At Linda’s, the diner, the gray-haired manager and one waitress both shook their heads when Cassidy flashed them Izzy’s picture. She chose a window seat and ordered a burger, then ate while keeping her eyes on the highway and the two gas stations—the Shell where the field camp van had stopped, and the Pilot across the street. A constant stream of travelers passed through: people in cars—families, singles, couples, semi-trucks, delivery vans, moving vans, motorcycles.
The Pilot seemed to have more semi-trucks than cars. Cassidy watched them gas up or pull over to park in the expansive gravel lot, their exhaust hissing like a weary beast preparing for sleep, or to roll over the scales. Would Izzy have begged a ride from one of the drivers? Mid-chew, Cassidy paused, her mind whirring. Of course. Blonde and leggy Izzy would probably be able to hitch a ride from some lonely trucker. In a rush, she paid her bill and hurried across the street, squinting against the blowing dust and heat. At the outermost pump stood a white semi-truck with blue lettering. Cassidy stepped into the shade of the pump’s awning and followed the trailer to the cab. But it was empty.
“Can I help you?” a clipped voice sounded from around the front of the truck.
Cassidy whirled around to see a dark-skinned man of medium build wearing a turquoise turban. He held a tall bottle of water and a plastic-wrapped sandwich.
“Yes,” Cassidy replied. “I’m looking for a friend who went missing here yesterday.”
The gas station attendant passed by Cassidy, nearly bumping her off-balance, and handed the driver a receipt. He climbed into his cab and set his water bottle in a cupholder attached to the dashboard then stepped back down, his steady gaze returning to Cassidy. “I am sorry to hear this,” he said, his sharp Indian accent so proper that Cassidy instantly corrected her slouch.
“She is a student of mine,” Cassidy continued. “She may have hitchhiked from here.” Cassidy slid her phone from her back pocket and opened the picture of Izzy, then flashed it at the man.
But the driver didn’t even look at it. “I never pick up unauthorized passengers,” he said, his nose flaring, as if he’d smelled something bad.
“Right,” Cassidy said, realizing it was too much to hope for. “Is that a policy?” she asked. “I mean, do all truck drivers avoid picking up hitchhikers?”
“I cannot comment on the policies of other companies,” the man said, who carefully unwrapped the sandwich.
“What if someone is in trouble?” Cassidy asked.
The driver tucked the gas receipt into a small rectangular ledger he’d picked up from inside the cab. “I have waited with stranded motorists for help, yes, but I never take on a passenger.”
Never? Cassidy wondered. “So you’re always alone?” Cassidy asked, curious. “Don’t you get lonely?”
The man shook his head. “They used to allow one family member, but I don’t want my family exposed to this life.”
“Would you mind if I just looked inside your cab? I’ll be fast,” she said, feeling bold.
The man blinked away his surprise. “All right,” he agreed. “But then I must go.”
Cassidy stepped around the cab door and climbed up to the wide seat. A modern-looking dashboard curved around the front. A smartphone extended from the vent from a prong-type holder. Hanging from the top of the window, a maroon banner edged with white fringe hung a quarter of the way down—a homey touch to the space that probably shielded the driver’s eyes better than any visor. In the adjacent seat, a box of tissues and a banana stood at the ready. On the other side of the black curtain tucked behind the driver’s seat, Cassidy noticed a small fridge and freezer unit.
She climbed back down. “Thank you,” she said to the driver, who in two giant steps swung into the cab.
“I hope you find your friend,” he said, reaching wide for the door’s handle, then closing it with a dense thump. Cassidy stood back as the engine rumbled to life and the truck rolled slowly towards the road.
Cassidy interviewed two more drivers, but their answers echoed the first’s. It was strictly against policy to accept passengers that were not approved by the company.
“Over the years, I’ve had a passenger or two,” one bearded man with a round gut told her. “But not so much anymore,” he added, tossing a finished bottle of Pepsi into the trash can. “Too dangerous. You don’t know what kinda drugs or whatever a person might bring onboard, or leave behind. There was a woman hitchhiker who was a serial killer in Idaho a few years back. As I heard it, she pretended to be all down on her luck and as soon as she got them alone she stabbed them to death.” He shuddered.
Cassidy flashed Izzy’s picture. “Would you have taken her?” she asked.
The man’s eyes shifted. “No, ma’am,” he said, his eyes looking anxious.
“Would someone else pick her up?”
“Hell, I’m sure somebody wouldda,” he said with a guffaw that made his belly jolt upwards.
“What do you mean?” Cassidy asked, even though she had a pretty good idea what he would say.
The man removed his grease-stained trucker’s hat and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. “Well, look at ’er,” he replied. “There’s creeps in this world, lady. That’s all I’m sayin’.” With that, he climbed back into his cab.
Cassidy went inside the Pilot, grateful for the air conditioning, and repeated her questions to the clerk inside, but wasn’t surprised when the clerk shook his head. She bought a soda and stepped back out, leaning against
