Crimson Highway David Wickenhauser (beach read book TXT) 📖

“Thank you,” she murmured. Then she turned and began walking toward her shower room door.

“Don’t forget to wash your hair,” Hugh reminded, not so unkindly as he had last time, and not so loud that everyone in the travel plaza could hear him.

“Yes, Hugh,” she whispered quietly to herself as she disappeared inside.

Chapter Five

Hugh busied himself picking up and replacing the things that had tumbled during his hard brake.

He thought about Jenny. There were still way too many unanswered questions for Hugh to believe that he could trust her. Who was she talking to on her cell phone? What about her interest in the Susanville attempted hijacking? What about her sudden interest in helping a stranded motorist on the highway? That was certainly out of character from what he’d seen of her since first picking her up today.

Was it just today—a few hours ago? It seemed like a lot longer.

And, most of all, what about her sudden softened attitude and expression in her interaction with him just now before her shower? There hadn’t been one ugly word from her since they had arrived at this truck plaza. That, alone, sent danger signals to Hugh. He knew how devious and conniving girls can be, especially pretty ones. He decided that he’d have to do more thinking about that.

As he was finishing picking up things, he came across her coat, which she had apparently taken off earlier, and had stashed in a corner of the sleeper. He didn’t want to touch the filthy thing, but he nevertheless was curious what he might find in her pockets that might give him some clues about who she was, and what she was doing way out in the desert by herself.

Glancing outside the window to make sure she was not on her way back, he explored her various pockets. He was hoping he might find her cell phone so he could see who had been calling her. But it wasn’t there.

But what he did find in one of the pockets was almost as good—her driver’s license. Pleased with himself at his decision to search her coat, he reached into the dirty, dark recess of the pocket and pulled out the card.

It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know … except for one very important detail—her last name. She was a McDonald. Jennifer McDonald, the ID card said.

Filing that information away in his brain, he placed the license back in the pocket, wadded the coat up to look like how he had found it, and shoved it back where it had come from.

The next big decision he had to make was what to feed them for dinner. He kept a fridge freezer stocked with frozen meals. Plus, he had “fixables” like hot dogs, and canned soup and such that he could heat up.

Hot dogs, he decided. It’s a hot dog kind of day.

He took several hot dogs from the package, placed them on a paper plate in the microwave oven, and waited for Jenny to come back from her shower.

He set out condiments like relish, ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise, along with hot dog buns, on his little pull-out tray that doubled as dining table and office desk. His sleeper “dining area” was set up for a single occupant, so it was going to be close, but they would have to manage.

He also dug out a can of pork and beans, opened it, and divided the contents into two paper bowls, ready for microwaving when the hot dogs were done.

Then he went up front and sat in his driver’s seat to wait for Jenny to return – hopefully cleaned up and homeless-person odor free.

Hugh, like most other truck drivers, was a people watcher. Of an evening at a truck stop, it was not at all uncommon to see drivers sitting in their drivers’ seats watching everything going on around them.

The evening was pleasant, and many drivers were enjoying being outside, standing together in small groups talking trucker talk. It always amazed Hugh how often one would run across a friend or acquaintance, even in a remote location like Wells, Nevada.

The days of the truck driver’s “brotherhood,” as it was called, were basically over. Drivers did still watch out for each other, and extended courtesies to each other that they did not give to “four-wheelers”—to a point. However, the recent influx of new drivers who came to truck driving from across the spectrum of age, education and cultural status because of the declining economy, meant that there were the same issues among them as among the culture as a whole.

  But, on a given night at a truck stop one could see a small gathering of drivers around a portable barbecue grill, for example. Or, it would be just that a group of drivers would casually gather to chat.

His musings were interrupted when Hugh noticed something new occurring outside. All drivers’ heads were turned, and focusing in the same direction—staring. Hugh followed their gaze to see what they were looking at.

“Wow!” He said out loud to no one. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore!”

Walking through the parking lot was a truly gorgeous gal.

This beautiful girl walked poised and confident through, and past, her horde of admirers, and made a beeline right for Hugh’s truck. All the other drivers were turning their heads watching her to try to see where she was headed.

As she got closer to Hugh's truck, recognition dawned, and then his stomach suddenly dropped out from under him as if he had just been shot up in an express elevator.

“Jenny!” he shouted, embarrassing himself because he didn’t mean to say her name out loud. He hoped she hadn’t heard him.

Smiling, she opened the passenger door and climbed up. “You like?” she asked, twirling with her arms out so he