modestly. “Actually it’s just a forty-eight-foot truck and a small office in an old warehouse in Venice Beach, California. The truck was brand new,” she added, sounding regretful. “I’d gotten a small inheritance from my Aunt Hester and used it as a down payment. I was in hock up to my eyeballs for it.
“It was our first big job, relocating an executive and his family from Beverly Hills to North Carolina. We drove across country, completed the job on time, then went out to dinner to celebrate. Harriet got food poisoning. The oysters, I guess. She ended up in the hospital. They said she would have to stay there for a couple of days, so I decided to drive the truck back myself. We needed it in LA, you see, for another job later that week.
“It had been raining hard all day. A ‘tropical storm,’ they called it on TV. I wasn’t going to let a drop of rain hold me up, I had to get back. So I set off. . . . Oh, God, I remember it as clearly as if I were there now. . . .”
13
Mel was driving the forty-eight-foot sixteen-wheeler cautiously along the narrow road. The night was as dark as a toad’s mouth and the howling wind rocked the high-sided vehicle scarily. Toppled trees and debris littered the deserted road and the rain slashed sideways, sending waves of water back and forth across her windshield.
Right now driving was guesswork and instinct. She told herself she was crazy for even attempting this trip when the forecast had said clearly that a tropical storm was certain and a hurricane a possibility. But business was business and she had to get back to LA.
Shivering with cold in her damp T-shirt and wishing she at least had a sweater, she ran a hand anxiously through her jagged blonde hair. She had been driving for what seemed eternity. She could swear she should have connected with the highway intersection half an hour ago, but navigation was not her forte. She had been known to get lost two blocks from her own home.
She hadn’t passed a house or a building in the past half hour and the prospect of being lost in the boonies in this storm terrified her. She would have turned back ages ago but the road was too narrow for the big truck. She decided that as soon as she hit the next town, she would find a motel and spend the night. LA could wait. A cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a warm bed sounded just great to her right now.
The road suddenly ended. Just in time, she stamped on the brakes and the huge truck shuddered to a stop. In front of her was a narrow bridge. She could hear the roar of surf, a bass note under the shriek of the wind, and was surprised to realize she was near the ocean.
Too
near. She couldn’t see the end of the bridge, but she could see huge white-capped waves swirling beneath it.
Very close
beneath it.
There was no room to turn the truck around and go back. She could either stay there and be drowned by the rising waves or risk crossing.
She drove cautiously onto the bridge, gripping the wheel tighter as the truck caught the full blast of the wind.
Dear God, what was she doing
here, she was out of her mind. Only an idiot
would get lost and attempt to drive over a bridge
in a hurricane.
The big truck aquaplaned the last few feet, then skidded onto a flooded road.
Mel unfastened her sweaty hands from the wheel. At least she was on terra firma, even if it was covered with a foot of water. Opening the window, she stuck her head out and looked back. Waves were sweeping over the bridge, it was already half submerged. There was no going back now.
The lane sloped gently uphill and in a few minutes she was on drier land. She was driving through woods with the wind roaring through the treetops. And then there was a house.
“Thank you, God,” she muttered.
Civilization.
At last.
The isolated house was all gables and porches, dark and spooky-looking. No welcoming lights shone from the windows, no smoke curled from its chimney, no dog barked.
A shiver crawled up Mel’s spine. She had
“It was our first big job, relocating an executive and his family from Beverly Hills to North Carolina. We drove across country, completed the job on time, then went out to dinner to celebrate. Harriet got food poisoning. The oysters, I guess. She ended up in the hospital. They said she would have to stay there for a couple of days, so I decided to drive the truck back myself. We needed it in LA, you see, for another job later that week.
“It had been raining hard all day. A ‘tropical storm,’ they called it on TV. I wasn’t going to let a drop of rain hold me up, I had to get back. So I set off. . . . Oh, God, I remember it as clearly as if I were there now. . . .”
13
Mel was driving the forty-eight-foot sixteen-wheeler cautiously along the narrow road. The night was as dark as a toad’s mouth and the howling wind rocked the high-sided vehicle scarily. Toppled trees and debris littered the deserted road and the rain slashed sideways, sending waves of water back and forth across her windshield.
Right now driving was guesswork and instinct. She told herself she was crazy for even attempting this trip when the forecast had said clearly that a tropical storm was certain and a hurricane a possibility. But business was business and she had to get back to LA.
Shivering with cold in her damp T-shirt and wishing she at least had a sweater, she ran a hand anxiously through her jagged blonde hair. She had been driving for what seemed eternity. She could swear she should have connected with the highway intersection half an hour ago, but navigation was not her forte. She had been known to get lost two blocks from her own home.
She hadn’t passed a house or a building in the past half hour and the prospect of being lost in the boonies in this storm terrified her. She would have turned back ages ago but the road was too narrow for the big truck. She decided that as soon as she hit the next town, she would find a motel and spend the night. LA could wait. A cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a warm bed sounded just great to her right now.
The road suddenly ended. Just in time, she stamped on the brakes and the huge truck shuddered to a stop. In front of her was a narrow bridge. She could hear the roar of surf, a bass note under the shriek of the wind, and was surprised to realize she was near the ocean.
Too
near. She couldn’t see the end of the bridge, but she could see huge white-capped waves swirling beneath it.
Very close
beneath it.
There was no room to turn the truck around and go back. She could either stay there and be drowned by the rising waves or risk crossing.
She drove cautiously onto the bridge, gripping the wheel tighter as the truck caught the full blast of the wind.
Dear God, what was she doing
here, she was out of her mind. Only an idiot
would get lost and attempt to drive over a bridge
in a hurricane.
The big truck aquaplaned the last few feet, then skidded onto a flooded road.
Mel unfastened her sweaty hands from the wheel. At least she was on terra firma, even if it was covered with a foot of water. Opening the window, she stuck her head out and looked back. Waves were sweeping over the bridge, it was already half submerged. There was no going back now.
The lane sloped gently uphill and in a few minutes she was on drier land. She was driving through woods with the wind roaring through the treetops. And then there was a house.
“Thank you, God,” she muttered.
Civilization.
At last.
The isolated house was all gables and porches, dark and spooky-looking. No welcoming lights shone from the windows, no smoke curled from its chimney, no dog barked.
A shiver crawled up Mel’s spine. She had
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