Driving in Traffick: The Victim's Story (Margret Malone Book 2)

by Nancy Cupp

  Bruce grumbled, but he left her alone. His phone rang, “Yo Bro. We’re in California.”

  Margret could hear Arnold yelling on Bruce’s phone. “What the hell did you do. The cops called me and want to know about Mom’s car. Where did you leave it?”

  “Uh—at the truck-stop. I couldn’t drive it and the truck too, could I?”

  “Well, they traced it to me somehow. I told them I live in New York City. Made up an address. So I gotta ditch this phone, before they track it. They didn’t ask about nothin’ else except where you are. I told them I didn’t know. I ain’t heard from you.”

  “Do I gotta get rid of my phone too? How am I gonna get ahold of you?”

  “Relax shit-head. I got a new phone from Wal-Mart, here’s the number…”

  Bruce looked around for a pen, “Margret what did you do with the pen?”

  She still had the pen in her back pocket and didn’t want him to know she’d taken it. “I think it rolled on the floor over by your seat.”

  “Hang on Arnold, I gotta look for a pen.”

  Margret could hear Arnold cussing. While Bruce was looking around on the floor, Margret slipped the pen out of her pocket and put it on the dash by the log-books. He found the pencil stub he’d used for his log book, “Okay what’s the number?” He scribbled it on a crumpled wrapper.

  “You get a new phone as soon as you can, then call me with the number.”

  They were crossing the desert near Death Valley. There wasn’t anything for miles around except a few scraggly cactus. The thermometer on the dash read one hundred and three. They were on a ten mile, gradual downgrade, the Jake-Brake was purring away and Margret had to use her stab-braking technique several times to keep them at fifty-five miles per hour. Several trucks and cars were stopped on the up-hill side of the highway with their hoods up, steam rolling out.

  When they finally reached the bottom of the downgrade, they could see the town of Baker shimmering in the heat. A huge billboard sized thermometer indicated the temperature. The miserable heat was a source of pride for the residents of Baker. Signs bragged about being the gate-way to Death Valley.

  Bruce directed her into the Wal-Mart parking lot. Several other trucks were already idling there. “Leave it running, I’ll lock the doors. I ain’t coming out to a hot truck.”

  When they stepped onto the pavement it felt like they’d opened an oven door. The dry heat sapped their energy as they slogged across the lot on soft asphalt.

  Icy cold air greeted them inside the store, it was doing a brisk business. The only place to be in Baker was inside the Wal-Mart. Bruce paid cash for a new cell phone and then they went to Subway for sandwiches and soda. Neither of them wanted to go back outside, but Bruce was determined to get to NuPower by morning. Once outside, he stomped on his old cell and gave the remains a mighty toss into the desert.

  Bruce drove when they left, the speedometer inching close to seventy. When she went back to get some sleep in the bunk, Margret kicked one of her books laying on the floor. It was one she’d borrowed from her Dad. Lovingly, she opened the front cover and traced the familiar sticker with his name, address, and phone number. Her father loved his books and wanted to be sure he got them back. She’d started to read when she got an idea. If she could leave a book somewhere, maybe someone would call to return it.

  She drifted off to sleep while Bruce drove on through the night. Hours later, Bruce’s cussing woke her up. She noticed the flash of blue lights reflecting off the truck’s mirrors. He gradually slowed to a stop on the shoulder.

  “I need to see your license and registration Sir.” Bruce reluctantly got out his CDL. Margret could see he was trying to think of what to do about the registration. She stepped up to the passenger seat, feeling a little surge of hope and fear.

  “The registration is in the cupboard above you in the permit book,” she said.

  “Thanks a lot,” he hissed.

  “I’ve stopped you because the speed limit for trucks is fifty-five in the state of California. I clocked you at seventy-two. In addition, your tandems are set way too far back. The state of California requires them to be set at no more than forty feet from the kingpin to the center of the rear axle. You’re way over that.”

  “Look, I just got this truck and re-built it. I’m waiting for the registration to come through. You know how it is for drivers, we can’t afford to sit still for long. I’ve got to make the truck payments.”

  “I see. You need to move those tandems now. If it makes you overweight they’ll catch you at the next weight station. I can’t help you with that ticket. If there’s enough green floating around I won’t have to call this in.”

  Bruce dug out his wallet, he saved out enough for fuel and gave the rest to the officer who offered to stay behind them while they moved the tandems.

  “I’ll go release the tandems,” said Margret about to step out of the truck.

  “No you won’t,” he said tersely. “You get up here and move the truck back, I’ll pull the leaver. Don’t try nothing. If this gets called in Rosa’s a goner.”

  Margret knew he was right. She was shaking and had a hard time finding reverse. She had thought for sure she was about to be rescued, but she didn’t want to hurt Rosa. Maybe it was better the cop was crooked.

  Margret tried to fall back to sleep, but the traffic stop had her rattled. Why isn’t the highway patrol all over this truck, she thought. It can’t have the right DOT number, and it isn’t even a normal truck anymore. Is it because we’ve crossed so many state lines? Don’t the states talk to each other? How’s it going to end, will they kill me? The thought made her cry. She’d been so worried about Rosa she hadn’t thought about her own safety. They weren’t likely to let her go, escape was the only way.

  Margret gave up trying to sleep and took the passenger seat when Bruce pulled to the side of the road again. “Give me the road atlas. I gotta find a way around the scales, since you screwed us up with sliding the tandems way back.”

  “But I—we would have been over…”

  “Shut-up, I didn’t ask you. Go find me something to eat back there, and make me some coffee.”

  Margret got busy heating water for coffee and she found some Pop-tarts pushed way back in the cupboard, behind some cans of stew. She gave Bruce the Pop-tarts, poured hot water in a mug and stirred in instant coffee.

  Bruce decided on a route that would take them far out of the way on two lane highways, but would avoid the weigh stations. He pulled back into traffic, trying to rush the truck, he over revved the engine. He struggled to find gears as the engine roared. Cussing and jamming, he glared at Margret, somehow making it her fault.

  Bruce munched on Pop-tarts and washed them down with coffee. “This is crappy coffee; ain’t there any thing better to eat back there?”

  “Not really, it’s all pretty much the same kind of stuff.”

  “Damn cops, we’re going to have to eat this crap unless I can get some cash.”

  Their route took them into parched areas that didn’t support much life. Even desert plants and cactus seemed decimated by hordes of four wheeler trails. Occasional camper-trailers with the door hanging, or odd appliances and sheet metal bloomed out of the desert in random splotches.

  The Salton Sea appeared, glittering in the hot morning sun. There were bits and patches of green grass where someone thought it was a good idea to use fresh water to have a lawn in the desert. Here, bright awnings and large air conditioners decorated the RVs, lined up side by side like cattle at a trough. Lavish boats bobbed on the water, a proclamation of conspicuous wealth.

  They continued to drop to the south until Bruce turned west on I-8. The Highway almost touched the Mexican Border in a few spots. Border Patrol vehicles prowled the roadway and ditches.

  Bruce pulled in to a rest area to switch drivers. Margret kicked her father’s book out the door and shoved it under the truck when she got out. It was a long shot, but maybe some book-loving tourist would be inspired to
call Professor Malone to return his book.

  Bruce called Arnold on his new phone while Margret drove, heading into San Diego traffic. “We’re almost there,” Bruce told him.

  She could hear Arnold ranting on the other end.

  “Well, yeah I know, but I ran into a snag with the highway patrol, had to bribe him—cost me almost a thousand bucks.”

  Arnold screamed obscenities.

  “Because then I had to go the long way around to avoid the weigh station. We’re way over weight now,” said Bruce. “A different truck? How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  Margret could hear bits of Arnold’s yelling, “That’s your problem. In their system,…tracking it. Get rid of her…, sell her…some cash.”

  Bruce hung up in a rage. He fumed and grumbled, throwing the last dregs of his cold coffee at the dash. The plastic mug slammed against the windshield, coffee splashed and dripped onto the floor.

  Margret could feel her heart beating fast. She wondered what it meant for her. Arnold said, sell her, get rid of her. Did he mean me? Traffic slowed, triggering a blast from the warning device and a new volley of cursing from Bruce. Margret smoothly downshifted, afraid to even look at Bruce.

  ☙

  At NuPower, they were quickly ushered through the security gates. They were each given a badge to measure the amount of radiation they were exposed to. An escort led the truck through the facility.

  Margret could smell salty ocean air. A few gulls flew ahead of the truck, announcing their arrival. Huge cooling towers stood idle, concrete sentinels, powerless to protect decaying fuel rods that could devastate the health of a nation.

  She was directed to park the truck near a crumbling sea wall. Only a short distance on the other side, the ocean lapped onto the shore, oblivious to the destructive power only a hundred feet away. Margret knew, from her reading, the plant had been decommissioned, but many thousands of years would pass before the spent fuel would be safe.

  They were told unloading and loading would be done under the cover of darkness. They’d have to wait. “That’s fine by me, I need to get some sleep,” said Bruce. He told Margret to get in the top bunk and stay there even if she didn’t sleep. “Unless you want to sleep with me,” he added with a pat on her butt.

  Margret wasted no time getting in the top bunk. Until now one of them had always been driving, keeping her relatively safe from any sexual advances. She didn’t relax until she heard him snoring, then she allowed herself some much needed sleep.

  A few hours later there was a knock at the door. Bruce jumped up and talked briefly to a guy, smoking outside. “How heavy is this thing? I don’t want to mess with being overweight again.”

  “Your weights should be okay, but I don’t think we can put the hay back in. We have to build a cradle around it so it won’t tip. Good thing you have an extra tall trailer, we’d have trouble loading in a normal thirteen-six trailer. It’ll be safe as long as you don’t tip it over or have a wreck.”

  “So I won’t grow an extra ear or something, hauling this shit?”

  “Nah, it’s gone through a vitrification process, it’s fairly stable.”

  “Then why move it at all?”

  “Uh—well, it could corrode and leak, and you know, them tree huggers get all fired up about it. They’d have the whole west coast evacuated if they thought there was a leak.”

  “Great.”

  “I’d just bury the whole damn trailer if it was me hauling it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  It was almost daylight when they finished loading. Bruce allowed her to come into the lounge where they had a pot of coffee brewing. He signed the Bill of Lading papers, putting his copy in his shirt pocket.

  “I think we better check that low tire on the trailer, we don’t want a blow out,” said Margret.

  “Don’t worry about it, we’re stopping for fuel and to do a little business soon as we leave here.”

  “Shouldn’t there be hazmat placards on the trailer with this stuff? I don’t have a hazmat endorsement, so I can’t drive.”

  Bruce sneered at her, “This ain’t no hazmat—these papers say its hay. The trailer’s sealed with a bolt and a padlock, ain’t nobody going to mess with it. You might not be driving anyway.”

  19

  Swap

  Bruce carefully eased the truck through the gate between tall chain link fences topped with razor wire. He drove like he was trying to keep from spilling a glass of water. He wasn’t even going the speed limit, and he kept his distance from the traffic in front.

  He headed north to I-15. Confident his weights would pass the scrutiny of the DOT, he rolled over the scales without a problem. Smiling, he smoothly blended in with early morning LA traffic.

  The sun crested the San Gabriel Mountains above smog hanging in a layer just below the summit. Palm trees and flowers decorated stark white suburban neighborhoods.

  Bruce exited in Ontario where he stopped at a large TA truck stop. Although their tanks were nearly empty he didn’t pull into the fuel island; instead he found a place to park.

  “Get some clean clothes and whatever else you need, we’re going to get a shower.”

  Margret was thrilled to have a chance to get cleaned up, but she couldn’t help being skeptical about what it meant for her. She hoped he didn’t plan on showering with her.

  At the desk, he only paid for one shower. Her feet felt like she was wading through mud as he nudged her toward the assigned room.

  Bruce punched in the code, and jerked his head in a gesture for her to go in. She flattened her self against the wall, determined to keep her clothes on. “Relax, I ain’t gonna touch you. I’m gonna shower first. You can just stand there, or sit down, I don’t care. If I hear the door open, I’ll chase you down even if I’m buck naked.”

  Margret could feel her cheeks light up like cherries as Bruce pulled his shirt over his head. She quickly turned away, but couldn’t help noticing his trim muscular body. She thought she heard him laughing as he lathered up in the streaming cascade of water.

  In a few minutes she heard the water shut off, and the rustle of a towel as he briskly dried himself. She sat stiffly on a wobbly plastic bench with her back to him, struggling to calm herself in the steamy air.

  “I got my pants on now, jeez you act like you never saw a naked man before.”

  Margret looked at the ceiling, clutching her shower bag to her chest. She didn’t—couldn’t respond.

  “I’m going to stand right outside the door. Don’t take all day, if you do, I’ll bust the door down. Now fix yourself up a little.” He opened the door and went out.

  Margret was almost hyperventilating. She quickly turned the lock, resting against the door for a moment before starting to undress. Emotionally exhausted, she just stood in the shower letting water run over her for a full five minutes. Feeling exposed, she hugged herself, letting tears mingle with the clean water. She wanted to stand there long enough to wash away all the filth and ugliness of the last few days.

  Bruce pounded on the door and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She quickly shampooed and soaped, paying extra attention to the scabs that had formed over her tattoo. When she dried herself, the softened scabs rubbed off revealing ugly black ink embedded just under her skin.

  With her wet towel, Margret swiped away the steam. A skinny blonde woman looked back at her from the mirror. She was shocked at how much weight she’d lost. The cut on her head was only a thin line, and the bruises a slightly mottled yellow.

  She towel dried her hair, it looked good, falling loosely into place. Another knock on the door yanked her back to reality, she quickly dressed.

  When she opened the door, Bruce opened his mouth as if planning to cut loose with a barrage of insults. Instead he stepped back and nodded his approval, “Um—ready?”

  She followed him back to the truck. Once inside he said, “We’re going to do some business here. Don’t mess around, and this won’t be a big deal.” He
motioned for her to follow him out into the parking lot where he slowly walked up and down the rows of trucks, looking at each one.

  Margret was terrified. What is he doing? Could he be looking for a buyer for—me? The fresh feeling from her shower was fading fast, nervous sweat trickled down her back. Bruce stopped in front of a faded-green Mack truck with a day cab. A pitted chrome bulldog decorated the hood. He motioned to the driver, who was enjoying a cigar in the driver’s seat, to roll down his window. Margret hung back, not liking what was happening.

  “Hey driver, you from Mexico?”

  “Sí,” said the driver, somewhat warily. “Who wants to know?”

  “I just wondered if you were interested in doing some business.”

  “Maybe, depends on what you’re selling.” The man grinned at Margret and flicked the ash from his cigar out the window.

  “I was thinking about a swap.”

  “What have I got that you want, Senõr?” His eyes were still on Margret.

  “Your truck, if it runs good.”

  “And what’s in it for me?”

  “My truck. It’s an International,—I mean, Volvo, with a sleeper. Only two years old. I did some modifications on it.”

  The man looked a little disappointed, but still interested. Margret nearly fainted.

  “Why would you make such a poor trade? Is it stolen?”

  “It’s been modified, so it’s hard to trace. In Mexico it wouldn’t be a problem. You keep your trailer, I keep mine.”

  The driver opened the creaky door of his truck and stepped down. An eye still on Margret. “Let’s go see this truck of yours.”

  The Mexican driver walked all around the truck, he ran his hand over the areas that had been added, admiring the smoothness of the seams. He listened to it run and looked at the tires. “I can sweeten the deal with cash if you want to include her.”

  “I could use the cash, but she’s not for sale right now.”

  “Maybe I just borrow, for an hour.”

  Bruce hesitated, “Sorry amigo, not this time.” Margret was numb, not sure what just happened. The men shook hands and prepared to unhook trailers. “Margret, gather as much food and stuff as you can. You can leave the bedding, maybe keep the pillow.” He noticed her stricken face. “I’m not Arnold,” he said.