Witness on the Run

by Susan Cliff

  Stretching his neck, he continued down the road. He’d gone about thirty miles when he heard a strange thump. He checked his mirrors and didn’t see anything. Maybe one of his tires had kicked up a chunk of asphalt. His gauges looked fine. He kept going. A few minutes later he heard another thump, along with a rattle.

  What the hell?

  It sounded like something was banging against the metal plate behind the cab. His mirrors didn’t give him a full view of the space. A loose piece of wiring wouldn’t make that noise. The rattling started again, and then stopped. When he reached a long straightaway, he pulled over, shifted into Neutral and engaged the brake. It was still dark, so he grabbed his flashlight before he climbed out.

  First he checked the back of the trailer, which looked secure. It was locked up tight. He dropped down to his belly to shine his beam underneath the rig. The wheels were intact. He didn’t see anything amiss.

  He got up and inspected the space behind the cab. To his surprise, he caught a glimpse of gray fur.

  Wolf?

  He blinked and his eyes adjusted, making sense of the shape.

  Not a wolf. A woman.

  Holy hell. There was a woman in his hitch space. A stowaway. He’d never had a stowaway before, and he’d never expected to see one here. Any hobo with a lick of sense would climb into the cab or the trailer. He kept his trailer locked, of course, and there was no way to get inside his cab unnoticed.

  “Come out of there,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

  The woman didn’t move. She was crouched down like a cornered animal, shivering violently.

  He attempted a softer tone. “Come on out. I won’t hurt you.”

  She didn’t respond. Maybe she didn’t speak English. It was difficult to judge her ethnicity because most of her face was hidden behind a fur-lined hood. She appeared to have dark eyes.

  Cam turned off the flashlight and pocketed it. She’d been here since he left the truck stop, or earlier. She might be hypothermic, unable to move. He reached into the space with both hands. She leaned sideways in a feeble attempt to escape his touch. He captured her arm and pulled her toward him. She didn’t fight, but she didn’t cooperate, either. He had to drag her out of the narrow space. As soon as she was free, she crumpled to the ground. Her legs were ghost-white. Other than the gray parka, she wasn’t dressed for the weather.

  With a muttered curse, he scooped her into his arms. She was tall and slender, but heavy. He carried her toward his open door and climbed the kick-step, grunting from exertion. He skirted around the driver’s chair and deposited her in the passenger seat.

  Now what?

  He grabbed a wool blanket from his supplies to cover her trembling body. She had on white stockings, ripped at both knees. The sight triggered his memory. He knew those legs. Startled, he lifted his gaze to her face.

  It was her. The waitress from Walt’s Diner. The one he had a crush on, and had vowed to steer clear of.

  He spread the blanket over her legs and retreated, rubbing his jaw. In any other circumstances, he’d call the police and let them handle the matter. He was reluctant to take that step with this woman. She wasn’t a stranger. He knew her. She clutched the edges of the blanket in a tight grip, still shivering. His first instinct was to help her, not report her.

  He closed his door and cranked up the heat. Then he removed his jacket, placing it over her lap to add another layer of warmth. He didn’t think her condition was life-threatening, but it concerned him. “Do you need to go to a hospital?”

  She shook her head, vehement.

  After a short hesitation, he put the truck in gear and pulled forward. He couldn’t leave her on the side of the road, so he might as well drive. He monitored her progress as he continued north. She shivered less and less. Some of the color returned to her cheeks. Her grip on the blanket relaxed and her expression softened. No smile, but that wasn’t unusual or unexpected, given the circumstances. The only drink he had was lukewarm tea. When he offered it to her, she accepted the cup and took an experimental sip.

  “You work at Walt’s.”

  She seemed surprised that he recognized her. But every trucker who’d been to Walt’s would have recognized her. There was chatter about her on the radio. Pretty young things were rare in the frigid interior.

  “Why did you stow away in my truck?”

  “I needed a ride,” she said, passing back his mug. She inspected the palms of her hands, which were scraped raw.

  “You’re hurt.”

  She hid her hands under the blanket. “I’m fine. I just tripped and fell.”

  Cam knew she wasn’t telling him the whole story. She wouldn’t climb aboard his rig and risk serious injury for no reason. She was either lying, or crazy, or scared to death. He guessed it was the latter, and his protective instincts went into overdrive. “Are you running from someone?”

  She glanced into the side mirror, as if searching for a bogeyman.

  He checked the highway. It was dark and deserted. “Maybe I should call the police.”

  “No,” she said in a choked voice. “Please.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you don’t want to give me a ride, let me out. I’ll walk.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. She’d rather freeze than contact the authorities? “The nearest town is thirty miles away.”

  “I can hitchhike.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  She stared out the window again. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she blinked them away quickly. She had a stubborn chin, bold brows and a soft mouth that reminded him of tulips. Her upper lip had a distinctive bow formation, like two little triangles.

  With a frown, he returned his attention to the road. He needed to concentrate on driving, not her mouth. He didn’t care if she’d robbed a bank, or vandalized Walt’s Diner. He wasn’t going to leave her out in the cold.

  “Are you a cop?” she asked finally.

  He drummed his fingertips against the wheel. “Do I look like a cop?”

  “You don’t look like a truck driver.”

  “I’m not a cop,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. Not anymore. He’d abandoned his career in law enforcement a few months after Jenny died. He’d stopped believing in justice. He’d lost faith in himself.

  An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Her defensiveness could be an indication of guilt, or another manifestation of fear. He didn’t ask any more questions. He knew from experience that aggressive interrogations made victims clam up. But it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t getting involved. Her problems were none of his business.

  “I’ve seen you at the diner,” she said.

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

  “You order the veggie omelet and wheat toast. Black coffee.”

  He was surprised she remembered him. He’d only been in the diner a handful of times. The idea that he’d made an impression on her appealed to him. She tugged off her parka, revealing some other things that appealed to him.

  Cam pulled his gaze away from her. She was an enticing package, with her slender figure and lovely face. Her presence in his cab felt like an electric charge. He couldn’t prevent the rush of warmth that suffused him every time their eyes met.

  He’d been alone on the road too long.

  “Where are you headed?” she asked.

  “North,” he said shortly.

  “Fairbanks?”

  “For starters.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  The temperature inside the cab had gone from toasty to sweltering. Cam turned down the heat, contemplative. He’d never picked up a hitchhiker before. He’d seen his share of “lot lizards” in the lower 48. They were hard-looking women, desperate for hard-up men. Nothing like this fresh beauty beside him.

  She waited for his answer in sile
nce.

  “I’ll take you to Fairbanks,” he said, against his better judgment. He knew it was the wrong choice. She needed help, beyond a simple ride north, and he couldn’t give it to her. He had nothing left to give. “From there you’re on your own.”

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I appreciate it.”

  He made a noncommittal sound and fell silent. It was a long drive to Fairbanks, and he didn’t intend on passing the time with idle chitchat. He couldn’t remember how to engage a woman in conversation. The less she spoke, the easier it would be to ignore her. He could keep his mind—and his eyes—on the road.

  A part of him wanted to look at her. A part of him wanted to do more than look. He’d been living like a monk for three years. He’d isolated himself in Alaska for a reason. He’d abandoned every comfort, including female company. He couldn’t imagine dating again. He almost couldn’t imagine a single night of pleasure.

  Almost.

  He knew she wasn’t offering. She wasn’t a lot lizard, and he didn’t prey on vulnerable women, regardless. The man he used to be, the man who’d been a good husband and conscientious police officer, would never have considered taking advantage of her desperation. The man he’d become was numb. He had no moral high ground. He was a shadow of his former self, frozen in grief. He suddenly longed for some release from the monotony of his existence. He longed for human touch.

  He glanced at Jenny’s smiling picture on his dashboard. Her guileless expression never changed. She wouldn’t have approved of his reclusive lifestyle or his current predicament. But she was dead, and had no say in the matter. He moved his gaze to the windswept lanes ahead. His heart felt like a stone inside his chest. He didn’t say anything to put his passenger at ease. He just kept driving, into darkness.

  Chapter 3

  Tala regretted asking him if he was a cop.

  She should have just shut up and let him drive. He’d threatened to call the police, but he hadn’t picked up his phone or CB. He hadn’t pulled over and told her to get out. He’d questioned her safety, like any conscientious person would, and she’d panicked.

  She couldn’t tell him what happened at the diner. He’d take her to the nearest police station and insist that she report the crime. She had no intentions of falling into that trap. No, she was going to run until she felt secure.

  Running was what she did. It was what she knew.

  She slunk lower in the passenger seat, feeling nauseated. She wished she’d never come to Alaska. She wished she hadn’t fled Canada like a thief in the night. Now she was in a bind, and she had no idea how to get out.

  She snuck another glimpse at the man behind the wheel. She hadn’t lied when she’d said he didn’t look like a trucker. There was something different about him, beyond his handsome face. She couldn’t put her finger on what. He was rugged and outdoorsy enough to fit in with the locals. He wore flannel shirts and steel-toed boots. He had dark brown hair that curled around his collar and a well-trimmed beard that suited his features. She got the impression that he didn’t smile or laugh much. He had thickly lashed, soulful brown eyes.

  He was built more like a logger than a trucker. His broad shoulders and lean physique added to his appeal. He looked stronger than most homesteaders. He could even pass for one of those elite mountain climbers who came to summit Denali. He was a man in his prime. He was also married. He wore a plain gold wedding band on his left hand. She hadn’t noticed it when he’d visited the diner.

  The diner. A fresh wave of memories assaulted her. She could never go back there. Thoughts of Walt trickled in, making her heart clench. She hadn’t stopped to consider the danger to him. He’d been asleep inside the office. What if those men had shot him? Guilt and shame and fear struck all at once, overwhelming her.

  “What’s your name?” the driver asked.

  “Tala.”

  “Tala? Is that Native American?”

  In her distress, she’d forgotten to lie about her name. She’d been Abigail Burgess for the past six months. She massaged her forehead, wincing. “We don’t say Native American in Canada.”

  “What do you say?”

  “First Nations.”

  “First Nations,” he repeated, glancing at her. “You’re from Canada?”

  She nodded. Now that she’d screwed up, she might as well be honest. “I was born in Yellowknife.”

  “They have ice roads in Yellowknife.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been on them?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “I’ve always wanted to. I’ve been on the Dalton, which has an ice road section near Prudhoe Bay.”

  She hadn’t realized he was an ice-road trucker. Maybe that was why he reminded her of a mountain climber. Both endeavors required nerves of steel. Only the most daring truckers would drive over a layer of ice with arctic waters flowing underneath.

  “I’m Cam, by the way. Cameron Hughes.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said automatically. It felt odd to have a normal conversation after what she’d been through. “Where are you from?”

  “Tacoma, Washington.”

  “When did you come to Alaska?”

  “Three years ago. I needed to...get away.”

  She could relate. Unless he meant he needed to get away from his responsibilities. Maybe he’d left a wife and children behind. He didn’t seem like the deadbeat-dad type, but she didn’t know him. She couldn’t judge his personality on polite manners and generous tips. His nice-guy vibe could be deceiving. After Duane, she didn’t trust easily.

  The short exchange ended, revealing the extent of his curiosity about her. She was relieved by his disinterest. She didn’t want to talk.

  The sun rose over the horizon as they continued north on the highway. Warm rays penetrated her window. A few hours ago, she’d been convinced she was going to freeze to death. It had been unbearably cold in that dark space. She’d pounded her fist on the cab for help. If he hadn’t pulled over to investigate, she might have died.

  She moved her gaze to the side mirror. She didn’t think they were being followed. The road behind them was clear. The killers must not have seen her flee. She was safe—for now. Thanks to Cam, she was warm and dry.

  She folded his jacket and set it aside. Then she removed the blanket. Her stockings were ruined, her knees scraped. She had bits of gravel embedded in her skin. Her palms were raw, too. She needed to wash up.

  “I have a first aid kit in the glove compartment. There’s a toilet in the back. Make yourself at home.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. There was a narrow bunk and a mini-fridge in the berth. “Do you sleep here?”

  “When I have to.”

  With his long legs and rangy build, he didn’t look like he’d fit. She rose to her feet and ventured into the space. A sliding door led to a closet-sized bathroom. It was cramped, but clean. She washed her hands at the sink before inspecting herself in the mirror. Her hair had come loose from the bun. She combed her fingers through the tangled strands to smooth the disarray. Then she returned to the front of the cab. Taking a deep breath, she helped herself to the contents of the first aid kit. After she cleaned the minor wounds with alcohol, she applied antibiotic ointment and stuck on some bandages.

  “There are drinks in the fridge,” he said. “And sandwiches.”

  She grabbed a bottled water. “Do you want something?”

  “I’m good.”

  He drove for several hours without speaking. It felt odd to sit next to a stranger in complete silence, but she made no attempt at small talk. Sharing personal information with him seemed unwise.

  She felt self-conscious in his presence. She wished he wasn’t so handsome. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed his rugged good looks, and the last thing she wanted to do was get caught staring. Many truckers, even the married ones, wouldn’
t hesitate to proposition a female hitchhiker. Cam hadn’t given any indication that he expected sexual favors from her. He didn’t have a creepy-predator vibe. She sat very still and tried not to imagine the worst.

  He gestured to the radio. “You can change the station if you like. Or I have audiobooks.”

  “Audiobooks?”

  “Books on tape.”

  She nodded her understanding. There was a device plugged into his port. She picked it up and browsed the files. A Stieg Larsson book was at the top of the queue. The other options were horror, murder mysteries and true crime. Disturbing stories of violence and mayhem.

  “Is this what serial killers listen to?”

  He frowned at the question.

  “Sorry,” she said awkwardly. “That was a joke.”

  He changed gears, glancing her direction. “I guess my selections are pretty stark.”

  “They’re fine.”

  “I choose books that will help me stay awake. It’s a trucker trick.”

  She set aside the device. “I’ve never listened to an audiobook. I don’t think they make them for the books I like.”

  “Why not?”

  “I read graphic novels. They have pictures.” She flushed at the admission, as if it was something to be ashamed of. Duane always said her “comics” weren’t real books. But Duane never read anything, so what did he know?

  “Where do you get graphic novels?”

  “I’ve bought a few at a used bookstore, but they’re hard to find. In Canada, I checked them out from the library. I don’t have a card here.”

  “How long have you been in Alaska?”

  “Six months.”

  He didn’t ask her why she’d come. She wouldn’t have told him.

  “What’s Canada like?”

  “Cold.”

  He smiled at her answer. “Were you a waitress there, too?”

  “I was before I got married.”

  “You’re married?”

  She searched his face for judgment and found none. “It didn’t work out.”