Stevens stared down at the map, couldn’t begin to guess. “The Idaho panhandle,” he said to the foreman. “Could she get there from here?”
“I mean, sure,” the foreman replied. “If she hopped a train north, like you’re thinking, she could make Sacramento and then ride all the way up the coast to Puget Sound. We link up with Northwestern rails just outside Seattle.”
“We’re going to need a map,” Stevens told him. “And a list of station stops on your line up the coast.”
“And if you could tell your bulls to look out for a little purple-haired train hopper, we’d be much obliged,” Windermere added.
“I can do that,” the foreman said. Then he paused. “If your girl’s headed for the High Line, she’s in for a heck of a rough ride.”
“Why’s that?”
The foreman pointed to the map again. The stretch of main line through western Montana, Idaho, Washington State. “That’s mountain country,” he told them. “It gets cold up there this time of year; I mean real cold. Anyone trying to ride would freeze to death within hours.” He shook his head. “I’m saying it just can’t be done.”
11
The rider rode east as the weather turned bad. Another squall, sudden and furious, bitter gusts of wind and blinding, swirling snow. The rider didn’t mind. He welcomed the storm. Fresh snow would erase any sign of his visit. It would hide any trace of the prostitute.
He rode until the train slowed for the passing siding and then, as it drifted to a stop, he dropped back onto solid ground again, trackside, the snow breaking his fall. He walked up the tracks to the road crossing, the snow deeper, unplowed, and found the stand of Christmas fir trees and his snowmobile hidden behind it, the Ski-Doo 583 he’d been driving through these mountains for years.
He pulled the cover off the machine, stowed it in the cargo compartment behind the seat. Dug the key from his coat and tried the ignition. The engine started, as usual; it had never failed him, even in the cold. It was a machine made for extreme conditions, reliability. It was a machine for the mountains, and the rider respected it.
He sat on the machine for a few minutes, waiting for the engine to warm. Removed the Indian girl’s knife and studied the blade. Removed his newest souvenir, too, held it up to the light, watched it turn.
The prostitute had worn a necklace, a thin chain of silver with a small stone. Amethyst, she’d told him after some prodding. Her birthstone. A gift from her first boyfriend; she didn’t know why she still wore it. The rider had his theories, but he hadn’t pressed the issue. The woman hadn’t been in any frame of mind for contemplation.
The rider dropped the necklace into his pocket, revved the engine, and started up the logging road. Whatever the symbolism, the necklace made for a good token. The prostitute’s name had been Kelly-Anne. The rider would remember her whenever he looked at the charm.
12
Hey, lady.”
Mila Scott opened her eyes, peered out from her nest inside the open boxcar, and blinked in the sudden daylight. It had been dark when she’d fallen asleep, rainy, too. Now the rain was gone and the sun was shining, the train was stopped and a man was looking in at her.
Instantly, Mila was awake. She’d learned to sleep light since she’d started riding trains. Too many weirdos out there, on both sides of the law. Too many dangerous situations. You couldn’t drop your guard for long, not when you were alone.
But you shouldn’t be alone, stupid girl. You’re supposed to be with Ash, remember?
Mila shook her head clear, ran her fingers through her hair. Too early for this. She needed a cigarette. What she really needed was a drink of something hard, maybe a bump from Warren’s stash. But Mila was out of the hard stuff, and Warren wasn’t around anymore, either.
The man outside the boxcar cleared his throat. He was a bull; she’d known that as soon as she’d rubbed the sleep from her eyes. He wore a dark shirt, dark pants, a badge, a radio, and a gun. Mila could see his cruiser parked trackside. Beyond were just a couple sidetracks and then green foliage and farmland, everything lush and dazzling after the earthy monotony of the desert.
“You’re her, aren’t you?” the bull was saying. “You’re the girl they’re looking for.”
Mila didn’t know where she was. She’d caught on a junker in Fresno after the main engine on her hotshot broke down, rode north a full day and night straight, through Sacramento and Northern California and the Oregon line, slept restlessly as the sun set again and the train trundled north, seeing Ash in her dreams, alive-Ash and dead-Ash, the both of them. Now the sun was inching above the horizon again, so it was morning, not exactly early. Mila wondered if they were getting close to Portland yet. Wondered if she was really going to do this.
The bull tapped his nightstick on the doorframe. “Hey,” he said again. Waited until she’d looked at him, until he was sure he had her attention. “Whoever you are, you can’t be here,” he said. “This train has to keep moving, and you can’t be on it.”
He held out his hand. Reluctantly, Mila pulled herself to her feet. Stretched, her neck feeling twisted as a coat hanger wire. Ignored the bull’s hand and dropped down out of the boxcar.
“Good,” the bull said, his hand on his radio. “Now step away from the tracks there so I can give them the highball.”
Mila obeyed. Ash always said you did what the cops told you, unless it got weird. Most of the time, the worst they would do is give you a ticket. Sometimes they’d want to throw you in jail, but you’d be out in a day or so, and anyway, jail wasn’t all bad. The food was warm.
Damn it, she needed a cigarette. A drink. Anything.
The bull spoke into his radio. The train hissed and shuddered and rumbled to life. Slowly, it pulled away from Mila and the bull and his cruiser—a long line of hoppers and boxcars, tankers and lumber flats. When the last car had passed them, Mila could see a little railroad outbuilding across the tracks, a sign on the wall reading SALEM.
The bull was looking at her again. He was smiling slyly, like when you figure out the punch line before the joke’s through being told.
“You are her,” he said. “They said you’d have purple hair. How many purple-haired riders could there be on this line?”
Mila snapped to attention. She’d hardly been listening earlier, figured the bull’s chatter was just normal cop crap. Now, though, she realized what he was saying.
“Wait,” she said. “Rewind. Who said? Who’s looking for me?”
“Oh, everyone. Railroad police, city cops, FBI.” The bull took her arm, trying to lead her toward his cruiser. “They put out an all points bulletin up and down the line. Said to keep our eyes out for a girl with purple hair.”
The FBI. Mila rubbed her face. The FBI?
Warren, she thought. What the hell did you do now?
—
As far as Ash was concerned, Warren was the cause of most of Mila’s problems. Warren and those little baggies he kept in his packsack.
It was Warren, in the end, who’d lured Mila away from Ash, way back in Kansas City, October, the last time they’d seen each other. Ash about to hop a northbound, telling Mila it wasn’t too late, she could come—Texas Johnny would love to see her, too—and Mila smiling and pretending to think about it, pretending that she wasn’t hooked on what Warren was holding, just some cheap rider crystal and not even that good, certainly not worth the price Warren wanted—but at that point, Mila was pretty sure she couldn’t live without it.
So she’d told Ash she would meet her in a few months, down the road somewhere, told her to keep in touch and be careful. Told Ash she’d love to go, but Warren wanted to see Los Angeles, told Ash she was pretty sure she might love him.
And Ash had said yeah, sure, she would, had the decency to pretend like she believed Mila, like she didn’t know it was the high Mila was chasing and not some lowlife rider boy. She told Mila to b
e careful, too, and then Ash’s train was starting to pull out, and she had to run or she would miss it, and they hugged quickly at the edge of the rail yard, and then Mila watched as Ash chased down a grain car, took hold of a handrail, and swung herself aboard, as easy and graceful as always. Like she’d been born to do it. And Mila had watched until that grain car was gone and all that remained of the train was a little flashing red light in the distance—No cabooses on the trains anymore, girl; you noticed that, right?—and Mila had watched until the light was gone, too, and then she’d turned around and gone back to find Warren and his stash.
And that was about where everything started to go sideways. And now Ash was dead, and Warren had gone and done something crazy, and the goddamn FBI was looking for her.
Shit.
—
Why are they looking for me?” Mila asked the bull. “What are they saying I did, exactly?”
The bull just shrugged. They were almost at his cruiser. “Didn’t say. Just said to look out for you and hold on to you if we found you. Said to call it in right away.”
He stopped beside the cruiser, fiddled with his keys. Mila looked around at the vast expanse of farmland, the town itself in the distance, a half mile or so up the tracks. Couldn’t wrap her head around it. The FBI. Jeez.
The bull opened the door to his cruiser and reached for her arm again. Mila pulled away, danced free from his grip. She didn’t have time for this. She had to get north.
The bull glared at her. “Come on, now,” he said. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Ronda Sixkill was waiting in Seattle. Mila couldn’t afford to be late. She needed to get to the High Line, needed to make things right for Ash. She’d screwed up. Ash was dead. There was no fixing that, but she had to do something. Nobody else was stepping up, were they? And she owed it to Ash, either way.
She owed it to Ash to make things right.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you,” the bull was saying. “But you have to come with me, understand?”
He grabbed for her again, but he was big and old and slow. Mila ducked away from him. This time, she didn’t stop when she was clear of his grasp. This time, she bolted and didn’t look back.
13
Montana Fish, Wildlife, and Parks field warden Becky LaTray was at her desk in the agency’s office in Libby, thirty miles from the Idaho line, when her phone began to ring.
“Becky.” Jim Benson’s voice boomed through the receiver when she picked up the handset. “How’re you doing down there?”
LaTray felt her eyes drift unconsciously to the clock on her desktop computer. Jim Benson was a rancher in Butcher’s Creek, a little railroad town fifty miles to the northeast of Libby, on the edge of the county line—and thus within LaTray’s jurisdiction by exactly three miles. She was never more aware of the significance of those miles then when Benson had her on the phone, which was more and more lately, now that his wife had passed.
It was a quarter to one in the afternoon on a workday, and LaTray had a pile of paperwork to get through. She pasted her best smile on her face and tried to hide the impatience in her voice. “Doing fine, Jim. Just about running out of places to put the snow, but that’s winter for you. What can I do for you?”
“Been a hell of a winter,” Benson said, untroubled by the field warden’s prompts. “A new storm every week, it seems like, and cold, too—deathly cold. I’ve half a mind to bring the horses in to sleep in the main house if the temperature drops any colder overnight.”
LaTray picked up the first file on her stack. A possible Canada lynx seen in Troy, near the Idaho line. The lynx were a threatened species; the public was encouraged to report any sightings.
“Whatever it takes, right?” she told Benson. “Long as it gets you through the winter.”
“I’ve been thinking about calling it quits,” Benson said. “Move somewhere hot, California maybe. See what this global warming thing is all about.”
Maybe you should, LaTray thought. Bother the wardens down there for a change. “Listen, Jim, I’m a little busy right now. You mind calling me back in a while?”
Benson sucked his teeth. “I didn’t even tell you why I’m calling, Becky.” He paused, like he was waiting for her to ask. She didn’t. He continued. “I was riding Maverick out back of the property this morning, thought I’d see how deep the snow was getting out there. You remember Maverick; she’s my old mare. You would have met her the last time you came out, when I wanted to show you that ferret.”
“Right. I remember, Jim. So anyway.”
“Right, so anyway.” Benson sucked his teeth again. “I was riding Maverick and she shied up about thirty yards from the tree line, wouldn’t go any farther. I couldn’t figure out why until I looked into the trees, and there was a wolf there, a big black sucker. Mean-looking thing.”
LaTray sat up a little straighter. A wolf was actually a half-decent reason to call. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay?”
“I figured I didn’t want this guy sniffing around, so I let off a warning shot with my thirty-ought. Figured to scare him back into the woods. But he didn’t go. So . . .” He trailed off.
“Oh, jeez, Jim,” LaTray said. “Don’t tell me you shot him.”
“No! No, no, Becky.” Benson laughed. “I tried another warning shot and it still didn’t faze him, so I figured I’d better call you.”
LaTray exhaled.
“That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Call one of you wardens to come take a look?”
LaTray looked at her clock again. Nearly one o’clock, and Butcher’s Creek about a two-hour drive, all of it snowed-in two-lane highway and winding back roads. It’d be almost sundown by the time she got out there, and then she’d have to get home in the dark.
Still, you couldn’t just slough off a wolf sighting because the guy who called it in was a pesky old man, could you?
LaTray sighed, reached for her hat, her rifle, the keys to her work truck. “Gimme a couple of hours,” she told Benson. “I’ll come take a look.”
—
It was three thirty by the time LaTray pulled her agency Super Duty pickup to a halt at Jim Benson’s front gate, worn out from the drive and about ready for a drink. She’d taken MT-37 north almost to Canada, paralleling Lake Koocanusa above the Libby Dam and turning south again toward Butcher’s Creek ten miles shy of the border, the last half hour of road pacing the railroad tracks—the Northwestern main line, big mile-long behemoths thundering past every ten minutes or so, utterly unencumbered by the snow.
Should have taken Amtrak, she thought. Or should have told Jim just to shoot the damn wolf.
Benson must have been watching for her from the ranch house, because he was out the front door almost before Becky killed the ignition. He came strutting down the drive, a big smile on his face, like Becky was the prom queen taking him to the dance.
“Roads give you any trouble?” he asked, moving in for a hug that Becky managed to avoid. “They say it’s going to snow again tomorrow, if you can believe it.”
“I believe it,” Becky replied, reaching back into the Ford for her rifle. “Where’s this wolf of yours, Jim?”
“Oh, he took off, finally.” Benson shook his head. “Big old train came roaring past the property, must have spooked him. He up and bolted.”
For a brief moment, Becky imagined that there hadn’t been any wolf, that Benson had called her up here on false pretenses. “You go out there, see what had him so interested?”
Benson just smiled. “No, dear,” he said. “I was waiting for you.”
—
They took a couple of Benson’s horses out along the fence line, toward the western edge of his property, where a long stand of pine marked the end of the ranch. There was a creek back there, Becky knew, a forestry road, and somewhere down the bottom of a rock cut, the Northwestern mainline. Mostly, thoug
h, it was wilderness, like most of this part of the state: rock and trees and water.
And snow. Thirty yards from the fence line, the snowdrifts were almost at the horses’ chests. Becky could see the tops of the fence posts, though only barely. But she could see where the wolf had been. The snow wasn’t as deep inside the woods proper, and she could see where the marauder had tamped it down farther. She could see something else in there, too, something dark on the ground, the snow around it dirty, mottled. Bloody.
Shit, she thought. The last thing Jim needs is a big old wolf thinking this is a good place to get dinner.
“Could be a deer,” Becky said, squinting. “Unless you lost an animal lately.”
Benson made a negative sound. “They don’t want to be out here any more than you or me,” he said. “They stay in the barn most of the time, wait for me to feed them.”
It took another twenty minutes to cover that last thirty yards. The trees started a couple yards from the fence, and the dead thing, whatever it was, was lying about five yards beyond. Becky shouldered her rifle, slipped from her horse on the other side of the fence. Waded through the snow toward the dead thing.
“You see that wolf coming back, you kill it,” she called back to Benson. Then she turned around again, and she could see the dead thing clearly. It wasn’t a deer, and it wasn’t one of Jim’s animals; she could see that now. And she could see also that she was into something a hell of a lot bigger than a marauding wolf.
“Call the sheriff,” she said, turning back to Benson. “We’re going to need some guys out here, fast as we can get them.”
14
I have some bad news, kiddo, Ronda’s email began, and that’s as far as Mila got before she slammed the phone down and looked away, fast.
It was early evening, and the diner was mostly full. People looked over, startled by the noise, and Mila could practically see the judgment on their faces—not that she cared, not now.
The Forgotten Girls Page 5
