On the Run by Paul Westwood

 
    I took the risk of walking on foot. It was
hot. Not that I was surprised by the heat since I was in the
desert, on one of those little state freeways that wound its way to
Vegas. The sun was a blazing ball of orange, just now beginning to
dip on the horizon, which seemed like a thousand miles away. A few
cars had passed by, but in these days of sensation and worry, no
one was willing to pick up a scruffy hitchhiker with a three day
beard. But I knew I had to get to the next town and inside since
nights out in the desert turned cold. I also wasn’t ready to sleep
in the sand with the rattlesnakes and scorpions.
    Hearing the rumble of an approaching vehicle,
I turned my head. To my relief it was just an oncoming white van.
The driver was hidden by the glare of the sun. It passed me and
slowed to a stop. I saw a New York license plate. With rusty wheel
wells and a faded plumbing logo on the side, it wasn’t much of a
vehicle. But it beat walking.
    I ran up to the passenger window which rolled
down.
    “Was that your car back there?” the woman
inside asked. Her voice was smooth with only a hint of an eastern
accent.
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said with surprise since I
had expected some gruff workman to go with the rough exterior of
the van.
    She was a thinnish creature, though not
overly petite, somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties.
Her hair was dirty blonde, cut almost boyishly short, and the blue
eyes revealed an innate intelligence. The tiny mouth and narrow
head would be too wide for a fashion model, but still the parts
were put together beautifully. I had that moment of shock that only
happens a few times in life – love at first sight. This was a woman
that men could easily fall in love with, and continue to love over
the years, even if it meant heartache and sorrow. I was almost
afraid of her. She reeked of sexual danger that made my heart beat
fast and hard.
    “Why didn’t you use your cellphone and call
for a tow?” she asked.
    As she talked, I could see fine pointed teeth
underneath her pale lips. I could imagine her nibbling on my ear or
biting my neck.
    I pulled my phone from out of my front
pocket. I held it up and said, “The battery ran out this morning.
So I had to walk.”
    She hit a switch on the driver’s door and the
lock plungers clicked upwards. “Get on in,” the woman said. “I’ll
give you a lift to the next gas station.”
    I clambered in, setting my duffel bag by my
feet. After I had shut the door, we were off. She drove fast,
steering the heavy van with practiced ease. It was hot in here. A
trickle of warm air leaked out from the vents. Looking over my
shoulder, I saw the area behind us was partitioned off by a metal
grate to protect the driver from any errant cargo. Lying on the
floor was a narrow mattress covered with a pile of blankets. On the
metal windowless walls were suitcases hanging on hooks. This
luggage swayed back and forth with the movement of the vehicle.
    Through the back windows, I saw something
that gave my heart a start. It was a black Lincoln, built back in
the days when Detroit still made massive land yachts for cruising
the highways. It was coming up fast behind us. I had seen this same
car back in Santa Fe and knew it was nothing trouble. Had the
driver seen me get picked up? If so, there was going to be
bloodshed.
    “What’s your name?” she asked, interrupting
my thoughts of dread.
    “James,” I managed to choke back. “The last
name is Warren.”
    I watched as the Lincoln sped by us,
continuing on until it disappeared ahead. I let out a sigh of
relief.
    “That car is going to get a ticket,” she
commented. “Anyway, I’m called Cat. You know, short for Catherine,
which sounds so terribly old-fashioned these days.”
    “Please to meet you, Cat. Aren’t you afraid
of picking up strange men on the highway?”
    “Not really,” she replied. With a sudden
movement, she pulled out a little handgun – a Colt - which quickly
disappeared again,