Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [34]
Chapter 42
IN THE RISING ENGINE WHINE of an approaching truck, I scrambled up onto the tiny concrete ledge on the highway bridge’s shoulder just in time. Blinded by headlights, road grit biting at the side of my face, I easily could have reached out and touched the side of the rattling, creaking, speeding eighteen-wheeler flashing by.
Or ended up underneath it.
My knees buckled as its swooshing waft of air came close to knocking me over the bridge’s shin-high railing and into the water. At least he was kind enough not to hit his eardrum-puncturing air horn as he clattered past like the truck before.
I hopped down off the ledge and soldiered on after the truck’s red taillights, swinging my CVS bag up on my shoulder. There wasn’t much left in it, half a package of Combos and a dwindling bottle of water. Supplies were definitely running low. My legs were OK, but my feet were killing me, starting to blister now in the Doc Martens after nearly four hours of walking.
Far out at sea, I spotted the red running lights of an anchored tanker. Above them, the clear startling night contained about a hundred billion silver-blue stars. I remembered how Peter and I had lain out in our backyard after our city hall wedding, drinking Coors Light and kissing in the dark like teenagers as we watched for shooting stars.
Now he was probably searching for me.
I figured that I’d covered about 20 of the 105 miles that make up the Overseas Highway, but I still wanted to put a little more distance between me and Key West before I tried to hitchhike. I wanted to be far enough away that anyone picking me up wouldn’t think to put me and my planned disappearance together.
After another ten minutes, I stopped and sat in the sand and finished the Combos. I stood immediately after I dozed off for a second. I couldn’t put it off any longer, I decided. I had to hitchhike now. If I didn’t, I’d fall asleep on the spot.
Peter was certainly back by now, and there was only one road out of Key West. If I was on it come morning, he would find me. I couldn’t let that happen.
I stood as a pair of northbound lights appeared in the distance behind me. I walked to the road, tentatively lifting my thumb.
The vehicle’s high beams dimmed as it slowed. I heard loud music coming from the radio.
Who would stop for someone out on this isolated piece of road? I thought, holding my breath. A good Samaritan? A weirdo? Peter?
I bit my lip to stop it from quivering as the lights hit me, and the car rolled to a stop.
It wasn’t actually a car, I realized, but a vintage hot rod pickup with windsurfing boards and sails jutting out over the cherry red tailgate. The radio was blasting AC/DC.
I took a breath as I made eye contact with the two people inside of it. The driver looked friendly enough, a young guy with short, reddish blond hair. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Neither was his wiry, older, and meaner-looking friend, who had a bottle between his knees and a well-endowed-mermaid tattoo on his forearm. I winced as I spotted their glazed red eyes and caught the reek of pot.
Damn, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?
“Hey, punk-rock girl. Need a ride?” said the wasted driver, turning down “Hells Bells.”
His Red Hot Chili Pepper reject of a friend took a swig of Southern Comfort and burped. “Cab’s a little crowded, but let me clear off a seat for you,” the tattooed guy said, wiping at his face.
I knew it, I thought, as icy pinpricks of fear made a path down my spine. I should have waited to hitch until I was at a place with more houses, more lights.
“Actually, guys, I changed my mind,” I said, walking away. “I think I’m going to keep walking. Thanks. My boyfriend will be here any minute anyway.”
I could feel my heart beating madly in my throat as the truck rumbled. I felt like crying as it kept pace alongside me.
The driver called to me, “Honestly. We’re more than happy to give you a ride.”
The truck suddenly shot off the road and did a half doughnut in front of me.
“Yeah, come on and stop being a bitch already,” said