jessie slightly across the line. She was dead tired, and several times she jolted,
quickly pulling the wheel back on course.

  The man behind her had relaxed, sat back in the rear seat, and taken the knife away from her throat. Occasionally she caught glimpses of him in the rearview mirror, his dark features illuminated by the glow of a cell phone he was texting on. He had given no instructions other than to follow the highway. He must be following our progress on his phone, she thought.

  She had no phone. It was the first thing the man had taken when they left the airport. He removed the SIM card, snapped it in two, then threw it out of the window.

  She had no idea where she was. Beyond the urban limits of Salt Lake City, the roads, highways and small towns were like an alien landscape to her. Exit signs came and went in the glare of her headlights, unfamiliar names and places. Jessie felt a tinge of guilt that she had led such a sheltered existence in the city, not straying too far from what was familiar or what gave her comfort.

  Her perspective of the world was mainly from the air, whether during take-off, landing, or cruising at 28,000 feet as she crisscrossed this wide vast land, everything looked different from up there. She was a city person, and had never driven too far from her apartment. She was a creature of habit and loved routine. When at home she only drove to a handful of places. The same Walmart. The same Whole Foods. The same gym a mile or so from the front door of her townhouse. She bought her daily coffee from the same coffee shop, she had a favorite sushi restaurant and stuck to it, and when she partied with her girlfriends they went to the same handful of bars and clubs. Now outside the city limits she felt like a foreigner driving through the various layers, textures and sights of her own home state.