by C. J. Box
She could tell he was weighing her offer. Then the boxlike smile came back and he shrugged and said, “Naw, good try, but I’ll wait around until you take your break and we can work out the arrangements. And in the meanwhile, I’d like a cup of coffee to go. I’ll just hang around until your break, okay?”
The man in back of Willie lost his patience, and said, “All this for a goddammed cup of coffee?”
Willie didn’t even acknowledge him.
Rachel rang up a large coffee and turned to go get it from the bank of coffeemakers in the back. As she walked away from the counter, her legs felt stiff. She could feel his eyes on her back.
When she rounded the corner and was out of Willie’s line of vision, she broke for the back door. As she did she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to speed dial T-Lock, to warn him.
She pushed through the steel door into the cold white morning and before she could duck or scream the skinny dark man in the hoodie hit her hard in the face with his fist and she dropped like a rag doll. Hot blood filled her nose and mouth and spattered on the ice.
Rough hands grasped her under her arms from behind and lifted her into the backseat of a pickup. Her legs were limp and hanging outside the door and the skinny man shoved them inside and climbed into the back with her. He sat heavily on her legs and held her facedown into the seat cushions with his hand. She was afraid she’d choke to death on her own blood.
Her brain was scrambled and she couldn’t think. She knew what was happening but she couldn’t react. The pickup was moving for a moment and then it stopped again and she felt cold air as the front door opened.
She heard Willie say, “Damn it if she didn’t try to run.”
Then to her, “Rachel, we need to find your boyfriend. We know what’s he’s got and we need it back. Nobody has to get hurt. All we want is our money and our product back before you two figure out a way to fuck this up even more.”
She tried to speak but she couldn’t draw breath. The idiot in the hoodie who was holding her down didn’t seem to know he was smothering her. When she struggled he tightened his grip and pushed down harder, putting his shoulder into it.
She heard Willie say to the driver, “If she doesn’t give us T-Lock there may be another way. I think she has a kid—some retard.”
Then, as Rachel felt herself go limp, Willie said, “Hey, Silencio, don’t fucking kill her before she even tells us anything.”
His grip relaxed.
Rachel pushed herself up with strength she didn’t know she had and coughed up a gout of blood that spattered on the back of the leather front seat and the side window. But at least her breathing passages were clear and she gulped for breath.
The driver said something calmly in Spanish to the man in the hoodie. The tone was threatening.
Before the man in the hoodie responded to whatever the driver said, she got a quick glimpse out of the backseat left window.
Kyle was twenty-five feet away, sitting on his bike. Their eyes locked. He had no expression on his face but he never did.
The man in the hoodie hit her again in the temple and she blacked out as the pickup drove away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CASSIE AND Ian Davis had just cleared the town limits of Grimstad on their way to Willie Dietrich’s place when they heard the hollow boom somewhere behind them in the distance.
“What was that?” Cassie asked.
Davis was driving Cassie’s SUV, and she was grateful he was at the wheel. Finally, she thought, she’d have a few minutes to regroup and return the call to North Carolina. Her phone was out and on her lap.
Davis looked over his shoulder toward the direction of the sound and shook his head. “I don’t know. It almost sounded like a sonic boom, you know? Maybe jets from Malmstrom or Minot?”
Cassie nodded. She was vaguely aware of the air force bases located in North Dakota.
The countryside outside of Grimstad to the east was bleak in the way that farm country in the winter was always bleak. There were endless miles of corn stubble with pockets of snow between each row. Every mile or so there was a farmhouse with outbuildings surrounded by gray, skeletal trees. Most of the houses looked unoccupied, but some had vehicles in the yards and farm equipment sitting idle. A few still had Halloween or Thanksgiving decorations hung outside that had been battered by the snow and wind. It was almost as if the oil boom had bypassed the residents, Cassie thought. But she knew that wasn’t likely the case.
“Willie’s been buying up some of these places out here,” Davis said. “I don’t know whether he thinks of them as investments or he uses them as a way to launder drug money or what. He sure as hell isn’t a farmer, that’s for sure. Farming’s hard work.”
“How far is his place?” Cassie asked.
“Another ten miles,” Davis said, nodding at the straight dirt road ahead of them.
“Excuse me while I make a call,” Cassie said.
* * *
COUNTY PROSECUTOR Leslie Behaunek answered on the second ring and Cassie identified herself.
“I was wondering when you would call,” Behaunek said.
Cassie could tell by the following beat of silence that Behaunek didn’t have good news. She braced for it.
“Everything’s gone pear-shaped,” Behaunek said with a weary sigh.
Cassie closed her eyes and said, “What happened? Did something I say or do screw this up? Because if he gets out because of me—”
“It wasn’t you,” Behaunek said. She sounded disgusted. “You did everything right. Law enforcement gets all kinds of discretion when it comes to interviews. You can lie, promise the moon as long as you don’t offer immunity or something legal like that. You can do pretty much anything you want. After all, he waived his right to an attorney. But despite all your good work and even setting yourself up so he’d attack you, he didn’t confess to anything and you didn’t cross the line into illegal coercion. The judge at the preliminary hearing said as much.”
Cassie felt some relief, but before she could ask why the case had gone “pear-shaped” Behaunek shouted, “It was us! It was my guys who screwed this up. And I hate to say it, but right now I’d lay odds that monster will be back out on the road within a week.”
Cassie felt something cold form in her throat. “What’d they do? Couldn’t they find any DNA evidence?”
“That’s the worst part,” Behaunek fumed. “They found some. The FBI hotshots found some in smears they did on the undercarriage of the trailer. He’d cleaned the inside with bleach or whatever, but there was some that had splashed up under the truck that he never thought about. We don’t know who the victims were because we don’t have any matches—yet. But there were two clearly identifiable victims and we’ve got the killer in custody. Not that it matters, though.”
Cassie asked Behaunek to hold and said, “Please pull over,” to Davis.
When the SUV ground to a stop on the shoulder, Cassie climbed out. She needed to have her feet on the ground, she thought. And she hoped the incredible cold would numb her from what she was about to hear.
As she stepped out into a shorn cornfield, Cassie said with barely controlled fury, “Why doesn’t DNA evidence matter, Leslie?”
“Because Pergram finally wised up after you were here and hired the best criminal defense attorney in Charlotte. His name is Terry Mackey. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s kind of famous down here. Mackey took one look at the case and he went ballistic. He filed a motion to suppress evidence on the initial search of the truck itself where the sheriff found the secret room.”
“What?”
“He said our guys had no probable cause for unloading it and searching inside.”
Cassie felt as if she’d been punched.
Behaunek said, “The DNA doesn’t matter, because that’s what’s considered ‘fruit of a poisoned tree.’ If that trailer had been stacked to the top with dead truck stop prostitutes it wouldn’t
have made any difference. We poisoned the tree by searching the truck without probable cause. I tried my damndest to make an argument about how the length of the trailer was suspicious and all. I tried to argue that when the Lizard King got belligerent with our officers that gave them cause to search his truck because they reasonably thought he might be hiding something. But Mackey pointed out that what was in the truck was never an issue because we knew what was in it: forty-eight feet of frozen food that was loaded a few hours before in front of witnesses. I argued that an inventory search was appropriate but Mackey said we should have gotten a warrant first. I even pointed to Pergram and said, ‘Judge, there sits the Lizard King!’ but the judge wouldn’t go along. He was pissed that we’d held him without charging him, and he agreed with Mackey that the search was illegal and he suppressed all our evidence. Which means we’ve got nothing but the assault charge—Pergram going after you. Since Pergram or Spradley or whoever the hell he is doesn’t have a rap sheet the judge will likely grant him bail for a first offense. We won’t know for sure for a few days.”
“I’m stunned,” Cassie said. “The judge has to know what kind of monster you’ve got in your jail.”
“He probably does,” Behaunek said. “And it probably keeps him up at night. But he also knows that if he does the right thing he’ll just get reversed on appeal. We didn’t have a warrant, Cassie. We never should have even opened the back of that trailer.”
Cassie gripped the phone tight and said, “You fucked up.”
“We did.”
“You know he’ll just get back to what he does if he’s on the highway again. More women will be tortured and killed.”
“I know that. Believe me, I know that.” Cassie heard a hitch in her voice. Behaunek was fighting back tears.
Cassie heard a short beep on the SUV horn and turned around. Davis was waving at her frantically to come back.
“What are the odds that he’ll be held until the assault trial?” Cassie asked.
“Maybe ten percent,” Behaunek said. “No, less than that.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Welcome to my world,” Behaunek said.
“I’ll cling to that five percent,” Cassie said.
“So will I.”
“I wish I could say thank you for letting me know,” Cassie said, approaching the SUV. Davis was talking excitedly into the mic of the radio.
“I understand,” Behaunek said. “Believe me, I understand. It tears me up inside to think that the Lizard King will be back on the road and it’s our fault.”
She laughed a bitter laugh, then said, “The sheriff was right. We should have arranged some kind of accident while he was in jail. Now, though…”
Cassie was, in fact, numbed by the cold when she climbed back in the SUV. But her head was spinning. She barely comprehended the implications of what had happened in North Carolina when Davis said, “That boom we heard? It was from a train hitting a car on the tracks just outside of the rail hub. It’s a Code Red.”
Cassie shook her head, not understanding.
Davis said, “If that train catches on fire, it might blow up Grimstad and everybody in it.”
* * *
DAVIS HIT the lights and siren, executed a three-point turn, and sped back toward town.
Cassie sat fuming in silence.
“You all right?” Davis called out so he’d be heard over the siren.
“No, I’m not.” Cassie said. She didn’t want to explain. It was too painful to explain.
The radio was snapping with voices, dispatches, reports from the scene. She heard someone say, “It damn sure looks like a sheriff’s department vehicle.”
“Did you hear that?” Davis asked.
She nodded.
“It can’t be,” Davis said. “You can never trust the first reports of anything. That’s something I learned on this job.”
Empty fields flashed by their windows. Cassie looked out her passenger side and was briefly mesmerized by the rhythm of the corn rows that were zipping by.
“I don’t see smoke,” Davis said. “That’s a good thing.”
When she didn’t respond, he said, “This is a big problem for us. Since nobody can build a pipeline anymore because of the environmentalists, oil goes out on trains. But trains can go off the tracks. Plus, they go right through the heart of population centers all over the damned country. You probably heard about that one up in Canada that blew up. Forty-seven dead. We had a big wreck here in North Dakota last year. They had to evacuate a little town of a thousand folks when the train exploded. We could see the smoke from here. Damn, let’s hope this isn’t as bad as that.”
The dispatcher said, “All units, all units…”
“Here we come,” Davis said.
* * *
CARS AND trucks lined the shoulders of the roads in town to let the Yukon and other emergency vehicles through. Cassie caught glimpses of oil field workers on their cell phones in the cabs of their trucks as they shot by. A major explosion at the rail hub would impact everyone.
“How many cars are on each train?” Cassie asked.
“A hundred.”
“How much oil is that?”
“Something like thirty thousand gallons,” Davis said. “That’s a big ole bomb.”
* * *
THEY HIT Main Street from the west and turned north. Vehicles were scattered on the shoulders and some were in the borrow ditches.
“Looks like the zombie apocalypse,” Davis said.
“Look out!” Cassie screamed as a boy on a bike darted out onto the road from the side.
Davis jerked left on the wheel and managed to miss him.
“Jesus!” Davis said. “That was too close.”
“It was,” Cassie said. “And what’s so weird is that I was in the sheriff’s car the other night when we almost hit a kid who looked just like him.”
Even down to the Grimstad Tribune canvas bags, she thought.
“In fact,” Cassie said, “I’m pretty sure it was the same kid. Kyle Westinghouse or something like that. But more Norwegian.”
She thought about the name for a moment and said, “Westergaard. Kyle Westergaard.”
“Don’t know him,” Davis said. “But he better learn how to ride a bike in traffic or he’ll be roadkill. Stupid kid.”
Cassie looked over her shoulder and caught a final glimpse of Kyle. He was weaving in and out of the cars that had pulled over. He rode like his hair was on fire.
She said, “It’s almost thirty below. What kind of kid rides his bike when it’s thirty below?”
“Nobody,” Davis said. “Maybe he’s not all there.”
“The sheriff says he’s … challenged,” Cassie responded. Then it hit her.
“Turn around,” she said. “I need to talk to him.”
Davis looked over, wide-eyed. “Are you out of your mind? We’ve got a train derailment inside the rail hub. Inside city limits. Kirkbride wants us all there now.”
Cassie sat back and rubbed her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. But when we’re clear we need to find that boy.”
“Why?” Davis asked. “To chew him out about dangerous bike riding?”
“No. Because he might be the key to everything else that’s happening around here.”
Davis didn’t respond, but gave her a skeptical sidelong glance.
“I’ll explain later when we’re clear,” she said.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Davis said with a bemused smile.
* * *
WHEN THEY arrived at the rail hub it was a small sea of flashing lights of the entire Bakken County Sheriff’s Department plus a half-dozen fire trucks, EMTs, and other emergency personnel. It was obvious what had happened: The engine of the train and the first fifty cars had derailed. To Cassie it looked almost surreal. The engine and the cars were huge but toylike.
“My son would love to see this,” she said. “He loves trains.”
&nb
sp; “You have a son?” Davis asked.
“Yes.”
“Does that mean there’s a husband in the picture as well?”
“No.” She didn’t want to explain. But she found it intriguing he had asked.
* * *
MEN IN bulky fire suits climbed the sides of tanker cars and others swarmed the cab of the engine.
“No fire,” Davis said with relief. “Yet.”
Then he pointed and said, “Uh-oh.”
Cassie followed his gesture. Wrapped around the front of the massive engine like a flattened aluminum beer can was what was left of a departmental Yukon. She could even see the logo on the side door.
“One of ours,” Davis said.
* * *
THERE WAS a scrum of sheriff’s department deputies huddled behind their units and Davis drove toward them. As he did, she saw Sheriff Kirkbride emerge from the gathering, shaking his head.
When Kirkbride saw them coming he signaled to Davis, who pulled alongside the sheriff and powered down his window. Kirkbride walked over and thrust his arms through the opening so he could rest his chin on them. He looked stricken.
Davis said, “We got here as soon as we could. Is it going to explode?”
Kirkbride shook his head. “The company troubleshooters say they don’t think so. But for a few minutes there, we thought it would. And as long as there are no external sparks, we should be okay.”
“Anybody hurt?” Davis asked.
“The train engineers got knocked around pretty good, but they looked okay. They’re on the way to the hospital for evaluation.”
“What about the driver?” Davis asked.
“It was Cam,” Kirkbride said. “He’s deader than dead. He got into the yard and drove head-on into that engine.”
“Cam?” Davis asked. “Why would…”
Cassie didn’t respond with the obvious answer and Kirkbride just glared at him.
“Oh,” Davis said, going pale.
“I called him to come in and see me after our meeting,” Kirkbride said. “He never picked up. But I’m thinking he knew what I wanted to talk to him about. Why the son of a bitch didn’t eat his gun instead of going out in a blaze of glory shows you what kind of sick individual he was inside. If that train went up who knows how many people—our friends and neighbors—would have gone up with it?”
