Chapter 8 - The Highway Roadblock
The gray dawn broke over the rail yards with a freezing mist that clung to our clothes like a second skin. Elena met us near the north spur at five o'clock, leading us toward an idling, grease-stained semi-truck parked behind the loading docks. The driver was a thick-set man named Miller who kept his cap pulled low over his eyes and didn't ask questions when he saw the two infants wrapped in the cream blanket and the pale, injured man leaning heavily on my shoulder.
"Get in the sleeper cab," Miller grunted, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the gravel. "We're hauling dry goods through the state line, but the highway patrol has every tollbooth locked down searching for a black sedan and a couple on foot. If they pull us, you kids stay buried under those spare tarps in the back."
We climbed into the cramped, vibrating cabin, Daniel settling onto the narrow mattress behind the seats while I held the twins tightly against my chest. The babies slept fitfully, lulled by the low rumble of the massive diesel engine as Miller shifted gears and pulled out onto the county highway. For two hours, the miles rolled past in tense silence. I watched the roadside telephone poles blur by, my fingers tracing the embroidered edge of the blanket. Daniel lay beside me, his breathing shallow and even, his hand resting protectively over my knee.
Around eight o'clock, the truck's air brakes hissed as Miller slowed down significantly. Through the windshield, I saw the flashing red and blue lights of a state police checkpoint spanning both lanes of the highway. Two troopers in yellow raincoats were waving commercial trucks into the shoulder, shining high-powered flashlights into every cab and checking identification papers against a printed manifest.
My breath hitched. Miller didn't panic. He downshifted smoothly, bringing the eighteen-wheeler to a halt right in front of a burly trooper who had a hand resting on the holster of his sidearm. "Morning, Sheriff. Just hauling paper goods up to the valley distribution center," Miller said, his voice dripping with bored, blue-collar indifference as he handed over his commercial license and logbook.
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The trooper scanned the papers, then flashed his beam across the dashboard, his gaze lingering briefly on the passenger seat where my green diner apron lay balled up under a jacket. My heart hammered so hard I was certain he could hear it through the steel bulkhead. "Got anyone else in the rig with you?" the trooper asked, narrowing his eyes as he took a step toward the passenger door.
"Just my niece helping me run the route," Miller lied without missing a beat, nodding back toward the curtained sleeper berth. "She's sleeping off a migraine in the back. You want me to wake her up for ya?" The trooper hesitated, listening to the steady hum of the motor, then handed the logbook back with a wave of his hand. "Move it along, keep the shoulder clear." Miller grinned, dropped the clutch, and surged past the checkpoint, leaving the flashing lights behind us in the misty valley fog.
