Witness On The Run. Susan Cliff
led to convictions. If only real life mimicked fiction.
He’d forgotten to select listening material for this leg of the trip, so he drove in silence. Some days he surfed through the CB channels to hear the latest trucker chatter. This morning he didn’t bother. There was light traffic and good weather. He concentrated on the lonely lanes before him, feeling restless. He needed a workout. He’d stop at the twenty-four-hour gym in Fairbanks. Hit the weights, jog a few miles.
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