The flashers broke the moonless night, and the Hitchhiker strode slowly toward the idling van. The Driver watched the hooded figure with weathered rucksack and guitar case approaching in stop-motion created by the fiery strobe. The Hitchhiker opened the passenger side door and leaned in.

“Thanks for stopping, man. How far you going?”

The Driver was already clearing the passenger seat with one hand – fast food bags, candy wrappers, printed maps, phone cord, all tossed to the back seat. “Try’n to get to Jackson by midnight. Where y’headed?”

“As far North as possible… but Jackson by midnight sounds good for today,” a weary smile behind a vagabond’s beard.

The door closed and the dome light faded. The gravel gave way to asphalt and the van returned to speed. The empty Wyoming road ran exactly east to west because… why not? Every direction is the same out here. The headlights reached ahead, barely penetrating the absolute darkness, and the glowing red of the tail lights seemed to propel the ancient van forward into the void.

The Hitchhiker was grateful for the confines of the vehicle. The minivan’s engine seemed strained, but its low hum was a welcome alternative to the haunting almost-quiet of the desert. Even on the major roads it can be half an hour between passing cars and the noises come from every direction. Whistling in a graveyard is the phrase that came to mind. He tried the radio…. nothing.

“Don’t work,” offered the Driver, a second too late to matter. “Bought it off some Mexicans last week.” After a beat: “The Honda, not the radio.”

A short laugh, the tension broken. “Not many would pick up a hitchhiker way out here.”

The Driver considered the question beneath the comment. “I was startin’ to doze – happy for some company.”

With this implicit permission, the two men made small talk as the odometer tracked the time in lieu of a clock on a functioning radio. The conversation unfolded like two boxers trading jabs, neither willing to throw a longer punch for fear of exposing his own jaw. Staccato statements were separated by long stretches of tired engine noise and the rhythmic thump of the pavement joints beneath the steady tires.

Thump … thump … thump … thump …

“What’s in Jackson?,” asked the Hitchhiker.

“Something I need to find,” the Driver replied after a while.

Why had he picked this guy up? He wasn’t that bored that he couldn’t make the final few hours alone. Maybe after all he’d been through in the past couple of weeks, he just needed to be around someone who wasn’t chasing him or pleading with him. The emotional calm was refreshing, and at no point did he feel threatened. He figured he had fifty pounds on the guy, not to mention the piece in his ankle holster within easy reach.

Thump … thump … thump … thump …

“Where’d you start hitchin’ from?,” from the Driver after a while.

“Nashville… in 2022”

“You’ve been hitchin’ for two years?” The first genuine question.

“Three in October”

“Gotta be a story there”

“I guess there is”

The Hitchhiker was still feeling out his new companion, suspicious from the outset because there had been no license plate on the van when the driver stopped. He couldn’t decide if the story about Mexicans should make him more or less worried. The weight of the hunting knife on his hip provided him the courage to get in the van, but for now, the fewer details shared, the better.

Thump … thump … thump … thump …

Occasionally in the shadows to the side of the road, a ranch gate tried to emerge into view, adorned with triangles, wagon wheels, horns, skulls. Just as quickly the gate would fall away, like a dream shifting from all-too real to completely forgotten in the blurry blink of a waking eye. The Hitchhiker noticed the odometer coming up on 50 miles since he got into the van. Other gauges revealed that the engine was very warm and the fuel was very low, so when the truckstop sign appeared on the horizon, both men knew they’d be taking a short break.

“Still a hundred miles to Jackson,” the Driver said as they parked at a pump. “Let’s grab a bite here.” He nodded to the large window of the truckstop, where All Nite Diner was written in neon, randomly flickering from all-nite exhaustion.

The Hitchhiker pulled a clump of bills from his back pocket and passed it over. “For gas.” He walked toward the diner while the Driver tended to the fuel.

The Driver considered the money, which felt warm and a little damp. Twelve one-dollar bills in various stages of decay, most likely gained from busking or outright charity. It didn’t occur to him that the money could be stolen. After pumping the gas he headed inside.

A cowbell hanging from a patriotic ribbon clunked against the glass as the Driver stepped in. He paused and looked around, absently reaching back to catch the slowly closing door. Two old men with matching beards sat on stools beneath a muted television that showed a black-and-white western with captions on. The men did not look up from their pie. A middle-aged waitress was refilling a coffee cup for a twenty-something girl with olive skin and short dark hair. The Girl wore an oversized hoodie and had three small bars piercing her left eyebrow. A Covid mask hung around her neck so she could sip her drink. The Waitress wore orthopedic shoes that seemed as much of her uniform as the stained apron around her waist. The Hitchhiker must’ve hit the men’s room, so the Driver picked a booth under the neon sign, just inside the door.

“There are two of us,” he said to the waitress, who was walking over with a laminated menu. She pulled a second one from a wooden rack, gave it a damp wipe and left it on the opposite bench.

“Coffee?”

“Yes please,” holding up two fingers, which then rotated into a finger gun, pointing toward the old men. “And a piece of that pie.”

The Hitchhiker returned from the back of the diner with a passing nod to the Waitress, who was scribbling on her pad. He sat hard on the bench opposite the Driver, placing his dusty rucksack on the window side. He picked up the still-damp menu and gave it a tentative sniff. “Maple-flavored ammonia?,” he asked no one in particular.

On her way back with the coffee, the Waitress paused at the Girl and exchanged words that escalated pretty quickly from routine pleasantries to low threats. The tenor suggested that the Girl couldn’t pay for her food, and the Waitress was deciding between kicking her out and calling the cops. Above the rising tension the Driver said from across the diner: “I’m paying for hers.”

Both women’s heads turned to the voice. The Waitress kept her practiced, perturbed demeanor, though the relief from having the problem removed was clear. As the Waitress set about the task of revising the men’s bill, the Girl walked over to them. She was much more suspicious – and a lot less grateful – than the Driver would have guessed. “You don’t need to do that,” she said through clenched teeth.

The Waitress arrived with her coffee pot and two pieces of pie. “Seems like he did,” she said to the Girl while filling the men’s cups. “Maybe just say thank you.”

When the Waitress was almost out of earshot, the Girl sat next to the Driver, who scooched over to give her space. She leaned into the table. “What I could really use is a lift,” she said quietly.

“We’re headed to Jackson,” the Driver said.

“And beyond,” the Hitchhiker added. “Where you goin’?”

“Moose,” the Girl said, and then added to allay the puzzled faces: “It’s a small town in Jackson Hole, near the Tetons. Can I get a ride?”

The Driver smiled slightly. He signaled to the Waitress and then gestured toward the Girl. “One more piece of pie, please.”

The Waitress was a woman who had seen a thing or two, and she noticed the furtive glances between Driver and Hitchhiker as soon as the Girl sat down. She did not like where this was headed. She returned to the table with her coffee pot, holding it now more like a weapon, and said in a measured voice, “Come show me which piece of pie you’d like, Hon.”

The two women walked to the tree of pie slices covered by a glass dome. The Waitress spoke in a low voice without looking away from the pie display. “You do not need a ride that badly, Hon. Those men look like trouble. I can take you to Moose myself after I get off.”

“I can take care of myself,” said the Girl, mimicking the meaningless gaze and gestures toward the pies. “If things go sideways, it won’t end well for them.”

The Waitress felt a chill at the top of her neck, not so much from the words, but from the total flatness in her tone. This was not a threat, but a statement of fact, more like a recollection. The Waitress had been working longer than this girl had been alive, but the Girl had an old soul and a hard edge. The Waitress did not notice that she’d walked back to the booth. “I guess that’s a no on the pie,” she thought.

As the men were finishing their coffee, the Girl never looked up from her phone. It was an odd brand, perhaps a pay-as-you-go type thing. Its screen was so thoroughly cracked it was a wonder she didn’t cut her finger with each swipe.

The Driver left some cash on the table and went to the car to clear a rear seat for the Girl. The Hitchhiker took care of the tip in the form of four deteriorating singles and a handful of coins. As he was gathering his items from the booth, a familiar face drew his attention to the television in the corner, which now showed the evening news. There was still no sound, but the haphazard captions told enough of the story:

“… the escaped convict was serving a life sentence for the 2017 First National Bank robbery in Jackson, in which a security guard was killed and a bank employee was seriously injured. The money from the heist was never recovered…”

The Girl’s back was to the television and the old men at the counter did not seem to notice that the picture on the screen was a younger version of the Driver. The Hitchhiker weighed his options. He figured the Driver must be headed to Jackson to recover the loot. Mumbling something about needing to move his guitar from the back seat, he strode to the door and out. The noise pulled the Girl’s head up from her phone, so she stuffed her belongings in her dusty bag and hurried close behind.

The news had shifted to another story – this time the silent graphic was some kind of clip-art of crime scene tape and a chalk body outline. And this time the graphic caught the attention of the Waitress and the two old men as the captions laid out the story:

“… a brutal series of murders attributed to an unknown hitchhiker, taking place along deserted highways in the Rocky Mountain region over the past three months. Police suspect …”

In a panic, one of the old men hurried toward the door, and the other one swiped a phone open to call the police.

The Waitress said, “Wait!”

The men froze and followed her gaze to the TV, where a composite sketch of the suspect was now displayed. Hood, covid mask, eyebrow piercing. There was no doubt.

The van engine roared, the cowbell clanged, and the Waitress said, “She’ll be fine.”

Photo by Denisse Leon on Unsplash