Witness On The Run

The temperature inside the cab had gone from toasty to sweltering. Cam turned down the heat, contemplative. He’d never picked up a hitchhiker before. He’d seen his share of “lot lizards” in the lower 48. They were hard-looking women, desperate for hard-up men. Nothing like this fresh beauty beside him.

She waited for his answer in silence.

“I’ll take you to Fairbanks,” he said, against his better judgment. He knew it was the wrong choice. She needed help, beyond a simple ride north, and he couldn’t give it to her. He had nothing left to give. “From there you’re on your own.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I appreciate it.”

He made a noncommittal sound and fell silent. It was a long drive to Fairbanks, and he didn’t intend on passing the time with idle chitchat. He couldn’t remember how to engage a woman in conversation. The less she spoke, the easier it would be to ignore her. He could keep his mind—and his eyes—on the road.

A part of him wanted to look at her. A part of him wanted to do more than look. He’d been living like a monk for three years. He’d isolated himself in Alaska for a reason. He’d abandoned every comfort, including female company. He couldn’t imagine dating again. He almost couldn’t imagine a single night of pleasure.

Almost.

He knew she wasn’t offering. She wasn’t a lot lizard, and he didn’t prey on vulnerable women, regardless. The man he used to be, the man who’d been a good husband and conscientious police officer, would never have considered taking advantage of her desperation. The man he’d become was numb. He had no moral high ground. He was a shadow of his former self, frozen in grief. He suddenly longed for some release from the monotony of his existence. He longed for human touch.

He glanced at Jenny’s smiling picture on his dashboard. Her guileless expression never changed. She wouldn’t have approved of his reclusive lifestyle or his current predicament. But she was dead, and had no say in the matter. He moved his gaze to the windswept lanes ahead. His heart felt like a stone inside his chest. He didn’t say anything to put his passenger at ease. He just kept driving, into darkness.

Chapter 3 (#u0ab8344d-c16a-5c50-a33b-12b9ae170066)

Tala regretted asking him if he was a cop.

She should have just shut up and let him drive. He’d threatened to call the police, but he hadn’t picked up his phone or CB. He hadn’t pulled over and told her to get out. He’d questioned her safety, like any conscientious person would, and she’d panicked.

She couldn’t tell him what happened at the diner. He’d take her to the nearest police station and insist that she report the crime. She had no intentions of falling into that trap. No, she was going to run until she felt secure.

Running was what she did. It was what she knew.

She slunk lower in the passenger seat, feeling nauseated. She wished she’d never come to Alaska. She wished she hadn’t fled Canada like a thief in the night. Now she was in a bind, and she had no idea how to get out.

She snuck another glimpse at the man behind the wheel. She hadn’t lied when she’d said he didn’t look like a trucker. There was something different about him, beyond his handsome face. She couldn’t put her finger on what. He was rugged and outdoorsy enough to fit in with the locals. He wore flannel shirts and steel-toed boots. He had dark brown hair that curled around his collar and a well-trimmed beard that suited his features. She got the impression that he didn’t smile or laugh much. He had thickly lashed, soulful brown eyes.

He was built more like a logger than a trucker. His broad shoulders and lean physique added to his appeal. He looked stronger than most homesteaders. He could even pass for one of those elite mountain climbers who came to summit Denali. He was a man in his prime. He was also married. He wore a plain gold wedding band on his left hand. She hadn’t noticed it when he’d visited the diner.

The diner. A fresh wave of memories assaulted her. She could never go back there. Thoughts of Walt trickled in, making her heart clench. She hadn’t stopped to consider the danger to him. He’d been asleep inside the office. What if those men had shot him? Guilt and shame and fear struck all at once, overwhelming her.

“What’s your name?” the driver asked.

“Tala.”

“Tala? Is that Native American?”

In her distress, she’d forgotten to lie about her name. She’d been Abigail Burgess for the past six months. She massaged her forehead, wincing. “We don’t say Native American in Canada.”

“What do you say?”

“First Nations.”

“First Nations,” he repeated, glancing at her. “You’re from Canada?”

She nodded. Now that she’d screwed up, she might as well be honest. “I was born in Yellowknife.”

“They have ice roads in Yellowknife.”

“Yes.”

“Have you been on them?”

“No. Have you?”

“I’ve always wanted to. I’ve been on the Dalton, which has an ice road section near Prudhoe Bay.”

She hadn’t realized he was an ice-road trucker. Maybe that was why he reminded her of a mountain climber. Both endeavors required nerves of steel. Only the most daring truckers would drive over a layer of ice with arctic waters flowing underneath.

“I’m Cam, by the way. Cameron Hughes.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said automatically. It felt odd to have a normal conversation after what she’d been through. “Where are you from?”

“Tacoma, Washington.”

“When did you come to Alaska?”

“Three years ago. I needed to...get away.”

She could relate. Unless he meant he needed to get away from his responsibilities. Maybe he’d left a wife and children behind. He didn’t seem like the deadbeat-dad type, but she didn’t know him. She couldn’t judge his personality on polite manners and generous tips. His nice-guy vibe could be deceiving. After Duane, she didn’t trust easily.

The short exchange ended, revealing the extent of his curiosity about her. She was relieved by his disinterest. She didn’t want to talk.

The sun rose over the horizon as they continued north on the highway. Warm rays penetrated her window. A few hours ago, she’d been convinced she was going to freeze to death. It had been unbearably cold in that dark space. She’d pounded her fist on the cab for help. If he hadn’t pulled over to investigate, she might have died.

She moved her gaze to the side mirror. She didn’t think they were being followed. The road behind them was clear. The killers must not have seen her flee. She was safe—for now. Thanks to Cam, she was warm and dry.

She folded his jacket and set it aside. Then she removed the blanket. Her stockings were ruined, her knees scraped. She had bits of gravel embedded in her skin. Her palms were raw, too. She needed to wash up.

“I have a first aid kit in the glove compartment. There’s a toilet in the back. Make yourself at home.”

She glanced over her shoulder. There was a narrow bunk and a mini-fridge in the berth. “Do you sleep here?”

“When I have to.”

With his long legs and rangy build, he didn’t look like he’d fit. She rose to her feet and ventured into the space. A sliding door led to a closet-sized bathroom. It was cramped, but clean. She washed her hands at the sink before inspecting herself in the mirror. Her hair had come loose from the bun. She combed her fingers through the tangled strands to smooth the disarray. Then she returned to the front of the cab. Taking a deep breath, she helped herself to the contents of the first aid kit. After she cleaned the minor wounds with alcohol, she applied antibiotic ointment and stuck on some bandages.

“There are drinks in the fridge,” he said. “And sandwiches.”

She grabbed a bottled water. “Do you want something?”

“I’m good.”

He drove for several hours without speaking. It felt odd to sit next to a stranger in complete silence, but she made no attempt at small talk. Sharing personal information with him seemed unwise.