Crimson Highway

by David Wickenhauser

  Crimson Highway

  By David Wickenhauser

  Cover art: Sarah Wickenhauser

  Copyright © 2021 by David Wickenhauser

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Available as an Amazon Kindle eBook.

  Contact the author: djwick@cox.net

  Follow the author's trucking news writing at: TruckingTruth.com

  Dedication

  This first novel in the Hugh Mann truck driver series is dedicated to James, my truck-driving trainer, mentor and friend.

  It takes an incredibly large amount of patience, tolerance and trust for a veteran truck driver to take a rookie—who is not really a truck driver yet—into his truck for several weeks. Trainer and rookie share a space together that’s about the size of a medium-sized walk-in closet. And they do that 24/7, night and day, sharing their lives—dirty laundry, obnoxious habits, and sometimes less-than-great personal hygiene.

  Also, and this is not a minor consideration, the trainer puts his life on the line trusting his 75-foot-long, 80,000-pound big rig to a complete stranger. Accidents do happen.

  That a trainer and trainee can stand each other long enough to remain together until completion of the rookie’s training period is not a foregone conclusion. That the trainer and trainee remain friends long after the new guy has gotten off the trainer’s truck and gone solo is rare and almost a miracle when it happens.

  It’s to James’ credit, then, that he tolerated me and my driving for the length of my training period, became my willing mentor when I went solo, and remains my friend to this day. As a trainer, and a great person overall, he definitely exemplifies the best that the truck-driving industry has to offer.

  Thank you James.

  Chapter One

  Twenty miles out of Tonopah, Nevada, just as Highway 6 was beginning its eastward climb into a series of desert canyons, big-rig truck driver Hugh Mann spotted a lone figure standing beside the road. The person had his thumb suspended over the fog line in the classic hitchhiker’s pose.

  Hugh drove past the hopeful fellow. He wasn't stopping, so the guy was on his own.

  But the hitchhiker’s deflating posture as he saw the truck pass by tugged at Hugh’s conscience. The isolation of this desert highway, where passing vehicles are few and far between, prompted Hugh to soften his attitude.

  At that particular time when two lives, strangers unknown to each other just a moment before, were about to come together on a lonely stretch of highway Hugh couldn’t have guessed that this sympathetic impulse would change his life forever—and almost end it.

  “Dammit,” he said out loud, smacking the steering wheel in frustration as his conscience got the better of his reason. He slowed the truck, and pulled over half-way off the pavement coming to rest onto the dusty shoulder about a hundred yards beyond the pathetic-looking figure.

  Hugh yanked the red knob on the dash to set the parking brake on his big-rig truck. The sudden release of pent-up, compressed air underneath the tractor blew up a cloud of road-shoulder dust that billowed almost to window level.

  Hugh leaned partway out his driver’s side window, and thrust his arm out, impatiently beckoning the hitchhiker to hurry over. The hitchhiker had about a minute to drag his butt over to his rig or Hugh was leaving. He didn't want to wait there all day, half on and half off of the road.

  Hugh examined the hitchhiker in his rear view mirror as he approached the truck. He was slightly built, although it was difficult to be sure of that, given that he was fully engulfed in several layers of mismatched clothing. Hugh could see that the hitchhiker wore too many shirts, pants and jackets in the style of homeless people who dug their clothes out of trash bins, and who wore everything they owned, regardless of the weather.

  The hitchhiker got closer.

  The hitchhiker appeared to be about five-seven, or maybe five-eight, and had dirty, shaggy, unkempt hair haphazardly poking out from underneath a large, knit cap. Hair and the cap covered most of his face. His age was indeterminate—no way to tell underneath the layers of clothes, the shaggy hair and big knit cap.

  He had no backpack or luggage of any kind.

  The hitchhiker finally caught up with the idling truck. He went directly to the other side of the truck from Hugh, opened the door, and climbed up into the passenger seat. He kept his face turned toward the passenger window, saying nothing.

  Friendly cuss. This hitchhiker wasn't being very friendly or grateful, given that he had just been lucky enough to snag a ride on this empty highway.

  He decided to give this rider the benefit of the doubt, remembering his own experience so many years ago when he had first climbed up into the cab of a truck as a hitchhiker.

  It had been different then, Hugh rerecalled, because he had been fresh out of the Marines at the time. He had been confident that he could take care of himself. This guy looked like a strong breeze could blow him over.

  His rider continued to stare quietly out his passenger-side window as Hugh pushed in the parking brake knob, and turned the steering wheel to put the truck back onto the highway.

  Once the big rig was rolling again through the monotonous Nevada landscape, Hugh considered his new passenger. Where did he come from? Where on earth could this guy be going? Where was he planning to spend the night? He didn’t relish the thought of bunking with this ... what? ... unsociable creature.

  Hugh voiced the question that he had been thinking. “Where are you headed?”

  Silence.

  “You got a name?”

  Silence.

  “Can you talk? What's your problem?”

  “Screw you,” the hitchhiker grunted, still not looking at Hugh, who was beginning to think this was going to be a long day unless his rider improved his social skills in a hurry.

  Hugh put mile after mile under his truck and semi-trailer rig’s eighteen wheels. The drone of the big diesel engine was the only sound, as silence lay heavily between them.

  Then Hugh began to notice something. An earthy, musty, unwashed kind of stale odor wafted over from where the hitchhiker was seated. His rider obviously hadn’t had use of a shower in some time.

  Hugh hadn’t had a lot of experience with itinerant people … none in fact … so he figured that was just the way it was with them. Perhaps it was not to be unexpected in a homeless person caught way out there in the boondocks, far away from any kind of bathing facility.

  Hugh thought that maybe he could get him to a shower at the next large travel center. But, at best, it was going to be a long day before that happened. He cracked his side window a couple of inches, hoping that would help.

  After awhile, Hugh’s large lunchtime coffee demanded that he pull over for a jug break. He watched for a wide spot on the shoulder, and then took the first opening that came up.

  “I’ll just be a minute here to take care of some business,” Hugh said.

  Thinking about his rider, he figured it had probably been some time since he’d had use of a facility. “Hey, I’ve got a spare jug if you need to use one.”

  Still looking out the side window, the rider merely shook his head.

  Hugh stood up in his sleeper, turned his back to the rider, uncapped his jug, and got rid of his lunchtime coffee. Capping the jug, he got back into his seat.

  “That’s a relief,” he said. “Just let me know if you need to use a jug. There’s no facility to stop at along here, so it’s the jug or nothing.”

  Hugh pulled back onto the highway.

  Silence from the rider.

  The mile markers passed by their truck—one t
o the minute. To pass the time, and in an attempt to thaw his unsocial rider, Hugh decided to tell a story from his early years of being a truck driver.

  “I’ve seen quite a few accidents,” he started his story, not caring if his rider was listening or not. “There was this one time recently; I was on Highway 395 in far northern California, heading south about twenty miles from the nearest town. It was a two-lane road. Very icy. A storm had just passed through, and there was a lot of snow on both shoulders, and in the ditches alongside the road.

  “Next thing I knew, I was forced to stop when I came upon a big-rig truck on its side, completely blocking the highway. The tractor’s nose was in the ditch on one side, and the trailer’s rear end was in the ditch on the other side.

  “The accident must have just happened. There were no other vehicles there. I saw the driver standing outside his flipped-over tractor. He appeared to be OK, and he was talking to someone on his cell phone. Then the highway patrol showed up. And a little later, a couple of tow trucks arrived from town.

  “The problem was that the tow trucks needed to be on the other side of the flipped truck—the side that I was on—but they couldn’t get around it. One tow truck driver tried, but he got stuck in the ditch.

  “Here’s what’s funny,” Hugh said, glancing at his passenger to see if he was paying attention. “The tow truck driver then walked over to me, and asked if I could pull his vehicle out of the ditch. Of course I said OK. He then hooked a chain to my front bumper pull hooks, I backed up to put tension on the chain, and then pulled him out.

  “I’ve always thought that it was hilarious that a tow-truck driver had to get a tow from me.

  “He then hooked up to the other tow truck to pull him around the end of the trailer in the ditch.

  “It took several hours, but they finally put the truck and trailer wheels down, and pulled over to the side of the road. By that time, I was completely out of legal driving hours. I had to have a highway patrol officer escort me to town so I could find a place to park for the night.”

  “I’ve got more stories. Do you want me to go on?” Hugh asked, not expecting an answer.

  “No. I’m good,” the rider surprised Hugh by answering. He had obviously decided that giving up some talk himself was preferable to listening to another of Hugh’s rambling stories.

  Progress, at least he talks. Hugh noticed that not only was this rider slightly built, but that he didn’t have a particularly deep voice. Could be a youngster.

  “You ready to tell me your name?” Hugh asked.

  Silence.

  “OK. Don’t,” Hugh said. “No problem. I’m thinking of another story.”

  There was a shorter period of silence this time.

  Then, “Jenny.”

  “Jenny? That’s kind of a strange name for a ... Oh, no. You’ve got to be kidding!”

  The rider then looked directly at Hugh, pushed up the knit cap, and pulled his ... rather, her ... hair from around her face.

  She was indeed a “Jenny.” A rather cute Jenny, in fact, Hugh decided, making allowance for the dirty face, slovenly dress, and unkempt hair.

  Then Hugh began thinking how badly that complicates things. He was in no way prepared for a female rider.

  Then his face reddened all the way to the roots of his short-cropped, sandy-colored hair, as he suddenly recalled the recent jug episode.

  Spare jug. He couldn’t believe he’d said that to a girl.

  She noticed his flushed face. “Not so cocky now, are you, big guy. Don’t worry, I didn’t see anything. Nothing to write home about anyway.”

  “You’re some kind of piece of work,” Hugh shot back. “How about giving a guy a clue that you’re a... a...”

  “Girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK. I’m a girl. But don’t get any bright ideas about doing anything about it.”

  “Only thing I want to do about it is get you off this truck as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, sure. Right. You’d kick me out right here in the middle of nowhere, miles from anything? You want me to get picked up by a pervert?”

  “How do you know I’m not a pervert?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “No, you won’t. Because you aren’t riding with me,” Hugh said.

  Silence.

  “How old are you anyway? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  “Hey, smart ass. How about if you just drive, and mind your own damn business about my age?” she shot back.

  “No can do, little lady. I am not driving around out here with an under-age girl. I have no idea who’s looking for you, and what they will accuse me of when they find you. I am not doing this!”

  “You can cool the ‘little lady’ crap. So happens I am twenty-two years old,” she said angrily.

  “Prove it. I bet you can’t.”

  The girl rummaged around, digging into the multiple layers of her clothing, found the right pocket somewhere in all that mess, and fished out a California driver’s license. She held it out to him, with a dirty thumb covering her last name.

  It was a “Jennifer” first name, for sure. And, it was her photo … maybe a couple of years younger. And she apparently had blonde hair. It was hard to tell, the way she looked right now. Her birth date definitely indicated she was indeed twenty-two years old.

  While Hugh was mulling over what to do about all this, he heard a sound like someone’s cell phone. It wasn’t the ring tone from his phone. He looked over at Jenny, who was, once again, fighting her way into the deeper layers of her clothing to dig out something, presumably the ringing phone.

  She flipped it open, and answered the call.

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “’Bye!”

  “What was that all about?” Hugh asked, surprised to see a supposedly homeless person with a cell phone, much less a homeless person who was in contact with someone.

  “None of your damn business, big guy. How about if you just drive!”

  “How about if you knock off the ‘big guy’ stuff,” Hugh said, starting to get testy himself.

  “OK, big guy, what’s your name?”

  “Mann.”

  “Hello, Mister Mann. Is that better?” she asked, with angry sarcasm dripping from her voice.

  “It’s Hugh Mann,” he said.

  “Please to meet you mister hu-man,” she continued with the sarcastic tone.

  This gal had an attitude a mile wide. Hugh sighed, then said, “Call me just Hugh.”

  “OK, just Hugh, where are we headed anyway?”

  Exasperated, Hugh responded, “We are headed to Burley, Idaho, where I am dropping you off, if not sooner.”

  She didn’t have anything to say to that.

  As the truck made its way through this featureless landscape, Hugh’s mind wandered back to when he had been a hitchhiker—back, in fact, to when his truck-driving career had started fifteen years ago.

  What he didn’t know, couldn’t possibly have known at this time, was the extraordinary and coincidental way that this female hitchhiker was tied in with murder and mayhem fifteen years ago in his past, and how her presence in the here and now would bring it all back for him to have to deal with.

  Chapter Two

  15 years ago - Evening of the First Day with James

  As a recently discharged Marine hitchhiking his way north on Interstate 5 from San Diego, Hugh Mann considered himself lucky that he had gotten picked up by James.

  He was lucky because James had turned out to be a pretty cool guy. And lucky because Hugh’s new, temporary mode of transportation with James had him sitting high above the road in the passenger seat of a big-rig truck.

  Despite a few chest-thumping, male ego “bonding” sessions over the past couple of hours while Hugh had been riding with James, he felt that he and the truck driver had gotten along fairly well. One of the things they had in common was their military service—Hugh was a former Marine
, and James was a former member of the elite Navy SEALs.

  Only 21 years old, with nothing to tie him down, Hugh had nowhere in particular to go, and no way in particular to get there.

  It’s true, he had a home where he had grown up. He had parents, and a brother, and a little sister whom he adored. But, he didn’t believe that the old homestead was where his future lay.

  That’s why Hugh had the expectation that this little excursion with James could be rich with possibilities.

  Hugh had learned in conversation with James that he was in his early 40s, and that he had been driving truck for fifteen years. He had enjoyed ribbing James about being the “old man.” And James had gotten back at him, often calling him “kid.”

  It had been a long day, and James had almost run out of his legal driving hours. So they were parked at a truck stop just over the Grapevine south of Bakersfield, California.

  After all this sitting and inactivity, Hugh was ready to get out and stretch his legs. His 6’2” lanky frame, and Marine-hardened body demanded regular activity. “I’ll head over to the travel center to use the facility, and get a bite to eat,” he told James.

  James had to stay behind to finish his post-trip inspection, and fill out his logbook. Glancing up at Hugh, he replied, “OK, I’ll meet you there.”

  It was a bit of a distance to the driver’s facility from where they had parked, but Hugh appreciated getting the exercise. He used the restroom, then picked up a foot-long sub sandwich for his dinner. Hugh liked them. They were still the best deals in town.

  Hugh exited through the big double doors, caught his bearings, and headed back to the truck. He followed the line of trucks parked in the same row where he knew James had parked his rig. He moved in and out of the areas of light and deep shadow cast by the sparsely spaced parking lot lights.

  As he walked past a space between two trucks parked in a dark area, he heard a loud scuffling from behind the trucks. It sounded to Hugh like a fight in progress. Someone was getting hit – hard. He decided to investigate, and followed the sounds.