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

by Nancy Cupp

  The woman on the sign had a name, and a family. Did she matter so little that no body cared she was plastered all over the landscape in her sexy underwear? A tear slid down Margret’s cheek and she clenched her jaw.

  She allowed herself to think about Rosa and Blaize. Was Arnold using them, selling their bodies? He’d rent them out like a boat or car, then junk them when they were used up. Margret wanted to yell and rant, but she was trapped too.

  Bruce hadn’t touched her but she was forced into crime. She was moving dangerous nuclear waste. She could be the cause of thousands of deaths. Margret’s face contorted, how would she get out of this mess without anyone getting killed?

  She was yanked out of her thoughts by Bruce’s cell ringing. He groggily answered, “Yo, whatdaya want Arnold?” Margret could hear bits of conversation. “Ah—I dunno, where we at Margret?”

  “Last sign I saw, it was forty miles to Grand Junction,” said Margret.

  “Almost to Colorado,” Bruce said into the phone. “Why?—At NuPower?” Bruce sat straight up now, “No, she’s been with me the whole time, she ain’t been no trouble—we ditched the truck, it’s in Mexico by now. There ain’t any markings on the trailer…oh—yeah it’s a fourteen-footer.” Bruce held the phone away from his ear.

  “Get yer ass back here fast,” Arnold yelled loud enough for Margret to hear.

  Bruce tossed the cell on the dash and slumped back in his seat. He stared out the window for half-hour before he spoke. “He says there was an investigation at NuPower. It was all over the news. They suspect stuff has been moved, and they’re looking for a black truck.”

  “Not a problem for us, this one’s green,” said Margret trying to disguise her fear.

  “They know it’s in a fourteen-foot trailer. There ain’t a lot of them, most are thirteen-six. It won’t be long, they’ll be stopping every fourteen-footer that rolls through.”

  “Weigh station coming up,” said Margret. She wondered how much time she’d have to spend in jail. She was angry she wasn’t able to do anything to help the other girls. This isn’t my fault!

  They crossed the Colorado border, and a few miles later passed under a bridge. Margret saw a white patch of paint meant to cover graffiti on the concrete support column. It was barely readable, but a little bit of blue had bled through the white, she knew it said Trust Jesus.

  The weigh station was in sight. Bruce drummed his fingers on the door panel, and leaned forward straining to see if it was open or not. “Closed,” he punched his fist in the air. “We might make it yet.”

  Margret hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she let it go. Her neck and shoulders hurt, the tension was giving her a headache. Maybe God had a plan, maybe she was supposed to do something. It didn’t seem likely that God wanted them to succeed in hiding nuclear waste, but she couldn’t see a way out. Something would have to happen soon. They’d be back at Arnold’s quonset by tomorrow morning.

  Bruce said, “What do you think about just dropping this trailer somewhere and then disappearing for a while, or maybe forever?”

  “I’d love to be free of this thing, but what about Rosa—and Blaize? Endangering the whole country with nuclear waste is one thing, but being an accomplice to murder is something else…”

  “Dammit, why the hell you gotta be so—right? He’s got me by the balls too ya know,” said Bruce. “He’s got all the money, and he’s got me doing things he convinced me were a good idea.”

  “You could have…”

  “Yeah—but I thought my big brother wouldn’t screw me over. I have to finish it—get the money and go.”

  24

  Loveland Pass

  At dusk they stopped in a little town called Rifle to switch drivers. The rest area was a little off the main highway in a city park near a river. They walked around the park to stretch their aching legs, and Margret stopped to read a plaque. “It says the town was named because some guy forgot his gun near here.”

  “So he came back and started a town?”

  “I guess so,” said Margret, trying to twist the kinks out of her back.

  “We got anything left to eat in the truck?”

  “One can of stew and some granola bars,” said Margret, “but we don’t have a can opener.”

  Margret was glad to be done driving for a while, she was tired, and she suspected there’d be some big mountains coming up. They ate granola bars and sipped on the last two bottles of water as Bruce drove.

  Margret balanced the road atlas on her lap. “This shows only two more weigh stations. One just before Denver and one right by the turn off on US-40. Maybe they’ll be closed at night.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You’re gonna go through Vail and all those fancy ski resort towns. I hear it can snow any time of the year there. It must be high in the mountains.”

  “Great, all I need is a blizzard,” said Bruce. “I wonder if we have chains in this truck.”

  “Do you know how to chain-up?”

  “Nope. Do you?”

  “No,—I guess it better not snow,” said Margret. She rolled down the window and stuck her hand out. “It’s cooler, but still way too warm to snow.” Since it was too dark to see much, Margret settled back to try to get some sleep.

  She woke up several times when Bruce had to downshift for the steep grades. It was slow-going up, and he had to stay in a low gear to control the speed on the downgrades.

  Rain splattered the windshield and the wipers squeaked and thumped leaving wide arcs of rain and smeared bugs behind. With one eye open, Margret got a few glimpses of the lush resort towns and a shadowy idea of the mountains behind them.

  The truck strained up a particularly long slope when Bruce said, “Oh no, now we’re screwed.”

  Margret opened her eyes, “What’s going on?”

  “We’re coming to the Eisenhower Tunnel. There’s a sign that says no hazmat…”

  “I thought we were pretending we have hay.”

  “Yeah, but it also says the clearance is only thirteen-six,” said Bruce.

  “We’re screwed. Is there a way around?”

  An official looking vehicle was sitting on the side of the road near a large pull-off area. The driver got out and was waving both arms, motioning them to stop. “Shit, what am I gonna do?”

  “Just stop, he looks friendly and he’s not the DOT or a cop,” said Margret.

  Bruce pulled into the parking area and stopped. He slammed his hand on the steering wheel and swore again. When the man from the car approached, he rolled down the window. Cold air and rain pelted in.

  “Hello sir, I’m from the Eisenhower Tunnel Commission. We got an alarm in the office that an over-height vehicle was coming up the hill. Did you see the height restrictions? How tall is your trailer?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s fourteen feet, but I didn’t know where to turn around. Is there another way into Denver?”

  “You have to turn around here, I’ll watch traffic. Go back to Dillon and take US-6. You’ll have to take Loveland pass.”

  “Loveland?”

  “Yeah, it’s a bit further, but your trailer won’t make it through the tunnel.”

  “I can’t do this,” Bruce muttered.

  Bruce just sat there for a minute, until the official angrily gestured for him to move. “Hey, I can’t hold up traffic all night—get going,” he yelled. Bruce reluctantly turned the rig around and headed back down the steep incline.

  The rain was getting heavier, and Margret could see branches of trees glittering with a thin coating of ice. They passed a sign saying they were at eleven thousand feet elevation, and they’d already been going down for a while. The old Mack didn’t have a thermometer to tell them the outside temperature, but the wipers were coated with a build-up of slush.

  Margret could see Bruce clenching his jaw. He was driving even slower than she would, and she wondered if he was planning to stop. They were still on the steep slope, and there wasn’t much shoulder for parking
a big truck. She grimaced when she saw the runaway truck ramps.

  “Um—I think the shoulders might be slippery,” said Margret. “I can still see road spray from the cars in front of us. The traveled part of the road should be all right.”

  “I can see that, dammit.” Headlights glared on the wet road surface. Bruce eased into the exit for US-6, the other west-bound traffic remained on I-70.

  He stopped at the top of the ramp. It was unlikely anyone else would be using the road at that hour. The town of Dillon had a few streetlights, but otherwise looked deserted. He put on the parking brake and just sat there looking out the window. “I can’t do this,” he said.

  Margret thought she could see light reflect off wet streaks on his face. “Why? Is it too slippery?”

  He hesitated for a moment, “This is where it happened. They had a load that couldn’t go through the tunnel and they went this way.”

  “Who? Your Dad?”

  “Yeah, him and Arnold.” He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “I didn’t really know the location, just Loveland. It makes sense now, why they would’ve gone off on a back road.”

  “I’m sorry, it must be hard for you.”

  “Dammit, it didn’t have to happen. Why was he always trying to push the system—make a quick buck? And me and Mom always at home waiting…waiting for him to come and slap her around…” Bruce broke down crying. “I only wanted him to think I was good enough too.”

  Margret gave him a few minutes, “This rain is starting to freeze, and there isn’t much traffic on this road…”

  “So what? It really doesn’t matter anymore. I could just drive it over the edge like he did. I think it was Arnold, my dad wouldn’t have gone over…”

  “We’re carrying nuclear waste. It could make thousands of people sick. Maybe they even die from cancer. I don’t think you’re that kind of guy. You’re not Arnold.”

  “Cancer—sucks. I watched Mom die from it, just a little bit at a time. It killed me too. Changed everything, who I was, what I wanted to do…”

  “So—oh no! There’s a cop coming up behind us,” said Margret. Blue lights flashed in the mirror. “We can let this go—right now, but then you’ll have the murder of Rosa on your conscience. We’ll get thrown in jail, and Arnold will be long gone. He gets off with nothing. Please…you’re not that guy, Bruce.”

  Bruce rolled down his window. “Could I see your Bill of Lading please,” said the officer. Bruce handed the phony papers out the window. The officer studied them with his flashlight, then handed them back.

  “Look, you can’t park on this ramp. I know you had to go this way because you’re too tall for the tunnel, but you have to go on through. There’s no place to park until you get to the other side, back on 70. The weigh station is closed until morning, you can park there. I know there wasn’t any parking since Vail.”

  “Yes, sir, we were just switching drivers.”

  “We’re checking all the fourteen-foot trailers, but you’re good to go with hay on board. The pass should still be clear, they salted it before this rain started.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ll just switch drivers and be on our way. Thanks.” Bruce rolled up his window. He and Margret crawled over each other in the cramped space of the cab.

  Margret got herself settled, adjusted the mirrors, and put the truck in gear. She didn’t dare speak, the tension in her throat wouldn’t allow it.

  The ramp had been salted, but she could see ice on the shoulders. She remembered from her classroom training that black ice on the roadway couldn’t be seen, and conditions like these were likely to cause it.

  Bruce seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. Margret hoped he’d make a decision they all could live with. She wondered if she’d ever be able to justify what they were doing—what if the load was already leaking radiation? Would she manage to escape, only to lie dying of cancer in a hospital room?

  The two lane highway steadily gained elevation. They were past the town and only their headlights lit the roadway. Frozen slush left a wet arc on the windshield.

  Large chunks of salt and sand were sprinkled liberally on the glistening asphalt surface. She hoped it would be enough to cut through the building ice. Bruce worked on the defroster controls, trying to keep the windshield clear.

  “Damn, one day we almost burn up in the desert, and the next I can’t get enough heat outta this thing to keep the windows defrosted.” Neither of them had anything more than summer clothes with them, and it was getting cold.

  “I’d stop to clean off the wipers, but I’m not sure we’d get going again on this grade,” said Margret. “So far it isn’t too bad. It’s just a long, slow climb.”

  Margret had to downshift again. They were only in fourth gear, the truck was groaning to maintain twenty miles an hour. It seemed like the way was getting narrower as they climbed. Carved into the mountain side, the road snaked tightly into a hairpin turn. The headlights momentarily shone out over a black void.

  Margret gasped, “Why aren’t there guide rails out here? There’s nothing but the narrow shoulder. Crap, we couldn’t pull off and park if we had to. What if we had engine trouble?”

  Bruce didn’t answer, he was no longer working with the heater. His hand gripped the door handle. The headlights illuminated a tiny sign, Loveland Pass, Elevation 11,990.

  The highway took tight turn, another sign warned them of a steep grade. Maintain low gear, it advised. Near the edge of the road, remnants of icy snowbanks from previous storms had been pushed aside.

  Margret’s stomach tightened. She tried to remember everything she’d read about driving on a steep downgrade. Henry Ford’s quote echoed in her head, “Whether you think you can, or if you think you can’t—you’ll be right.”

  “Okay, I think I can—I know I can,” said Margret. She couldn’t let herself think about her fears, “Stay off the brakes, Trust Jesus,” she muttered.

  The road curved back around on itself in a tight switchback. A lone street light was placed strategically to shine where the trailer tandems would off track on the hairpin turn. She had to use the oncoming traffic lane to keep the trailer tracking on the road.

  The light also revealed a sheer drop into nothing. Margret heard Bruce hyperventilating, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off the road to look at him.

  As soon as they were around the turn, the road plunged steeply downward again. The low gear, and Jake-brake held them at twenty miles an hour, but the engine roared. Margret could feel the weight pushing them. “Come on Jack, don’t fail me now,” she said.

  The road vanished from sight as it wrapped tightly around the mountain. Margret carefully stayed in her lane, but the trailer tandems tracked to the inside and crossed the center line. “Good thing there’s no traffic up here,” she said.

  Ahead they could see a glow of lights in the deep valley. A tiny ski town was nestled between the slopes. Across the void, they could see ski lifts marching up the bare runs waiting for heavy snowfall to bring them to life.

  As they dropped in elevation, the curves became wider and the pitch less severe. The road widened out again and shoulders became evident. Margret sighed in relief as the two-lane blended back into I-70.

  The six-lane highway was still steep, but it seemed almost friendly as the lights of Denver twinkled below in the distance. The rain had stopped, and chunks of ice dropped off the wipers as it melted at the warmer elevation. As promised, the weigh station was closed. Several trucks idled in the lot.

  “Do you want to stop?”

  “No,” said Bruce, “I just want to get the hell off this mountain.”

  The sky showed signs of light as dawn approached. They passed a runaway truck ramp and Margret said, “Why do they have those here? They should’ve been on Loveland pass.”

  “There’s your guide rails too. I guess there wasn’t anywhere to put ‘em up there,” said Bruce. “Thanks, I don’t think I could’ve made it through there.”

  “You’re a better driv
er than I am,” she gave him a quizzical glance.

  “Not this time, I woulda froze up. I kept seeing places where they might’ve gone over. I still feel like I could puke.”

  “Maybe you’re just hungry. I’m starving, and I need coffee.”

  “We’ll stop in Denver for breakfast. I think I’ve got enough money left so we don’t have to drive off.”

  “Good, I’m all done with being the getaway driver,” she said with a smile.

  25

  Fence or Pole?

  They were just finishing a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, and lingering over a pot of coffee when Bruce’s cell rang. He groaned, “That’ll be him. Maybe I won’t answer.”

  “You got a plan?” Margret asked, refilling both coffee cups.

  “Nope.”

  Bruce answered the phone, “Hello Arnold.”

  Margret watched as Bruce’s face went hard. He listened for a while, and then said, “We’re only a couple hours away…. Relax, we’ll be there when we can get there….”

  Bruce motioned for the waitress to bring the check. “I heard you, just wait until we get there…” He emptied his pockets and left the money on the table.

  Standing up, he motioned for Margret to follow. “What the hell do ya want me to do with this thing? It’s not like it was my idea,” he snarled into the phone and then hung up.

  “I take it he’s getting nervous,” said Margret following Bruce at almost a trot.

  They piled back into their reliable old relic and Bruce started it up. “There’s been lot’s of stuff on the news, he’s getting ready to bolt. I told him to wait—I don’t know where he was planning to dump this thing. There’s a ravine or something where supposedly he’s got a ‘dozer to bury it.”

  “It’ll be good to cover it with dirt, that’ll shield it and make it safer.”

  “Wish I knew if the last weigh station was open or not,” said Bruce.

  Margret dug out the dog-eared atlas, “We could get around it, but that’ll take at least another hour.”