A Little Piece of Advice
Hitchhiking used to be common practice when I was in college in the mid-1960s. The fact that it is now dangerous is as good an index as any on how scary our world has become. For those who still dare to tempt fate, this cautionary tale was written just for you.
Hitchhiking on Interstate 40 was illegal. Not that the weight of the law was really necessary here. Most people had better sense nowadays.
That's why the girl sitting on her suitcase at the bottom of the on-ramp with her thumb stuck out toward the center median was such a curiosity. One by one the vehicles zipped by her, parting the air in waves of wind that fluttered her blouse where the top two buttons were unfastened. Drivers and passengers rubbernecked to catch a glimpse of her. Undaunted, she continued to show her thumb, casting her net for a ride.
She was rewarded when a late model maroon LeBaron sped by, showed its brake lights, and crunched gravel as it slowed onto the shoulder of the road. The car began reversing toward her. She grabbed her suitcase and ran to meet it.
"You can throw your suitcase in the back seat, " the driver said after he reached over and opened the door for her.
He was heavyset, in his late thirties, with a moustache and receding blond hair. A saltshaker scattering of dandruff frosted the collar of his tan sport coat. His hands knotted the steering wheel at ten and two o'clock. He wore a gold band on his wedding finger. Tobacco stains marred the tips of the index and middle fingers of his left hand. His eyes were grey and friendly. The girl thought he looked like a salesman.
"Thanks," she said as she got in, her blue jeans riding along her hips as she bent her body into sitting position. "I really appreciate this. "
The man signaled, looked over his left shoulder, pulled into the highway and accelerated.
"You got a name?"
She played with her red hair, trying to undo the damage from the wind teasing it for two hours. "You know anybody that don't?" After a pause, "I'm Gina."
"Well, Gina, I'm Joe. Glad to meet you. How far you going?"
"Junction City."
Her blouse was tied around her middle, and he noticed she had a ring in her navel. A heavy coat of rouge, mascara and eye shadow failed to belie her youth. Maybe it was the freckles splotched across her face that gave her away. She couldn't be a day over sixteen, he guessed. Despite the hard edge she was trying for with the tattoo sticking out from under her sleeve, she looked very vulnerable.
"I can take you to Union Heights. Maybe you can catch a ride from there on in."
She nodded, looking into her compact and still fussing with her hair. She cradled her purse in her lap. "I'm much obliged."
He stole glances at her while she gave no indication she was aware of his attention. She was watching him out of her peripheral vision, he would bet a month's paycheck on that. She didn't know him from Adam, yet she seemed completely oblivious to any danger he might pose to her. He didn't like that.
"I hope you didn't have to wait too long for a ride," he said.
"I did. Been at that spot for over two hours."
"You're lucky I came along."
"I'm much obliged," she said again. He continued to steal furtive glances at her. She was putting on lipstick now, some ungodly shade of orange. She was a pretty little heifer, he told himself.
He fiddled with the radio knob and conjured up a country station. "You got a family?"
"More or less. If you can call it that."
"You not running away from home, are you?"
She turned to look at him. Her eyes were big and blue, but the crease in her brow made them look clouded. "Mister, I been on my own for two years."
He noticed a sharp edge to her voice. He tried to soften her up. "It must be rough," he said gently.
"I manage," she replied curtly.
"Where you headed?"
"I told you. Junction City."
He changed lanes and accelerated around a camper. "I mean, you going to visit relatives, or what?"
"My boyfriend."
That figured, he thought. "I see."
He decided she didn't want to talk. That was okay with him. It had been almost three years since he had picked up a teenage girl on the freeway. He had something planned for this one. He wondered if she would take it better than the last one had. He pushed in his lighter and placed a Winston in his mouth.
"You got one of them to spare?" the girl asked.
He smiled at her. So she was willing to talk after all. "I don't know. You old enough to smoke?"
She rolled her eyes. "Give me a break."
"Let me see your teeth."
She bared them obediently.
"You've got nicotine stains on your teeth. So I guess I'm not going to start you on a bad habit you don't already have."
He offered her his pack.
"Thanks," she said, picking one out to light. She sucked smoke into her lungs leisurely, then sent it out in lazy curls.
She looked at him quizzically when she noticed he was pulling onto an off ramp.
"I know a shortcut," he explained.
She nodded and went back to nursing her cigarette.
The man drove along a blacktop road until they came to the burned-out carcass of a rusted green Buick off in the pines, then made a left turn onto a narrow dirt road.
"This will save us some more time," he said. He thought the girl's eyes widened, but she said nothing in protest. He offered her another cigarette and they both lit up again.
The dirt road cut through a forest so thick the tree branches reached out to hold hands overhead, swallowing the road in their shadows. The LeBaron sped down the center of the road, kicking up a plume of dry dust in its wake. They came upon a tree branch halfway across the road, and later a pothole. The man did not slow down either time, causing the vehicle to groan on its shocks.
The road forked once, and after a moment of indecision, the man chose the left fork. He ran a stop sign at an intersection. He turned right at the next intersection, then took two more side roads until the girl had no idea how they had come to be where they were.
Finally the road narrowed to nothing. The man pulled under an Oak tree and looked around. They were deep in the middle of the Sheridan National Forest.
"Well, this doesn't look familiar," he conceded. "I must have took the wrong road back there."
She peered through the trees to the end of the road. "I think you've got room to turn around over there."
When the man made no move to maneuver the vehicle, she looked at him expectantly.
The man cut off the ignition and stretched his right arm behind her headrest. Time to start the show, he thought. He smiled at her.
She gaped back at him. "Why are we stopping?"
Now he could hear a trace of nerves in her voice. Good.
He unbuckled his seatbelt. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked.
She chewed on her lip. "You look like a decent man."
He nodded. "So did Ted Bundy. Until it was too late."
She hugged her purse. "You are kind of giving me the willies."
Pleased, he flared his nostrils as he imagined the smell of fear wafting from her. He looked at the purse. She probably had a can of Mace in it. Or maybe she wanted him to think she did.
His head swiveled slowly, his eyes taking in their surroundings. "I can see why. Here we are alone in the woods, about five miles off the main highway. If I wanted to take advantage of you, do you bodily harm, who's to stop me?" She reached for the door handle. "Mister, if you don't start this car and get me back to the highway right now, I'm going to get out and walk."
He grinned at her. Her hand slid off the door handle and snaked into her purse.
He held up his hand. "Relax, young lady. You're in luck. I'm not a mad rapist." He slowly reached into his shirt and flashed a badge. "I'm Joe Boland, deputy sheriff of Halifax County. And I'll take you back to the highway. In fact, I'll take you all the way to Junction City. But do you mind if I give you a little piece of advice first?"
Her entire body sagged and the hand in her purse relaxed. "I don't mind."
"I deliberately took you down this road to teach you a lesson your mother should have taught you. You should never take a ride with a stranger, no matter how decent he looks. It turns out I'm one of the good guys, but I could have just as easily turned out to be a serial killer. I don't want to alarm you, but there is an escaped convict on the loose near Junction City, where you're headed. This guy's a real psychopath. Now, I want you to promise me you'll never take a ride with a stranger again."
She nodded sheepishly. "I promise."
He shifted the LeBaron into park and reached for the ignition. "I hope you're not too mad at me for tricking you the way I did. I give programs on safety at high school assemblies, but they don't seem to make an impression."
She laughed. "I'll have to admit, you've made an impression." She reached back into her purse and pulled out a .32 snub nose Rossi. "Now it's my turn. Put both hands on the steering wheel. No funny business."
Boland started. "Whoa now, honey, don't get excited. Whatever you want, we can work it out."
Suddenly she looked about ten years older, and Boland thought her voice picked up a lifetime of self-assurance. "I noticed you smoke with your left hand," she said. "That would mean your shoulder holster is under your right armpit. I'm going to disarm you with my left hand. If you flinch, my gun goes off."
"I'm not going to flinch. Take it easy."
He held fast while she took his weapon, a .38 Smith and Wesson.
When he was sure he could speak without startling her, he asked, "What do you want?"
She deposited his weapon in her purse. "First, I want to give you a little piece of advice. Not that you'll get a chance to use it."
He felt his bowels loosen. "Yeah?"
"Never pick up a hitchhiker, no matter how innocent she looks. I could have been one of the prima donnas without any street smarts that lets guys take advantage of her. Unlucky for you, I'm one of the nightmares you see on the six o'clock news. The escaped con you were talking about is my boyfriend. I'm on my way to meet him."
Boland began to sweat. "Ho boy," he croaked.
She rubbed her hand along the grey leather upholstery. "He wanted me to bring him a car. This one will do just fine."
"What are you going to do to me?"
She jammed her pistol into his side. "I'm going to make you famous. They'll read about you in the paper tomorrow."
His knees began to shake. He steadied them with his hands, and when she gave him the evil eye, he placed them back on the steering wheel. "Hey, you can have the car. You don't have to shoot me."
It was his wife's car, but he was sure she'd understand. Under the circumstances.
"Step out of the car, please," she said firmly.
Boland reached for the door handle. "You're not going to shoot me, are you? "
"Not until you step out of the car. You were right. My boyfriend's a real psycho. He'll kill me if I bring him a car with bullet holes in the door."
