The Highway

by C. J. Box

  * * *

  For the next few minutes, Gracie twisted the key in the ignition but the engine didn’t start. Instead, there was the angry grinding sound.

  “I’m just draining the battery doing this,” she said.

  “Did we run out of gas?” Danielle asked angrily.

  “No, we have half a tank. It must have something to do with that engine light. The fricking light.”

  “Are you sure you can’t get it started?”

  “Do you want to try again?” Gracie asked, a crack in her voice.

  “This is terrible.”

  “No kidding.”

  They sat in silence and darkness. The display on the GPS began to fade. Gracie could feel cold seeping into the car from the floorboards.

  “I can’t call him,” Danielle said softly, sniffing back a tear. “I’ve lost the signal again in this fucking canyon.”

  Gracie said, “We could walk back to Gardiner. It’s only a few miles back there, I think.”

  “Or we should stay with the car,” Danielle said. “And wait for somebody to stop and help us.”

  That’s when the headlights appeared on the road behind them.

  Gracie cracked her door so the dome light would come on, but didn’t open it any further. She turned in her seat.

  One set of headlights, coming fast. And a long string of amber running lights flowing behind, like the tail of a comet.

  “It’s slowing down,” Gracie said.

  “That’s friggin’ awesome.” Danielle grinned.

  “Danielle … it’s that truck.”

  * * *

  Bright headlights lit up the inside of Danielle’s Ford and Gracie turned to Danielle. The grille of the black truck filled the back window and she heard the hissing of air brakes. The harsh white light made her sister’s face look cartoonish. But there was no doubt Danielle was terrified.

  “Lock the doors!” Gracie yelled.

  And the lights behind them went out, leaving utter darkness. Gracie heard the thunk of the electric locks and thanked God the battery had enough power to perform the function.

  The truck was so close behind them the Ford vibrated from the heavy engine.

  Gracie craned in her seat, looking back. Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness due to the blinding light a moment before. Green diamonds and orbs strobed in her eyes from the aftereffect. But she thought she heard a door slam.

  “Maybe he’ll help us,” Danielle said, barely above a whisper. “I wish I wouldn’t have…”

  There was a beat of silence and the passenger window exploded inward. Danielle screamed. Gracie tried to scream but nothing came out but a wheezy croak. She turned to see Danielle put her arms up to block the huge hands of the driver who was reaching inside.

  What happened next came in rapid flashes.

  The driver appeared to be reaching for Danielle’s throat as if to strangle her but there was something dark and squared-off in one of his hands. Gracie heard the angry crackle of electricity and Danielle’s sudden “Ungh!” followed by the sight of her sister stiffening like a corpse, raising herself out of her seat, her eyes rolling white back into her head, her mouth slack …

  Gracie turned away. Tried to locate the toggle to unlock her driver’s side door so she could get out and run. Tried to remember whether the toggle was on top of the armrest or in its side or on the dashboard …

  The hot smell of urine filled the car.

  And in her peripheral vision, a big white form moved hurriedly from right to left in front of the car. It was the truck driver, wearing all white, something plastic, a glimpse of his big blocklike head …

  She found the button and jammed it forward and all four door locks popped open.

  Gracie pulled back on the door latch and it started to swing open when the driver wedged himself into the opening and reached toward her. She heard a thump on the top of the door frame as he hit his head trying to bend inside, the blow significant enough to rock the car.

  It staggered him a moment and he paused, and she threw herself away, started crawling over the top of Danielle’s convulsing body toward the passenger door. But the driver recovered and she felt his fingers grasp the top of her waistband and jerk her back into the driver’s seat.

  “Hold still, you little bitch,” he croaked and she saw him for the first time—huge, rough, flushed, fleshy—lips curled back to reveal crooked yellow doglike teeth, fresh blood from his forehead or scalp coursing down—and got a glimpse of the electrical device he had poised over her face and plunged into her neck.

  The sensation was sudden and massive and debilitating. She no longer had control of her body, which stiffened, and she had an image of lightninglike electricity firing out from the tips of her fingers and toes. Every muscle and sinew seemed fused together with steel and she felt welded into a single mass of flesh.

  * * *

  But she was still conscious. She had no concept of time or motion, but she could hear the sound of his boots scraping gravel outside the car.

  And she could feel the sharp prick of a needle through the fabric of her jeans into her inner thigh.

  15.

  8:40 P.M., Tuesday, November 20

  THE LIZARD KING REACHED UP and grasped the stitched nylon strap through the loop and leaned back on his boot heels and pulled it down hard. The trailer door slid down on its dual tracks with the sound of rolling thunder, but in the instant before it sealed he got a last look at the three still bundles of limbs and clothing inside, looking like oversized dolls tossed aside. There was a glimpse of thick dark hair from the older one and the soles of splayed running shoes from the other. They weren’t secured to the bare metal floor or the walls of the container and they’d no doubt flop around when he made turns or sudden stops. Unlike the third bundle that wasn’t going anywhere.

  But they were both breathing when he lifted them inside, and they’d likely be alive—if bruised—when he got them to his destination. When the bottom of the door fitted into the channel he reached across his body and yanked the handle of the locking mechanism over so the upturned steel arm slipped snugly under the outside bolt of the bed. He threaded the hasp of a combination lock through the eyebolts of the mechanism and snapped it shut. The trailer was now locked securely from the outside. There was no way to open it from the inside. The trailer had vents in it so they wouldn’t suffocate, and he adjusted the reefer unit to sixty-eight degrees so they wouldn’t freeze to death.

  His heart was beating madly and pulses of blood whumped in his ears but he was methodical in his movements and actions. All his work had taken place in the open on the side of the highway. His headlights were still off so they wouldn’t light up the little Ford he’d parked behind, but anybody driving by might recall seeing the huge Peterbilt pulled up tight to the car on the shoulder. It would look, he hoped, like he’d stopped to help out the occupants of the car. Since the smashed driver’s window could be seen from the road, he carefully pushed all of the remaining broken glass inside so it wouldn’t draw attention. He realized while he was working how visible his white Tyvek overalls were. The material seemed to absorb what little light there was and it could draw attention he didn’t welcome.

  It was a miracle, he thought, that no one had driven by on either side of the highway since he’d stopped. In the back of his head a clock ticked, and he knew his odds worsened by the second. He’d accomplished his task within five minutes of stopping and the hard part was already done, but everything could be ruined if someone passed by and saw him. Or stopped to see what was going on. In that case, he’d have a decision to make. Involuntarily, he reached down and touched the heft of his .380 in his overalls pocket.

  He lumbered out onto the asphalt of the highway to assess his situation. The Yellowstone River roared on the other side of the road. He could see white water lace streak the black surface of the water below. There were no houses or lights on either side of the canyon yet. The canyon walls were dark and high on both sides and the sta
rs were oppressive in their silent intensity. The air smelled of juniper from the brush leading down to the river and diesel fumes from his idling truck. He looked both ways on the highway, knowing he would see headlights long before he heard a vehicle approaching. The road was empty.

  The Ford couldn’t have broken down at a more perfect location, and he reveled in his luck. Gardiner was miles behind and out of view. Ahead on the highway, two miles north after the walls narrowed precipitously for a while, the canyon opened up on the opposite side across the river into a wide bench. That’s where the religious compound was located, where there were people and a smattering of lights and a clear view of the highway. Those members always seemed acutely aware of vehicles and traffic, and if the Ford had broken down there he would have kept on driving. But it didn’t.

  He took a deep breath and walked back to the Ford. He noted an odor he hadn’t noticed before: the acrid smell of hot burnt oil that wafted up from beneath the hood. He wondered how it was the girls couldn’t have recognized the odor while they were driving. Maybe, he thought, they smelled it and had no idea what it was. That didn’t surprise him. Teenagers weren’t like they used to be when it came to cars or car care. They just got in them and drove off; he’d seen it. As long as the stereo system worked—that was all that concerned them. As a young driver so many years ago, the Lizard King treasured and babied his first used car, a 1978 Chevy half-ton pickup. He knew everything about it and he spent nights and weekends tuning the engine and keeping it in prime running condition. It disgusted him how little kids cared anymore, as if their cars were an entitlement and driving their right.

  Unlike him. He’d parlayed his love and competence for wrenching and driving to truck driving school, where he’d paid $3,000 to earn his first commercial driver’s license (CDL), then hired on with Swift Trucking on their “Train, Lease, Drive” program that eventually paid for his first rig. That was four trucks and three million miles ago.

  * * *

  He threw open the driver’s side door of the Ford. The dome light came on but it was muted and weak—the sign of a dying battery. He rooted through his cargo pockets past the stun gun and the pistol and withdrew a mini-Maglite flashlight and twisted it on. With the flashlight clamped between his teeth, he leaned into the car. It was a mess, which confirmed his disgust. The floors and dash were littered with junk but he found what he was looking for: their two cell phones. He knew from experience that there was no service inside the canyon where they were located but that there would be a signal within two miles when the canyon walls receded and the Paradise Valley opened up to reveal the compound. He was blessed with luck! It was meant to be!

  The phones, he knew, might contain GPS capability. But no matter. He grasped a phone in each hand as he backed out of the car and turned and fast-stepped across the road.

  The phone in his right hand came to life and he nearly dropped it out of surprise. He lifted it and saw the call was coming from someone named Justin. Surprisingly, there seemed to be sections of the canyon where there was spotty cell service, and this appeared to be one of them. He refused the call and quickly powered the phone off and threw it toward the river.

  As he reared back to throw the second phone there was a pinprick of light in his right eye. Someone was coming from the north. He threw the phone anyway, heard a second distant splash far below, and jogged back toward his truck trying to assess how much time he’d have before the vehicle arrived. The road to the north paralleled the serpentine river, so the oncoming car was temporarily tucked out of view. He figured he had two minutes until it arrived.

  Opening the door, he emptied his pockets on the floor of his cab, his .380, the stun gun, the case with the syringe (now empty), the flashlight, and the handcuffs. Running his hands down his jumpsuit as if frisking himself, he was satisfied he’d left nothing behind. He quickly shed the Tyvek overalls and kicked the bundle off his boots. He stuffed the white mass into a dark plastic trash bag and shoved it under his driver’s seat to be disposed of later.

  And suddenly the oncoming car was upon him, much sooner than he’d anticipated. A yellow wash of headlights lit him up as he stood but he fought the urge to look over his shoulder and show his face.

  The car passed by but he could hear the motor decompressing as it did so, and he shot a glimpse under his right armpit to confirm that yes, red brake lights flashed. The car was slowing down.

  Why? He wanted to shout. What had they seen?

  He watched as the car pulled over to the opposite shoulder five hundred feet away and began a U-turn.

  The Lizard King felt his face and scalp pull tight with rage. Everything had gone so well, and now this! He considered clambering inside the cab and roaring away before the car could reach him. But to do so would definitely create suspicion when the driver arrived to find the empty Ford. So he stayed where he was, frozen in time and space, but let his right hand creep back up into the cab until his fingers grasped the grip of the .380.

  The car that had passed him stayed in the highway lane instead of pulling over. It slid up beside him and he squinted against the beam of the headlights, trying to figure out how many heads were inside; deciding that if there were more than two he wouldn’t fire because it would get too complicated …

  The car was a late-model four-door sedan and as it arrived the passenger window rolled down. Inside was the grinning face of his partner.

  “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  “I should fucking shoot you anyway,” the Lizard King said, pulling the gun down in full view of the driver.

  “Good thing you didn’t.”

  “Yeah—good thing.”

  “Jesus Christ, what happened to your face?”

  The Lizard King absently reached up and dragged his fingertips through blood. He’d completely forgotten about his wound. The blood was hot and sticky.

  “Guess I banged my head in all the excitement.”

  “You better clean that up. You look like hell itself.”

  He nodded.

  His partner gestured toward the dark Ford. “Is this the double load you mentioned?”

  “It is.”

  “Young ones?”

  “Like I said.”

  “Anyone come by and see anything?”

  “Only you.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Everything ready at the place?”

  His partner nodded. The grin seemed plastered to his face and in the green light from his dash he looked malevolent, like a gargoyle.

  “You had better get in your rig and get going,” his partner said. “I didn’t see anyone behind me but that doesn’t mean someone might not show up.”

  The Lizard King nodded. Now that the situation had defused itself he felt equal measures thrilled and exhausted. This was going to work. He said, “You going to follow me in?”

  His partner said, “In a minute. Once you’re clear I’m going to push that car farther off the shoulder into the brush. I don’t want anybody seeing it or noticing the license plate until we get back here to drive it away.”

  The Lizard King shook his head, “That car won’t run. I think the engine is seized up. You can smell it. We’ll need the tow truck to get it out of here.”

  “Shit.”

  “It is what it is. But believe me, this will be worth it.”

  “That good, eh?”

  “One of ’em, at least. I didn’t get that great of a look at the other. But this is exactly what we talked about that time, remember? And they’re not meth heads.”

  “Kind of like Christmas, eh?”

  “Yeah,” the Lizard King said. “Oh, there’s a dead one in there, too. It was an accident.”

  “You’ve been a busy man.”

  “I’m motivated.”

  His partner nodded, then conspicuously peered out through his windshield ahead and checked his rearview mirror. “Still clear,” he said, “You better go. It’s going to be a busy night.”

  “See you soon,” the Liza
rd King said, turning to pull himself back into his cab. “I’ll drop off the precious cargo before I unload.”

  16.

  8:52 P.M., Tuesday, November 20

  DANIELLE’S CELL PHONE RANG ONCE and stopped. Justin held his phone away from his face and stared at it, unbelieving. He made sure he hadn’t misdialed and confirmed that he hadn’t.

  Christian said, “What’s up, man? Didn’t she want to talk to you?”

  “She hung up,” Justin said, surprised. “One ring. Maybe she was in the middle of something and she’ll call me right back.”

  “Right,” Christian chided. He had a baby face despite his size, and it took only two beers for a blush of pink to bloom across his cheeks. He’d had at least two, Justin guessed.

  “I don’t know,” Justin said. “Maybe they’re still going in and out of cell phone range. Last I heard they were going into the Yellowstone River canyon out of Gardiner, so that might be it.”

  “Yankee Jim Canyon!” one of the boys on the sofa cried out. “I went on a white-water raft trip there last summer and froze my balls off.”

  “Sweet,” one of the girls said, and the other laughed.

  “Try again,” Christian said to Justin.

  He punched the button. This time the call went straight to voice mail: You’ve reached the voice mail of the awesome Danielle Sullivan. Please leave a message and I’ll call you right back unless I don’t. Ciao!

  “That’s weird,” Justin said. “She doesn’t take my call and then it goes straight to her mailbox.”

  “Try it again.”

  This time, Justin heard a recorded message from Verizon saying the number he was calling was not available.

  “It’s like she turned her phone off. That’s just weird. Danielle never turns her phone off. I doubt she even knows how to do it.”

  Christian shrugged. “Maybe her phone ran out of battery and she doesn’t know it. Or she forgot to bring a car charger. Didn’t you say she was kind of an airhead sometimes?”

  Justin didn’t remember saying it but thought he probably had because she was.