NIGHT CRUISING (31 page)

The truck parked in the
trucker lane. There was one more truck already in the line, but it
was farther up. The truck driver left three open slots between them
for privacy's sake. Cruise parked in a space for cars. The light from
the public bathrooms stained the cultivated lawn, but didn't reach to
the parking places. He had to hurry before more four-wheelers found
their way into the rest area. It was too early in the night for most
of them yet.

He had Molly out of the
car, his hand around the back of her neck, pushing her slightly
before him as they crossed the tarmac to the rear of the truck. He
circled to the side closest to the freeway so that if anyone came
into the area while he was doing the job, they wouldn't see him. He
had to take the chance of the other trucker parked in front looking
in his side mirror, but it was unlikely. He was probably snoring in
his sleeper.

"Please, don't do
this," Molly said.

"You cry, you
bitch, and I'm going to take off your fucking head. Now
smile
."

His arms. They itched
so bad, he had to rub his left arm against his side. His right one,
the one holding Molly, felt like it was going to explode from the
bandages. He couldn't understand it.

Couldn't think of it.

Had to get the truck.
He knew how to drive one. Maybe not this particular one, but he'd
figure out the gears by watching the driver go through the motions.

The driver was down
from the cab. He wore greasy jeans and an undershirt. He was black.
Cruise hadn't known that from talking to him over the CB. Big fucking
deal. They

bled just as easily as
white men. He'd taken them before.

"Hey, girl,"
the trucker said as they approached. He didn't have time to check
over Cruise. His eyes swallowed Molly like a morsel of tasty cream
dessert.

"I told you, man.
Ain't she worth it?"

"What do you say,
girl? You worth it?"

Molly choked trying to
speak. Cruise stepped to her side, hand still on her neck. "She's
still shy. Hasn't been in the business too long, you know how it is."

"Never had a black
man, I guess," the man said and smiled. "Honey, all the
stories are true. We all got bigger cocks than these white boys."
He laughed out loud, throwing back his head.

When so engaged Cruise
dropped his death grip on Molly and went for the knife. He had backed
the black against the side of the truck before he had finished
laughing. "What you doing, hey now..."

"What I'm doing is
taking your truck. You're driving us across the state line. I'll let
you out somewhere down the way if you're real good."

"Hijacking my
fucking truck? Why, you son of a bitch. I heard of you guys..."

"You've never
heard of me. Now follow me back to my car to get my gear."

Cruise had him carry
the luggage. He kept his hand on Molly's neck. Back at the truck door
he said, "Get up in the cab."

"But, hey,
everything I got goes into this truck. It cost me..."

"I'm not
interested in your finances. Now move." Cruise took a tiny slice
of the black's neck, enough to get the blood flowing, and the fear
instilled.

The trucker yelled,
reached up quick to feel the cut, came away with sticky fingers.
"Okay. All right," he said. "Don't get nervous, okay?
You can have the fucking truck. I don't want it that bad."

Cruise knew some of
these truck jockeys stashed an arsenal. They were the National Rifle
Association's hardcore supporters. Some even had Uzis, they were so
nuts about preventing a hijacking. He climbed right behind the black
to make sure his hands didn't go for a weapon. Once he was up on the
step and facing the driver, Cruise said, "Now get in the sleeper
for a minute. Stow my gear. If you make a move, motherfucker, you're
a dead man, won't bother me a bit."

"Take it easy,
take it easy." The driver crawled over into the sleeper. Cruise
motioned for Molly to climb up behind him. He had her follow as he
moved onto the engine cover, gestured her into the sleeper with the
driver, before he took the passenger seat. "Okay, come on out
and drive this bastard."

The black made his way
into the driver's seat. He shut the door. "This is a rotten
thing to do to a working man. I've been paying on this rig for two
years already," he said.

"Shut up and
drive."

They crossed the state
line into Arizona without notice. Cruise saw state patrol cars every
few miles. Real ones, not phantoms. He slumped in the high seat so
they wouldn't see his hair. It wouldn't be long before they found the
Chrysler at the California pickle park and figure he'd hopped a ride
with someone, or stolen a car.

Cruise studied how the
driver put the truck through the gears. Outside of Tucson he said,
"Pull over at some place we can get some food."

"Whatever you say,
Jack. You the boss."

"I also want you
to drop this load."

"Now wait a
minute..."

Cruise moved across the
engine cover and had the knife out all in one motion. The thermos
next to the gearshift fell over onto the floorboard with a bang. The
driver jerked upright in his seat. The truck began to weave. "Whoa!"

"You don't want to
argue with me."

"No, no, I don't
wanna do that, don't get carried away with that knife, okay? I'll
find a place. We'll drop the load, don't worry. No skin off my ass,
ain't my stuff."

"That's right. It
isn't yours." Cruise slowly relaxed into the passenger seat
after looking at where Molly was curled into a corner of the sleeper
as far as she could get from him.

A billboard announced
Guthrie's Truck Stop at the next exit. The black drove to it, Cruise
watching as he changed gears and worked the clutch. He thought of
something.

"You got mud flaps
on this rig?"

"Sure."

"Good. I want it
legal on the road." He knew from hearing the truckers talk over
the years that trucks couldn't go into cities without mud flaps. They
were ticketed without them. That's all he needed, a cop pulling him
over.

First he'd get rid of
the load. They ever found out he had taken a truck, they'd be looking
for one with a trailer. Next he'd get rid of the driver. He thought
he could drive the rig without instruction now.

Turning into Guthrie's,
Cruise leaned forward and looked through the wide windshield for a
quiet place to park the truck and drop the load. He pointed to the
rear of the building. "Back there, back row."

"Whatever you
say."

The driver circled the
big truck and began backing it into one of the last slots near the
rear fence that bounded on open pastureland. When he had it parked
and out of gear, Cruise watched how he pulled out one of the knobs on
the control panel and a second knob popped out all on its own. He
heard the gushing hiss of air brakes. He had to remember that.

Cruise told him to get
out and unlock the trailer from the cab. He descended from the
passenger side after giving Molly a hard glance. He watched while the
man pulled the big rod that unhooked the trailer from the truck. He
watched closely while he cranked the landing gear to the cement.
There were big red and blue air hose cables to unlatch, an electrical
connector to disconnect.

Inside the cab again
the driver put the truck into first, gave it a little goose of gas.
There was a thump and the cab rocked. He goosed it again and there
was a clang as the rig came loose of its load.

"Good. Now let it
sit while we get something to eat." The driver relaxed in the
seat, breathing noisily.

"They're gonna
hate losing this fucking load," he said.

"I'm hauling a
reefer full of California avocados. It was a damn good payload too."

"You make me want
to cry. Now climb out of the cab. Molly, you stay put."

Cruise hurried around
the front of the rig. He confronted the black man as he hit the
pavement. "Let's go check the reefer first."

"What's to check?
We're leaving it, right?"

"Just go."
Cruise had the knife in his hand. The driver saw it, began walking to
the rear of the trailer. There weren't any trucks parked in the back
row with them. There was nothing beyond the hurricane fencing but
yucca plants and prickly pear.

Just as the black
driver reached the back doors and began his turn to face Cruise, the
knife did its business. The victim held his throat closed with one
hand, but blood pumped between and over his fingers. He looked like
he was gagging, as if had a chicken bone caught in his gullet. What
he had was too much blood and no way to swallow it all. He stood on
his feet for what seemed like a long time staring straight into
Cruise's eyes. He didn't make any sounds. He didn't move his hand
from his fatal wound. He stood there while blood covered the front of
his white undershirt and soaked the top of his jeans. Then suddenly
he fell to his knees, the sound like walnuts cracking under the force
of a hammer blow. He fell forward, Cruise backing out of the way just
in time. The victim's hands, both of them now, were still around his
own throat.

"That's what you
get," Cruise whispered as the blood ran onto the lip of the
pavement and over into the dry dirt.

No time to wash. Had to
get the hell out of Arizona. Needed to make New Mexico before
morning.

In the cab he took the
driver's seat. Molly hadn't moved from her frozen position in the
sleeper's corner.

"You're driving?"
Her voice was shrill as if she knew what he had done, but didn't want
to admit she knew it.

"Go to sleep or
something. Leave me alone'" He turned on the rig's lights,
pushed in the buttons that released the air brakes, stomped the
clutch, and got the transmission into first gear. As he drove from
the parking lot, the rig too powerful without its load to haul so
that it bucked and tried to get out of control, he wished he could
have gotten something to eat.

He could smell some
blood on him somewhere. He felt his shirt, but it was dry. He felt
his arm that itched and there it was, that sticky wetness that drove
him mad. He didn't know if it was his blood from the cuts he'd made
on his arm or the driver's blood, not that it mattered. It was going
to drive him out of his mind.

#

A Mayflower rig driver
parked next to the avocado-carrying reefer one hour after it had been
dumped. In his rear lights as he backed into the slot he thought he
saw something lying on the pavement near the fence. He went to
investigate. He stepped in a puddle of blood before he reached the
corpse. He didn't bother to check for a pulse. He knew the man was
dead.

A news crew from Tucson
picked up the story on the police scanner and were at Guthrie's Truck
Stop with a mini-cam minutes after the first patrol car squealed into
the lot.

Mark heard the report
of the slashing near midnight. He slammed the brakes and edged over
into the emergency lane.

"Tucson," he
muttered between gritted teeth. "He's backtracking. I
know
that's him."

Mark waited for a break
in the traffic, then bounded across the wide sandy space between the
east and west bound lanes. He stomped the accelerator. He had slept
all day and part of the evening hours before waking when the van next
to him revved its motor to leave. He wasn't far west of Yuma in the
state of California. If he drove like a son of a bitch he could get
to Tucson and be behind the killer once again. All these changes of
direction were mind-boggling. First the killer was going west on
I-l0, then north on 666, then south again to Yuma, then instead of
west, he had turned back east.

Mark decided it was
because he was trying to throw off the highway patrols. He was
leading them on unpredictable paths.

The latest death
happened at a truck stop. The identity of the man was not yet being
released pending family notification, but the announcer did say he
was a truck driver, carried his D.O.T. certification in his wallet.

What if the killer
stashed the blue car and had stolen the dead driver's truck? They
wouldn't say that on the newscast. Mark had to decide if it made any
sense. It
sounded
right.

The killer probably
didn't expect his victim to be discovered so quickly. He thought the
truck would make good cover. If he heard the same reports Mark had
heard on the radio, what would he do?

He'd ditch the truck or
he'd get off the freeway system. Either way Mark would find him
eventually. He would never give up now. Not since on the last report
there was a cafe busboy as a witness. He worked at the truck stop,
was going off-duty, and claimed he saw a girl in the cab of a truck
in the back lot where the body was found. She was waving her arms,
the truck-stop employee said. Just like she was in bad trouble, but
for some reason couldn't lean out the window to yell at him for help.
When asked why he didn't go see what she wanted, the boy replied,
"She just went back into the sleeper, I guess. I started over to
the truck and she disappeared. I didn't think nothing of it. I had to
get home. How'd I know she might have been with a killer?"

That was Molly. She was
alive. Now he knew for sure.

When he reached Tucson
and saw the billboard for Guthrie's Truck Stop, he took the off ramp.
He didn't expect to glean any new information from the personnel, and
he was certain the police had already come and gone.

What he did want to do
was make a purchase.

He needed a CB.

#

He told her to climb
into the passenger seat. She didn't want to. It felt safer in the
sleeper, behind him where he couldn't see her.

There were smells in
the sleeper, comforting homey scents of bedclothes and sheets that
had been slept on, the pillowcase that held the aroma of hair oil.
She hoped the man who created these distinct, very human scents was
not dead, but she knew. She knew Cruise. She didn't want to think
about it much, sitting in the dark of the sleeper, sharing the same
space the driver had used for his rest. It seemed strange that his
personal scent could linger once his life was over. Possessions, yes,
the person's clothes, shoes, his toothbrush, his shaving articles,
this was to be expected and could be dealt with; they could be put
away. But how would his family feel when they crawled into the coffin
darkness of the sleeper and recognized their loved one's smell?