“And if he doesn’t?”
“I’m trying not to think about that.”
Barry took over at Houston, heading north-northwest on Interstate 45. They rolled in a loose convoy, switching CB channels often, never talking on the truckers’ channel, 19.
They spent the night just outside of Dallas, abiding by their five-hundred-mile-per-day limit. Barry was going to stay with the preplanned route all the way, never straying from it.
He did not know how the trouble coming at them would arrive—just that it would come. And, surprisingly, he was not shocked at learning his brother was involved in the slime. He said as much to Kate.
“Why, Barry?” she asked.
“For all his grandiose, so-called ideals, Paul was always a sneak. But I’ll say this much for him: nothing ever came easy for Paul. He always resented me. I thought he’d outgrow it; obviously, he didn’t. Paul had to struggle through school. I never cracked a book in high school. Paul took after his mother in build. I took after Dad. He wasn’t big enough to play sports; they just came naturally to me. Not that I gave a shit for sports, because I didn’t.”
“Then why did you play?”
Barry grinned. “Girls. Many teenage girls can’t see past the end of their noses. Which is probably not their fault, when one takes into consideration all the bullshit hype about jocks.”
“I never gave a damn for jocks,” Kate said. “I always admired the boys who had some sense. Not that any of them ever looked at me,” she added, a wistful note in her voice.”
“I can’t believe that!” Barry said.
“I came from the wrong side of town, Barry. Drunk for a dad; never could hold a job. My mother barely made a livin’ slingin’ hash. The wrong type of boys looked at me for all the wrong reasons.”
Kate had never talked much about her life. Barry waited.
“It wasn’t easy,” she finally said. “I quit school in the tenth grade. Got a job; got a series of jobs. None of them payin’ more than minimum wage. Knocked around. Finally got married. He used to beat the shit out of me. I guess you know what happened.”
“I know.”
“So we don’t have to talk no more about it, right?”
“Right.”
“I love you, Barry Rivers,” she said. “But I got a funny feelin’, too.”
“That’s what love is, Kate.” Barry smiled at her. “A funny feeling.”
“Yeah, I know. But this is something else.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
“Not much to tell. I just got a bad feelin’, that’s all.”
And she would say no more about it.
The convoy rolled into Salina, Kansas, and the drivers checked into a motel. The motel manager wasn’t too thrilled about all the rigs in his parking lot, but his only visible objection was a few very dark glances. Every time he would turn his back, Kate would shoot him the bird.
On the way to their rooms, Cottonmouth hesitated, then stopped.
“Something wrong?” Panty Snatcher asked.
“My boots is hurtin’ my feet. I’m gonna get my other pair outta the sleeper. Be back in a minute.”
Barry opened the door at the knock. Cottonmouth stood there, his spare boots in his hand. His face was tight with anger.
“What’s wrong?” Barry asked.
“I noticed the liner pulled out behind my boots, Barry. In the storage area up top. This is what I found.” He held out a clear plastic bag. The bag contained white powder. Barry knew what it was.
Cocaine.
“Warn the others,” Barry said. “Have them check their sleepers very carefully. Check boots, clothing, blankets, luggage, everything. If they find anything that looks like this, flush it down the toilet, then flush the bags. Don’t spill a particle of it on the floor. I’ve got a hunch we’re going to have cops all over us in a very short time. Move it, Cottonmouth. Kate, check our rig. Quickly but carefully. I’ll take care of this junk.”
The drivers all reported finding bags of dope in their rigs. They flushed the dope down the commode, then flushed the bags behind that. They then showered and dressed for dinner.
Eighteen very pissed-off truckers.
22
The dining room of the motel was not very busy when the drivers arrived, took their tables, and ordered dinner.
“Supper,” Kate said.
“Dinner,” Barry corrected.
“Grub,” Saltmeat settled it.
“Plainclothes cops comin’ in,” Grits said, cutting his eyes toward the archway to the dinning room.
The cops took tables about the dining area, effectively sealing the room off. A man walked up to Barry’s table and sat down. Uninvited.
Kate looked at him. “Something on your mind, buddy?” Kate said.
“Watch your mouth,” the cop warned.
“Screw you!” she popped back.
“Take it easy,” Barry said, putting a stop to it. He locked eyes with the cop. He fished in his pocket and handed the man his orange card. “We’re SST drivers, Mr. Policeman, and by that bulge on the right side of your jacket, I can only assume that’s a gun. If you’re not a cop, then you’re a hood. Which is it?”
“Lieutenant Mattlock. State police. You’re Barry Rivers?”
“I am.”
“I have a search warrant signed by a judge, Mr. Rivers. The warrant empowers me to conduct a search of all your trucks.”
“Your state warrant doesn’t mean a thing to me, Mattlock. Show me a federal warrant.”
Mattlock smiled and handed Barry a warrant signed by a federal district judge. “That gentleman sitting right over there”—he cut his eyes—“is a federal marshal. Do I have to say more?”
“You gonna read us our rights, Mr. Po-liceman?” Coyote asked.
“Not yet. Maybe never. It all depends on what I find.”
“Dirty socks, dirty drawers,” Beer Butt told him. “And if you got sinus problems, just take a whiff of my partner’s socks. You’ll never be troubled again.”
The cop’s smile was thin.
“Do you object if we eat while you’re prowling through our possessions? Or should we go outside with you to see that you don’t plant anything in our rigs?”
“Do whatever you damn well please to do,” Mattlock told him.
“I think I’ll just go with you,” Barry said.
It was full dark when the police finished their search of the rigs. They had found no contraband of any kind.
“Now show me the other warrant,” Barry said.
The cop was angry, but managed to conceal it quite well. “This warrant?” he said, handing Barry a paper.
Barry looked at it. A warrant to search their rooms. “That’s the one. Help yourself, Mattlock.”
“I fully intend to do just that.”
The cops, naturally, turned up nothing in any of the drivers’ rooms. But it was not because they didn’t try.
With the motel residents and manager settled back down after the minor disruptions, and most of the police gone, Barry and Kate stood outside with the state police and federal marshal.
“Are you satisfied now?” Barry asked Mattlock.
“Yes, we are, Mr. Rivers.”
Barry had been promoted to Mister status. “Now there are just two more things you have to do.”
“Oh?”
“Apologize, and leave.”
Mattlock gave him a sharp glance. “I suppose I can understand your irritation.”
“You suppose? My, my, but you are a well of understanding, aren’t you? Who accused us of carrying dope, Lieutenant?”
“I haven’t any idea, Mr. Rivers. I only carried out the warrants.”
“Sure you did,” Barry said sarcastically. “And I don’t suppose there’d be much point in my contacting an attorney to try to force that information out of anybody?”
“You certainly have my permission to try,” the cop said blandly.
Barry laughed at him.
“Good
night, Mr. Rivers,” Mattlock said. “And thank you for your understanding.”
Barry awakened before Kate, an idea forming in his mind. He was not going to wait for the slow-motion efforts of the criminal justice system. He slipped gently from the bed and stepped out into the predawn darkness of Kansas.
He was surprised to see several of his drivers standing outside their rooms. He walked to them. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.
Saltmeat’s smile was grim. “Me and the boys been talkin’. Goin’ back over some things we picked up here and there over the past months.”
“Such as?”
“Where them renegade drivers maybe been pickin’ up the Mexicans.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. If nothin’ else good comes out of this mess, we’d like to bust up that operation.”
“I’m listening.”
“Guy I’m thinkin’ of calls himself Cowboy. Lives just outside of San Antonio. And lives damn well for a trucker. He don’t make that many runs. But the ones he does make is always up to northern California. He’s got a buddy who lives pretty damn well, too. Calls himself Bad Ass. Bad Ass don’t run nowwhere except up to Minnesota. And there’s another one calls himself Slick. He runs up to northern Maine. You beginnin’ to get the picture?”
“Yeah. They’re independents?”
“Right. And I been thinkin’, the way the economy is now, there ain’t no way they could lives as good as they do makin’ no more runs than they do.”
Barry looked first at Saltmeat, then at the others gathered around him. “I’m not going to wait for our system of justice to step in, boys. Bearing that in mind, you want to hear the rest?”
No one moved. No one spoke. Just stood and looked at Barry.
“If you throw in with me in this crazy, not-yet-worked-out plan of mine, you could all lose your license; maybe never drive a truck again. Good chance of going to prison.”
“You sure do talk a lot without sayin’ nothin’,” Cornbread said.
“Yeah,” Coyote said. “Let’s stop all the sparrin’ and get to the main event.”
“Well, you hairy-legs better goddamn sure include us in all this jawin’!” Lady Lou spoke from behind the gathered drivers.
All looked up and around. Kate stood with Lou, both of them wearing irritated looks.
“Now look, ladies,” Barry began. “You—”
“I’m a truck driver, Mr. Rivers,” Lou said. “I run the same risks any other driver does, day in and day out. I signed on with Rivers Trucking, and I’ll pull my weight. If you don’t like it, fire me.”
“I’m your wife, Barry Rivers,” Kate said. “I go where you go. That’s it.”
Barry smiled at the women. He slowly nodded his head. “OK, people. Here is it.”
23
The convey rolled out of Kansas and into Colorado on Interstate 70. At Denver they connected with Interstate 25 and began climbing north, rolling at a steady 55 mph. About halfway between Denver and Cheyenne, they pulled over for the night, one person sleeping in each rig, the other partner in a motel room.
They wanted no more repeats of the events in Kansas.
They were rolling again before dawn, cutting west at Cheyenne on Interstate 80. It was an easy run to Salt Lake City, and they decided to stop there. If they had been followed, or if someone, some team, was keeping them under surveillance, none of the truckers had been able to spot them.
And that made them all a bit uneasy.
Just as Barry and Kate were getting ready to go to bed, a knock came on the door. A soft knock.
Beer Butt motioned Barry outside. “Ol’ boy calls himself Utah Slim is checkin’ in up front, Barry. He usually runs with Slick.”
“What’s he driving?”
“That Peterbilt over yonder. The one with all the chrome on it.” He pointed. “Goddamn candy wagon. Look at all them lights.”
“You check it out?”
“Swamp Wolf is over there now. Here he comes.”
“I think he’s runnin’ light,” Swamp Wolf said. “I don’t like Slim and I don’t trust him. He’s a sneaky bastard. Do anything for money. He’s been in and out of trouble all his miserable life.”
Mustang joined the group. He rolled his chew of Red Man around in his mouth and said, “I whipped Slim’s ass over in Missouri one night. ’Bout a year or so back. It’s all comin’ to me, now.”
“What do you mean?” Barry asked.
“He was braggin’ about doin’ a service for his country. Something about findin’ a use for certain people. He didn’t say much more about that. And that wasn’t what we fought about. We fought over a woman. But I think what he said ties in.”
“Go get him,” Barry told Cajun. “You need any help with him?”
“Shhitt!” Cajun said contemptuously.
Barry grinned. “He’s all yours. I’ll meet you back at my room.”
The truckers’ rooms were all together, on the ground floor, starting at one end of the complex. They were secure left and right. But Barry worried about the rooms being occupied above them.
“Go check it out,” he told Cornbread.
Cornbread was back in a few moments. “All empty. Looks like the room right above this one is being repainted. The next two are empty.”
Cajun shoved a very wide-eyed-looking man into the room. Kate and Lou were in the dining room. At their own suggestion.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here, man?” Utah Slim asked Barry. He was doing his best tough-man act, but it was falling flat, and falling on tougher ears than his.
Utah Slim was scared.
“Let’s talk awhile, Slim,” Barry said. “Have a seat.” He pointed to a chair.
“I ain’t got nothing to say to you, mister,” Slim blustered.
“Well, then, how about this suggestion, Slim.” Barry smiled at him. “Why don’t I call the FBI office in Salt Lake City and invite them out here?”
“Uh … why would you wanna do that?” Slim asked, his face flushing.
“Because our two agencies try to work together. You see, there was a breakout up in northern Maine. A couple of people got free. They talked. Guess who they talked about?”
“Uh … I don’t know nothin’ about Maine. And what agencies are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m with Treasury, Slim.” Barry had leveled with his people, telling them of his Treasury connection.
“Lemme see some ID,” Slim said, his voice suddenly very shaky.
Barry produced his card. Slim’s fingers were trembling as he held the ID card. “You got a warrant for me?”
“No. Not yet.” Barry continued the bluff. “I wanted to hold up on that.”
Slim’s eyes took on a fox’s glint. “What d’you mean?”
“I think you know.”
“You can guarantee me no jail time?”
“No guarantees.” Barry had watched as many cop movies as anyone. “But I can put in a good word for you.”
Slim looked around the crowded room. “ All these guys workin’ for Treasury?”
“In a manner of speaking. They brought you here, didn’t they?”
Slim nodded his head. His shoulders slumped. “I knowed we was gonna get caught sooner or later. I told Cowboy it was time to quit. He wouldn’t listen. Can I sit down? My knees is a little weak.”
Not a trucker present wanted any supper after hearing Utah Slim’s story. Cottonmouth summed up everybody’s feelings by going into the bathroom and throwing up.
“Jesus Christ!” Cottonmouth said. “I ain’t never heard nothing that rotten.”
“Sorry son of a bitch!” Coyote said, glaring at Slim.
The experiments, according to Slim, were not confined solely to mentally ill Vietnam vets. They included Mexican aliens, men and women from Central America, runways picked up on the streets and highways, homeless men and women. Kids. Dogs.
Sick.
“Stay with him,” Barry said. He went looking for Kate.
She paled when h
e told her what he planned to do.
“That’s the way it’s going down, Kate. Beer Butt will look after you. It’s got to be this way. I think you understand.”
“I understand, but I don’t have to like it.”
“I’ll see you in Texas, baby.”
“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” Utah Slim said, after Barry had told him what they were going to do.
“You drive, Slim,” Barry told him. “And if you try to pull anything, I’ll gut-shoot you and leave you on the side of the road to die. You understand all that?”
“Crazy bastard!” Slim said. “I think you’d do it, too.”
“Believe it,” Barry assured him, his voice steel hard and very menacing.
“Where’s that confession I wrote out, Mr. Rivers?”
“In the mailbox, heading back to Washington, along with details of where we’re going and what we’re going to do. All the names, the dates you remembered, the places you rolled to and from, the locations of the medical facilities, and your partners. If you turn sour on me, that confession goes to the feds. Understood?”
“I’m with you, Mr. Rivers,” Utah Slim assured him. “Think about it. I’m lookin’ at kidnapping, murder, torture, dope running, and probably a dozen other charges. And you got me in a box with the lid screwed down tight. Put yourself in my place; what would you do?”
“Looking at the electric chair, Slim, as you are, I’d give it one hundred and ten percent.”
“You got it, Mr. Rivers. If we can pull all this craziness off, what happens to me?”
“You walk out free. No charges. I tear up the confession.”
Utah Slim geared the Peterbilt. “Let’s do it, Mr. Rivers.”
“South. To Texas.”
They had rolled out just before midnight, looking at eleven hundred miles down to south Texas. None of the drivers had liked the plan; none of the drivers trusted Utah Slim. But Barry was the boss.
They stood, a quiet group, watching the Peterbilt rumble out into the night.
“I’m gonna get on the horn,” Cornbread said. “I seen Woodchuck’s rig just before we pulled in. Heard some ol’ boys talkin’. They said he was headin’ down Texas way. Him and Big Foot and Hawkeye.”
Rig Warrior Page 14
