THEY WENT THROUGH Broderick without slowing down and as soon as they were within cell-phone range, Lucas called Ray Zahn. “I need to get the guy who runs the dump bulldozer. Know where we can find him?”
“Yeah, he’s about three blocks from me, if he’s home,” Zahn said. “What do you want him for?”
“We need him to show us around the dump,” Lucas said. “It’s serious.”
“I’ll drag his ass up there,” Zahn said. “When do you want him?”
AT THE ACE Hardware, Lucas bought four long-handled shovels and four spotlights with cigarette-lighter adapters. “Haven’t sold that many spotlights since deer season,” the counterman said. “Pick out a deer at two hundred yards.”
Lucas thought about that for a moment, then went to the back of the store and found four two-by-four-foot pressed-board handy panels with one white side, and a roll of duct tape. “Reflectors,” he said to Del. Outside, it was getting dark.
BACK AT THE dump, the Californians had outlined the hole, and using a long-bladed screwdriver, had determined that there were about six to eight inches of compressed dirt over a looser fill.
Lucas used a tire-iron to pop the lock off the dump gate, and they drove Lucas’s truck and the two FBI vehicles into a circle around the dig site. Lucas brought the spotlights out, the Californians set up the white panels, and when the lights were plugged in, Lucas focused them on the panels, and the dig-site was bathed in a smooth reflected light.
“Cool,” one of the Californians said.
THEY STARTED DIGGING, three at a time—four shovelers was one too many—and cleared out the ’ dozer-compacted cap in ten minutes.
“Looks like a grave,” Del said from the sidelines.
Another set of headlights swept over the dump, and a minute later, Ray Zahn had pulled in beside Lucas’s Acura. Zahn and another man got out, and Zahn said to Lucas, “This is Phil Bussard. He runs the ’dozer.”
“You remember seeing anything that looked like a hole, or a dug spot, right here, this morning?”
“Nothing like that,” Bussard said. “Did see a bunch of truck tracks. Somebody unloaded something back here. Didn’t think nothing of it.”
“How did they get through the gate?” Lucas asked. “Is it always locked when you’re not here?”
“Yeah, but about half the people in town know the combination,” Bussard said. “All kinds of people are authorized to get in here, and the number gets around. It’s ten-twenty-thirty.”
“So why lock it at all?”
“For the lawyers. If somebody works the lock and gets in here, and gets hurt, I guess it’s breaking and entering, or something. They committed a crime, and if they get hurt doing it, it ain’t the county’s fault.”
“Where were you working a month ago? Around Christmas?”
“Right over on the other side there,” Bussard said, pointing. “If you look at the edge, you can see some Christmas wrap. That’s where it’d be.”
“See any holes over there?”
“Not that I remember. See truck tracks all the time.”
Zahn came back from the widening hole. “Sure does look like a grave,” he said.
THE PEOPLE IN the hole were slowing down, so the last Californian, Bussard, and Lucas took the shovels, and continued down. At three feet, the Californian said, “Somebody hand me that screwdriver.”
He took the screwdriver, squatted, and pushed it into the dirt at the bottom of the hole, probed for a minute, then stood up. “I’d say we’re eight inches off the garbage level.”
“That’d be about right,” Bussard said, bobbing his head.
Eight inches down, Lucas cut through a white garbage sack, and could smell the garbage inside. “Smells like old pizza,” he said. “Like from a Dumpster out behind a pizza joint on a hot summer night.”
“Lucky you didn’t get one of them diaper bags,” Bussard said. “They smell like old shit on a hot summer night.”
The Californian said, “I got something here.” He was probing at a dark green garbage bag. They cleared away a little more dirt, then Bussard took a Leatherman tool off his belt, flicked open a blade, and slashed through the green bag.
A woman’s bare leg, flexed; her toenails were painted red.
“There you go,” Zahn said. “There you go.”
DEL SAID, “LOREN Singleton. Here we come.”
“I’m coming with you,” Zahn said. “I want to see what that sonofabitch has to say for himself.”
24
ALL OF IT was innocent. Back at the church in Broderick, Letty told the older woman about the scene at the dump and the shoot-out between Lucas, Del, and the FBI. Then Letty took a pill for her hand, got a book, and found an empty bed she could lie on, to read. Ruth went to work on the phone, calling members of her network in Canada. The older woman went down the highway to Wolf’s Cafe, got a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, and told Sandra Wolf that the FBI and the state were up at the dump, and about the shooting contest.
A bit later, a sheriff’s deputy came into the cafe, and Wolf told him about the shooting contest, and that the FBI was searching the dump. The deputy was a little put off about it because he’d been working—well, watching—the FBI guys at Deon Cash’s house, and they’d all taken off without telling him anything. He was also fairly sure that the sheriff had been cut out of the deal, so he called Mrs. Holme, the sheriff’s secretary, and asked her to pass on the word to the sheriff.
The sheriff was out, but she passed it on to several other people.
The word took almost an hour to get to Loren Singleton, who was getting a Sprite out of the fire station Coke machine when he heard about it. “Up there digging holes,” said the guy who’d heard it from a guy who’d heard it from Holme. “Better them than me. That place smells bad even when it’s all covered up and froze.”
MARGERY SINGLETON HAD just gotten home, carrying a brown grocery bag with a box of beef brains from Logan’s Fancy Meats, flour and milk from the Kwik Stop, and a sack of potatoes, when her son burst in on her.
“The jig’s up,” he groaned at her. “Jesus Christ, the jig is up. The FBI and the state guys are up at the dump digging holes, and they’ve got all that special equipment up there. They’re gonna find them. Those California guys say they can find a hundred-year-old grave, and the Calbs haven’t been in the ground long enough to get cold.”
Margery’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s because of that kid?”
“Who else? When I took the girls up, there weren’t any cars around and I took them off to the back corner and it was almost dark. So who else is up there that might have seen me? There’s nothing out there, except those goddamn raccoons that the kid goes after.”
“Who’d you hear this from? This isn’t just bullshit, is it?”
“Naw, I got it from Roland Askew. Here’s something else: they cut the sheriff out of the loop, even though they were all buddy-buddy up at Calb’s house. Why’d they do that? Because I’m a deputy, and they know it’s me that put them in the ground. God, Mom, I’m really scared.” He jammed a knuckle into his mouth and bit it.
Margery looked at the box of beef brains on the kitchen table. Brains, sliced like bread and fried up in beer batter, were a rare treat, as long as you got the brains when they were fresh. Frozen brains got mushy when you thawed them. She thought about the possibilities for a minute, then said, “If the girl is dead, she can’t testify. You’ve got to get up there and finish it.”
“Mom, if they think it’s me . . . I got a hole in my chest, and a bruise. All they have to do is get me to take my shirt off.”
“So you go up and take care of the girl. By the time you get back here, I’ll have it figured out: you’re gonna have an accident.”
“An accident?”
“A car wreck. Bruise you all up. I gotta think about it. Hurt you bad enough someplace else, like Fargo, that they put you in the hospital. You drive my car, we fake the wreck, you fake the injury. Hit something hard enough to
pop the airbags. By the time they find us, the hole’s healed up . . . We can figure something out. I can pretty much see what we’re gonna do—but it ain’t gonna work if that little kid talks.”
“Aw, jeez, they’re gonna get us.”
“You better hope not. You know what they do to guys like you down at Stillwater? You won’t have any trouble taking a shit, I tell you that. You’ll be nice and loose. That’s if the feds don’t get you. The feds’ll put you in the chair, if they get you.”
“Oh, God.” He stuck his knuckle in his mouth again, closed his eyes, bit on it. The pain helped clear his mind out. He opened his eyes and said, “I’m going. It’s almost dark now, I still got the garage-door opener for Calb’s, I can put the car in there, walk across to the church. I heard that the other women left after Katina died; there’ll only be Ruth Lewis and the kid.”
Talking himself into it. Margery nodded and said, “You might not have much time. Best get moving. I’ll figure things out here.”
THE SHERIFF HEARD about the dump dig at the same time that Loren Singleton heard. Anderson got it from an assistant county attorney at Borgna’s Drugs. The sheriff was mulling over the selection of Chap Stick products when the prosecutor came by, carrying a box of NyQuil, and said, “We gotta stop meeting like this.”
Anderson said, “Especially with you carrying drugs.”
“That’s the darn truth. I don’t know why those crazy fools mess around with meth labs when they can come down to Borgna’s and buy NyQuil . . . So what’d they find at the dump?”
“The dump?” Anderson was puzzled.
“Yeah, it’s all over town—the feds and those state guys are up at the dump, digging the place up. Ray Zahn’s up there, they rousted out old Phil Bussard, must have him up there with the ’dozer. Must be looking for those girls.”
“Aw, Jiminy,” Anderson said. He walked out of the drugstore and climbed into his truck, did an illegal U-turn, and headed out of town. He got madder and madder, thinking about it, as he went north—he was smearing cherry Chap Stick on his lips when he realized that he’d just shoplifted it under the eyes of an assistant county attorney.
“These people,” he said aloud, meaning the BCA, but especially Lucas Davenport. He was so arrogant, so holier-than-thou, out here in the sticks with his expensive Patagonia parka and his forty-thousand-dollar truck that no self-respecting American ought to be driving. Like to see him get that thing fixed when it blows up on Highway 36, he thought; like to see him find parts for a gosh-darned Acura out here. They’d have to tow that sucker back to the Cities.
They had their hot jobs up at the capital hanging out with that faggot Henderson, and they didn’t understand that he couldn’t be cut out of this investigation—not if he wanted to keep this job, the best job he’d ever had and would ever have. These people.
He had a little fantasy of arranging a breakdown for Davenport’s Acura, noticed that he’d just gone through Broderick at eighty-five miles an hour, saw lights on at Calb’s and wondered if the feds might be in there, too, got even madder, and pushed the truck to ninety.
At the turnoff to the dump, he thought, Easy does it. You’re cool, now. He continued down the approach road. There were no vehicles parked at the gate, but from the high seat in the truck, he could see over the rise of the dump to a brilliant cluster of lights off to his right. People at work.
He took the truck that way, bouncing over the ruts left by the bulldozer, saw Zahn walking back to his car, then Davenport and Capslock walking toward the fancy Acura.
The radio went, on the command frequency. “Sheriff, you there?”
He ignored it, pulled up beside Davenport and Capslock, and hopped out.
“What’s going on here?” he asked Lucas.
“Take a look in the hole,” Lucas said. “We think it’s Mrs. Calb.”
“Aw, jeez . . . How come I wasn’t in on this?”
Lucas said, “I gotta apologize for that, but we got some information that, uh, the guy we’re looking for might be with the sheriff’s department.”
Anderson had started toward the hole, but that turned him around. “My department?”
“Yeah. We think it might be Loren Singleton. Katina’s boyfriend.”
“Singleton? I just, I just . . . Aw, shoot.” He walked over to look in the hole. They’d exposed most of the bag, and he could see a woman’s thigh and lower leg. Could be Gloria Calb; about the right size.
“We got another bag underneath it,” Bussard said, leaning on his shovel, looking up at the sheriff. He smelled like old Campbell’s tomato soup. “Looks like a man’s shoe. The boys here think it’s gotta be Gene.”
Lucas stepped up next to Anderson. “We were gonna come get you, and then go get Singleton. Since he’s your guy, we figured you might want to be there to make the official arrest . . . ”
Aw, shoot.
THEY ALL WENT back to their trucks, Anderson thinking that they’d never have called him, not until they had Singleton trussed up like a Christmas turkey. They were treating him like the village idiot, and if he hadn’t gotten up here in time, everybody in Custer County would have known about it.
Anderson got in his truck and the radio bleated again, “Sheriff, are you there? Sheriff?”
He picked up the handset and said, “Yeah, this is me. What do you want?”
“We got a strange call from Margery Singleton. That’s Loren Singleton’s mother. She said she’s afraid he’s done something awful and that he might hurt some more people. I don’t know, she sounded a little overcooked, but I thought I’d call you . . . ”
ZAHN WAS LEADING the parade out of the dump, Lucas behind him, Anderson in the third truck, and as they pulled out of the approach road, Anderson began honking his horn and flashing his lights. They all stopped and Anderson ran up beside Lucas’s truck.
“Loren Singleton’s mom just called in. She said she thinks Loren’s done something awful, and he’s headed up to Broderick and thinks he might hurt some more people. She said he mentioned that Letty kid.”
“Aw, shit,” Lucas said. He shouted “Tell Ray,” and accelerated away, barely giving Anderson time to jump back from the truck.
Anderson watched as Lucas swerved around Zahn and out onto the approach road. Zahn had stopped with all the horn honking, and had gotten out of his car when Anderson had gotten out of his. Zahn yelled, “What?”
“Loren’s on his way to Broderick; he’s after that Letty kid.”
Zahn didn’t say anything—just got in his car and tore out after Lucas. Anderson got back in his truck and followed, onto the approach road. Then he picked up his handset, called the dispatcher and said, “You gotta get the phone number of that church up in Broderick. Tell them that they’re in danger, that Loren’s coming after them. Tell them to lock their doors.”
The call was, he thought later, the only good thing he’d done all night—but it was very good.
25
LOREN SINGLETON HAD just gotten his truck in Calb’s garage when another truck went through town at high speed. He heard it, didn’t see it—but its urgency carried a message. Something had happened north of Broderick, and the only thing north of Broderick for a long distance was the dump.
In his heart, he knew they’d found something. He sat slumped in his truck, the radio muttering at him, and then, distantly, playing an old Wayne Newton tune, “Danke Schoen.” He turned it up a bit, and the song hit him emotionally, and he began to weep, thinking about Katina, but also about himself. The chances of Mom getting anything together were just about zero, he thought. He was toast.
He finally wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands, pulled on his gloves, got the .380 out from under the car seat, put on his cop hat, took a deep breath, and headed out to the church.
RUTH LEWIS HAD finished her calls north. Letty was sleepy from the pain pills, and had given up her book and was watching one of the nuns’ DVD movies, Thelma and Louise, her injured leg up on a pile of pillows. The older woman wa
s in her cubicle, doing her afternoon prayers. Ruth, restless, thought about collecting Letty and walking over to the diner, or getting back in the car and checking at the dump, to see if anything had been found.
Thelma and Louise was starting to show noise—either that, Ruth thought, or the DVD machine was breaking down. She leaned against the doorway, watching the movie over Letty’s head, when the phone rang in the kitchen. She hurried back, picked it up. The sheriff’s dispatcher, talking all in a rush: “Loren Singleton’s mom says he’s coming up there with a gun he might hurt you and you’re all supposed to get out of there quick, the sheriff’s on his way right now but Loren may be ahead of him . . . ”
The doorbell rang.
RUTH DROPPED THE phone and ran toward the front of the church, stopped in the doorway of the TV room, and said, quietly as she could, but with urgency, “Loren Singleton’s on his way. Get up in the loft and hide.”
The doorbell rang again and Letty, not asking questions, limped past Ruth, and Ruth went to the front of the church and peeked out the small window at the front. Loren Singleton, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, was standing on the concrete stoop.
She backed away. Silence was best, she thought. Then the older woman, interrupted at her prayers, called, “Ruth? Did you get the door?”
The doorbell rang again and then the doorknob rattled, and she heard Singleton yell, “Sheriff’s deputy. Open up.”
The older woman came out, puzzled, and asked, “What’s going on?” Ruth grabbed her by the arm, saw Letty disappearing into the loft at the back, and dragged the older woman toward the back of the church. “Loren Singleton . . . the sheriff says he might be here to hurt Letty.”
“What?”
They were at a window, and Ruth looked out—but there was nothing out there except a few snow-whipped buildings, hundreds of feet apart, and the plains. If they ran out the back door, and if Singleton saw them, there’d be no place to go, or to hide.
Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15 Page 134
