The Samantha Project (25 page)

I wasn’t sure what to say. I couldn’t come up with enough lies and stories to last six hours.
 

“So what’s your plan? Just trying to get as far away as possible?” He fiddled with the wiper blades as big wet snowflakes started to land on the windshield.

“Um, I have a cousin. Down in Texas. She said I could stay with her. She owns a diner. I have to work there for free, but she’ll give me room and board.” I surprised even myself with how easy the lies were rolling off my tongue.

“Well, that’s lucky for you. Most kids got—” He was interrupted by the ring of his cell phone, which was attached to a holder on the dashboard. He grabbed it to see who was calling, then answered looking annoyed.

“Yeah. What do you need, Ross?” The truck swerved a little as the man tried to maintain the giant steering wheel while positioning the phone to his ear.
 

“I know you need it by noon, but that’s probably not gonna happen. Have you seen the weather forecast? I’m just outside the Cities now and it’s startin’ to snow.” He let go of the steering wheel for a second to adjust the wiper speed. I’d seen a lot of truck rollovers on the news and was sure this was our future, given the guy’s driving abilities.

“And I hear Iowa’s gettin’ freezin’ rain. And if it’s like last time, I ain’t drivin’ in that. Nearly lost my truck in that ice.”

I started to worry that I wouldn’t make it very far that day. And if I had any chance of escape, I had to get as far away from Minnesota as possible. The necklace had disabled my location tracker, but I knew people would be looking for me. I remembered Dave saying that GlobalLife had people everywhere—even local and state police. By now, they probably had reports out to every police station about me. Maybe it was even on the news.

While the trucker continued on the phone, I turned and pretended to sleep. I didn’t want more questions. I must have dozed off because just over an hour later, I was awoken by the truck’s sudden jerky stop.
 

“What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” I sat up and tried to see what was ahead. The snow was coming down harder.

“Oh, the cops got the road blocked for some reason. Maybe there’s an accident. Whatever it is, looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while.”

Cars and trucks were backed up for what seemed like miles. I started to feel anxious. Even more than that, I had a strong feeling that I was in danger. I wondered if sensing danger was one of my new abilities. If so, what good was it if I didn’t know how to escape the danger?
 

We sat quietly in the truck, inching up a few feet every couple of minutes. Trucker guy seemed bored and looked over at me. I ignored him, hoping he would get the hint and not start talking again. He didn’t talk but instead kept staring at me. The bad feeling I had got even stronger. It was making my stomach sick. What was he staring at? I wondered what he was thinking. Then it hit me. I can read minds! Why wasn’t I hearing his thoughts?
 

I remembered my training sessions at GlobalLife. The researchers theorized that my mind-reading was still developing. That I had to practice it and teach my brain to really focus on the other person’s thoughts. They also said that it might be easier at first to read the minds of people I knew, which explained why I could hear Uncle Dave’s thoughts so well.
 

I put all my concentration toward the trucker. I closed my eyes and imagined my mind making a connection with his. Five minutes went by. I still hadn’t heard a word.
 

“Hey, you got a boyfriend?” The man poked my arm, breaking my concentration. “Pretty girl like you must be leavin’ someone behind.” I looked over to see a weird grin on his face.

“I’ll be your boyfriend, honey. An older man. Yeah, that’s what you need. You just wait till we get to Kansas City.”
 

I shot up in my seat and jammed myself into the door. “What did you just say?”

“Relax darlin’. I just asked if you had a boyfriend.” He smiled again, showing his crooked, stained teeth.

“No. You said,” I paused, suddenly realizing that I had just heard the man’s thoughts. The only words he had spoken aloud were about me having a boyfriend back home.

“Um, no. I don’t have a boyfriend. Well, actually, I had one but don’t now.” I moved back away from the door and tried to act normal. But the man’s sick thoughts were now loud in my head.

“Long, soft hair. Good shape. Nice rack for a girl her age. But 17, that’s jail time. She’s a runaway though. Bet she’d treat me real nice if I gave her back that hundred dollars.”

I was finally able to hear his thoughts. But now I wanted it to stop and I couldn’t turn it off. How dare he think those things! I was at least 40 years younger than him.
 

I looked ahead at the road to see flashing lights. Police had blocked off two lanes of the road, leaving just one lane of traffic. It looked like every vehicle was being stopped. I’ll tell the police about the trucker, I thought. But instantly I knew that wasn’t an option. The police could easily be my enemy.
 

My fears were confirmed when I saw a digital sign blinking above. It was one of those signs used to alert drivers of changing road conditions, traffic, and other hazards. But today, the sign was used for something else. It read, “Amber Alert. 17-year-old girl missing. 5'5'', 115 lbs. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Last seen this morning.”

I could no longer hear the man’s thoughts as my mind focused on what to do next. There were maybe six or seven cars ahead of us before the police checkpoint area. I couldn’t run. Cars surrounded us, all trying to merge into our lane. If I ran, it would draw attention and they would match me to the description flashed on the interstate sign.
 

“Hey, that sounds like you.” The trucker turned to me, this time scanning my face instead of my body. “All this trouble is for you? Why are they looking for you? Did you lie about your parents? Did you rob someone? Is that why you’re carrying around $100 bills?”

“No. I told you everything. I swear. They want to catch me and force me into foster care. That’s it. But you can’t let them take me. I have to get to my cousin.”

“Just tell the courts or your case worker that you want to live with your cousin. Problem solved.”

“I can’t. She’s, well, she has a bit of a past herself. The courts would never release me to her.”

He looked over at me again, suspicious that everything I’d told him was a lie.

“I can’t go back there. I’ll do anything. Please. Anything.” I knew that those last words would get his attention. His sick mind would assume that “anything” meant I would agree to whatever disgusting plans he had conjured up earlier.

“Okay. You’re old enough to be on your own. Get in the back.” He pointed to the pile of clothes behind his seat.
 

I climbed back there and started moving the clothes to make more room.
 

“Put the cooler up here on the seat so it doesn’t look so empty.”

I did as he said, tossing up some old food wrappers as well to make it look like my seat was just his eating area.

I positioned the clothes on top of me and hunched down as much as possible behind the trucker’s seat. The rest of the backseat was piled high with more clothes, blankets, some pillows, plates, and an array of plastic cups. When we finally reached the checkpoint, my legs were numb from sitting on them. I was desperate to move but couldn’t.

The trucker rolled down his window. “Mornin’, officer. You need to see ID or somethin’?”

“No, we just need to know if you saw a girl. She’s a teen, around 17. Petite build, brown hair and eyes. Here’s her picture.” The officer handed the trucker a photo. “Name is Samantha, but she goes by Sam.”

“Nope, can’t say I saw her. Course, I’ve been on the road. Haven’t stopped much at all. Trying to beat this storm, ya know. So, that it?” I was amazed at how well he was pulling this off. Completely calm. Said all the right things. Clearly he had lied to the cops before.

“Mind if I just look around quick in your truck? We’re checking every vehicle.”
 

“Sure, go right ahead.” The trucker got out, letting the officer inside. The smell of the old food wrappers had been buried by the clothes but was now stinking up the front seat. The officer coughed as if the smell was getting to him. His inspection was cut to just a few seconds and he quickly climbed out of the truck.

“Okay, you can go,” he said as the trucker got back into his seat.
 

“Guess I should clean some of that trash out, huh?” He laughed and rolled up his window.

I didn’t emerge from my hiding spot until we had driven a half hour. I pushed the clothes aside and stayed in the backseat, pretending to sleep. I wondered what sick thoughts were running through the guy’s mind, but I didn’t try to read them. Instead I pretended to sleep but spent the next couple hours focused on how to get away before he could try anything.
 

“Hey, wake up, Sam. That’s your name, right?” the trucker asked, looking back at me. “I’m gonna pull off here in Des Moines at the truck stop. I’m just fillin’ up with gas and then we’ll hit the road again. If you want somethin’ to eat, they got a food shop there.”
 

“Yeah, okay. I
am
starting to get hungry.” I actually was starving but hadn’t thought about it until he mentioned food. A small wave of excitement hit me as I remembered that I could now eat real food instead of nutrition pills.

The weather had cleared up, leaving just gray skies and a cold wind. The truck stop was packed with trucks, buses, and cars—all filling up with supplies in case the storm picked up again.
 

“I’m going inside to get a snack and clean up a little. I’ll see you back here, okay?”
 

“Don’t take long,” the trucker said as he pushed buttons on the gas pumps. “You’re not back here in 15 minutes, I’m leaving without you.”

I didn’t trust his threat. I knew he wouldn’t leave without me. After all, he had plans for me once we got to Kansas City. I had to find a way to get out of there fast before he started looking for me.
 

I raced inside the crowded truck stop. Shelves of food lined one wall. I glanced at them quickly, wondering if I had time to buy something. I looked over toward the cash register and noticed the line went all the way to the back of the store. Too long a wait, I thought.
 

Above the register was a giant flat-screen TV that showed the storm had already passed through Iowa. “Things should clear up as the temperatures rise this afternoon. Now back to you, Steve,” I heard the weatherman say.
 

I turned away as the local newsman continued. “There was an explosion in southern Minnesota today that’s believed to have left 10 dead and at least five injured.” I whipped back around toward the TV. The GlobalLife logo was positioned at the top right-hand corner of the screen. “The explosion occurred early this morning at a building owned by GlobalLife Genetics, a division of GlobalLife Incorporated. Most of the building was destroyed. It’s believed a chemical explosion in one of the labs is to blame. More on this story later during the noon broadcast. In local news . . .”

I stopped listening and replayed what the newsman had said. At least 10 people dead? I immediately thought of Dave. Was he there when it happened? He had to be! That meant there was a chance he was one of the dead! I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t. It would throw me off track. Dave was alive, I told myself. Now concentrate on getting out of there.
 

I went to use the restroom. As I washed my hands, I noticed a girl about my age was at the sink painting her nails black. She had straight, dark black hair, a black t-shirt, and a long row of stud earrings in each ear. It seemed that she was going for the goth look, but only halfway. Unlike the goth kids I went to school with, she wore no black makeup and didn’t seem to have any tattoos or other piercings.

In my rush to wash my hands, I accidentally splashed the girl’s newly-painted nails.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” I said.

“It’s okay. It’s just water,” she said, blowing on each nail. “What’s the rush?” she asked, as I turned to leave.
 

“Um, nothing. No rush. Again, I’m sorry about your nails.” I had no time to talk to this girl, but she wasn’t letting me leave.

“Hey, are you in some type of trouble? You seem stressed or lost or something.” She stopped blowing on her nails and put all her attention on me.
 

“I hate to be rude, but I really need to go, okay?”

“If you’re in trouble, I can help,” she said as if she did this every day.

“What do you mean?”
 

“I can get you a ride. Or food. And maybe money, although my folks keep telling me to stop giving money to strangers. Said they might use it for booze or whatever.” She started blowing on her nails again, then stopped suddenly. “Oh, not like you’re a drunk or anything.”

“Well, I could actually use a ride.” I wasn’t sure where this was going, but it was my most promising option so far.

She grabbed her big, puffy black coat off the bathroom floor. “Then let’s go. The bus is leaving in like 5 minutes.”

“Wait. Aren’t you gonna ask me anything? Like why I need a ride or where I’m going? Or if I’m some nut job?” I followed the girl out.
 

The girl looked me up and down. “You seem normal to me. And the look on your face tells me you’re trying to run from something—or someone. I don’t know. You seem like you need help. I pick up on that stuff with people. My mom says I’m intuitive or something.”
 

She put on her coat and turned to me. “Listen, I don’t know your story. If you want to come with me, let’s go. Otherwise, nice meeting you, whoever you are.” She held out her hand, inviting me to shake.

I ignored her outstretched hand and grabbed her coat sleeve to pull her closer so she could hear me over all the noise outside the bathroom. “Okay, long story short. My parents are dead. I ended up in a bad foster home so I ran. I caught a ride with this trucker guy and he wants to, you know, do stuff and I have to get away from him.”