The Forgotten Girls

by Owen Laukkanen

  “Duly noted,” Windermere said. “You have a fingerprint kit?”

  Parsons stared her down for another long beat. Then he turned to Deputy Finley, who was standing by the Explorer. “Kerry, hand me that crime scene kit in the backseat, would you?” he asked. “It seems this here is a homicide scene.”

  21

  Mila remembered being cold.

  It had been raining for days, and it would keep raining forever. Her thin jacket, her suitcase, everything she owned was soaked through. She was cold and hungry and wet and miserable. She was starting to feel the withdrawal again; it had been too long since she’d hit. She was starting to feel desperate.

  The rider jungle was a terrifying place. It was a society all its own, with rules, laws, and customs she could hardly imagine. Most of the citizens were men, most were older; they watched her walk among the shelters with undisguised hunger.

  Mila had intended to lurk on the margins, look for a friendly face, but the jungle was scaring her and she could feel her anxiety welling, the crippling panic. She’d walked to the nearest campfire, a group of furtive-looking riders passing a pipe back and forth, and she’d stood as tall as she could and asked them, all of them, any of them, if they could spare a bump.

  There had been a pause. She could see the other riders shooting looks at one another. Finally, a man spoke up. “You can have some of my stash,” he told her. “But you’ll have to trade for it.”

  She could hear the other riders laughing as she followed the man down the row of encampments to a shelter made of scrap siding and a big orange tarp. It looked dry underneath—a sleeping bag and a pile of odds and ends, room to stretch out, warm up—and she was inside the shelter before she’d had time to think about it.

  The man followed her in. He had to crouch to get inside; he filled the small space. It was a single-person shelter, clearly, and Mila could feel the man’s warmth, smell his odor.

  “So, now,” he said, and he was leering at her, “what can you offer?”

  The implication was clear. There was no point in pretending otherwise. She’d wondered when this would happen, wondered how long it would take before she was faced with this decision.

  How much did she want that fix? Enough to do . . . this?

  Probably.

  The man came closer, like he was trying to swing the vote. Put his hand on her arm—and then the edge of the tarp flapped open, right above Mila’s head, and there was Ash glaring in at them, at the man, though Mila didn’t know she was Ash yet, just an angry, beautiful girl with dark hair and a big knife, a knife she was brandishing at the man.

  “Let her be, asshole,” Ash told him. “There isn’t a girl in the world desperate enough for what you’re offering.”

  But I am desperate, Mila thought.

  The man rocked back on his heels, eyeing Ash, gauging his chances. Ash held up the knife, let him get a good look at the blade. “You really want to test me?” she said. “Do it. Ask Jungle Jim how that worked out for him.”

  Whoever Jungle Jim was, his name was warning enough. The man stepped back from Mila, muttering something about only having fun. Ash held out her free hand, and Mila climbed up from under the tarp and out of the shelter. Realized as she brushed wet hair from her eyes that Ash was already walking away.

  “Jeez, girl, you can’t let them think they can just take what they want from you,” Ash called over her shoulder. “They’ll never take you serious that way.”

  Mila didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say. She was still hungry, was the main thing. She was still cold. She still needed that fix.

  Ash made it twenty feet. Then she stopped, half turned back. “I have some stew and warm clothes in my tent,” she said, beckoning Come on. “And if you insist on getting high, I know a guy who can front you who isn’t a total sleaze. Unless you’d rather, you know, take your chances with these lowlifes.”

  Hell no, Mila thought. Hell freaking no. She grabbed her suitcase and hurried to follow.

  —

  Mila jolted upright, disoriented by the sunlight. She’d slept; it was morning. She could hear pots and pans clattering downstairs, the smell of bacon wafting up. She lay in bed, stared up at the ceiling. It was weird to be here.

  They’d arrived late last night, soaking wet from the storm. Ronda had fixed Mila a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk when they’d arrived. She’d given Mila a towel and a bathrobe and let her take a shower. And she’d made up the spare bed and turned down the covers. She didn’t say much.

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” she told Mila. “It’s too late to start up with it now.”

  Now morning was here, and Mila rolled out of bed, dreading the conversation to come. She rifled through her packsack, found a pair of grimy jeans she hadn’t worn since she’d crossed into California with Warren, jeans she’d forgotten she owned. She pulled them over her legs and felt something in the back pocket as she did, slipped her hand in. Pulled the thing out and stared at it.

  A baggie, long forgotten, about the size of a quarter. The last dregs of a half gram of crystal inside, not much, but enough. Enough for a little strength, anyway, strength to face Ronda, strength to keep going. Strength to catch on a long freight headed into the snow.

  Mila could still hear Ronda moving about in the kitchen. She turned her back to the doorway, opened the baggie. Poured the contents onto the back of her hand, where her thumb started. Studied the little pile of white powder, savoring the moment.

  This is the last you’ll get of this for a while.

  She plugged her nostril with her finger. Leaned down to the pile. Was just about to inhale, take the trip, crank up, when she heard something behind her and knew it was Ronda.

  “I brought coffee,” the older woman was saying, pushing into the bedroom with her hip, two steaming mugs in her hands. “And not that campfire crap, either, but real stuff. When’s the last time you had—” She saw Mila, the crystal, and stopped. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, no, kiddo. You can’t do that here.”

  Mila paused, torn between the urge to take the hit right now, in front of Ronda, and the knowledge that Ronda would never help her if she did.

  “It’s not much,” she said lamely. “I just— I need something to get me going.”

  “Hence the coffee,” Ronda said. “Listen, kiddo, you do what you want, but you want my help, you’re going to have to trade for it.”

  She looked at the little pile of powder on Mila’s hand. She set down her coffee mug and held out her hand, the implication obvious. Shit.

  You sold out your best friend for this shit. Now she’s dead. Are you really going to do it again?

  Mila sighed. She tipped her hand over and poured the little pile of crystal into Ronda’s palm. Followed Ronda into the bathroom and watched her flush the drugs, her panic growing as the water whirlpooled away.

  “And not just your little stash, either,” Ronda said. “You want me to help you on this misguided mission of yours, you’re going to get clean and stay clean. For your sake, not your friend’s, because whatever it is you’re hoping to find in those mountains, you’re not bringing her back, understand?”

  Mila didn’t say anything.

  “Swear it, kiddo,” Ronda told her. “Or you’ll never make it into those mountains.”

  Mila closed her eyes. You’re probably going to die, anyway. Do something useful with your life before you go. Do something for Ash.

  “I swear,” she told Ronda. “I’ll get clean.”

  Ronda handed Mila a mug. “Well, all right,” she said. “Come on downstairs. I made breakfast.”

  22

  Arailroad lineman found her,” Ronda told Mila after Mila had eaten, scarfing down a plate of bacon and three scrambled eggs, orange juice, two more mugs of coffee, the works. “A friend of mine, Roger Domino. When Ash didn’t show up last October, I called in s
ome favors on the Northwestern line. You do this long enough, you get to know the train crews. You start to make connections.”

  Mila nodded. Ash had told her something similar, how most of the train guys didn’t really care about riders being on the trains, so long as you stuck to your own business and didn’t cause trouble.

  “Where did they find her?” she asked.

  “Some place called Moyie Springs, Idaho, near the Montana line.” Ronda frowned. “The weird thing was, it’s not even a division point. But the night before she was supposed to arrive, there was a big train derailment on the High Line, a bunch of chemical tankers. All traffic east and west halted for nearly eight hours. The way I figure, her hotshot must have stopped to wait out the derailment in that little town.”

  “And the bulls kicked her off?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe she just got real cold. She was on a flatcar, remember, and there was the first snow that night. Maybe she just wanted some shelter.”

  Mila felt a chill. “Ash said the rider always travels in a storm. She said he rides where no normal person could survive.”

  Ronda stood, taking her coffee mug to the sink. Stared out through the window as she rinsed it. Outside, it was still raining, raining hard, and Mila knew the rain turned into snow the higher in the mountains you went.

  “I’ve heard the bogeyman stuff,” Ronda said after a minute. “I don’t put any stock in it. Whoever’s riding that High Line is flesh and blood, just like you and me. He just happens to be a damned evil soul.”

  —

  Later, when Ronda left the house for groceries, Mila made herself a hot chocolate and logged on to Ronda’s Wi-Fi with her phone. She found a map of the High Line on the Internet. The mountain region, from the Cascades through the Rockies. Found Moyie Springs. Found a bunch of the other towns Ronda had mentioned, places where the police had found bodies.

  It was a huge stretch of track, five hundred–plus miles. A lot of ground to cover. She would have to prepare wisely. Mila logged on to the rider message board. Started a thread.

  I’m looking for the ghost rider on the High Line, she wrote. I know it’s a bad idea, so save your advice. Just point me in the right direction, if you can.

  She posted the thread. Fingers crossed. If this didn’t work, she would have to pump Ronda for whatever information she had. Or she would have to hope to get lucky.

  Mila took a screenshot of the map. Saved it on her phone. Drank her hot chocolate and stared out into the rain.

  23

  Derek Mathers was packing up for the night when his computer chimed, breaking the silence in the Criminal Investigative bullpen in Brooklyn Center, Minnesota. Most of the other agents were already gone for the night; Mathers was working late, taking advantage of Agent Windermere’s absence to clear some paperwork, a few minor cases.

  In truth, the paperwork could wait, but Mathers had nothing but a cold home waiting for him once he left the office. He’d made reservations for two at some fancy romantic restaurant for the night, anticipating that Windermere would be home by now, but she was still turning over rocks in that Montana mountain town with Stevens, and Mathers was pretty well resigned to a microwaved meal and the hockey game in her absence.

  He slid the last of his files from atop his desk and locked them away. Then he turned back to the computer. The chime had come from a program that mirrored Mark Higgins’s cloud; SAC Harris had okayed the return of Higgins’s laptop, but he’d instructed Mathers to keep a watch on the cloud regardless, at least until Stevens and Windermere’s return.

  There’d been no activity since Fresno, three or four days ago. Even Mark Higgins was through uploading tractor pictures, by the look of it. But now Mila Scott had photographed something new.

  Mathers clicked through to the program, found the picture. A map of the High Line—well, that was no surprise. Stevens and Windermere were already certain she was headed that way, and the Northwestern Railroad had been asked to watch out for her, but Mila Scott wasn’t the Bureau’s highest priority at the moment. Someone would intercept her eventually.

  Out of curiosity, Mathers clicked through to the picture’s metadata—the upload location, date, and time—expecting to see another diner’s IP address, or maybe a McDonald’s. When he ran the IP address through a tracer, though, he had to stare at the results for a beat before it clicked. Then he reached for his phone.

  He tried Windermere first. Went straight to voicemail, didn’t even get a ring. Tried again, ditto. Was her phone turned off?

  Mathers tried Stevens next, got the same story. No ringing, just Stevens’s voice on his mailbox greeting. Mathers left a message—“Please call when you can”—and hung up the phone.

  Must be somewhere without service. Way up in those mountains.

  He looked around his cubicle, debating what to do next. Windermere’s service had been spotty since she’d arrived in the northwest. There was no predicting how long she’d be out of range.

  Still, he couldn’t just sit on this information. Mathers opened his Internet browser. Found the Bureau’s Seattle resident office, placed a call.

  “I have a person of interest I need checking up on,” Mathers told the agent who answered. “She’s at a private address. Got a pen?”

  24

  It was my grandmother’s,” Ash said, holding the knife up so the blade caught the firelight. “She gave it to me when I was fourteen. She’d had it since she was a teenager, she told me.”

  Ash handed Mila the knife, and Mila examined it, the long, dangerous blade, the custom-tooled handle. A woman on horseback, her hair flowing behind her.

  “It’s total Hollywood Indian bullshit, I know,” Ash said, laughing. “But I like to think the woman on the handle is her.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  Ash nodded. Found another piece of scrap wood and laid it on the fire. “She raised my mom and my aunt and uncle on her own after my grandfather died,” she said. “Never took a handout from anyone. Even when she got old, she still ran the house. Everyone would always listen when she talked.”

  She stared into the fire, the flames dancing in her eyes. “She was a tough, strong woman, my grandmother. Nobody fucked with her. Nobody.”

  Mila turned the knife over one more time. Then she handed it back. “What happened to her?”

  “My grandmother?” Ash blinked. “She died,” she said. “Cancer. She died and it all went to shit with my family, and I had to get out of there. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mila said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Ash waved her off. She gazed at the knife some more. “Nobody fucks with me, either,” she said after a while. “Not while I have my grandmother with me, you know?”

  —

  Ronda came back with provisions. Heavy winter clothes, a coat, boots, and gloves. Food. Water. A compass. A spare phone charger.

  “You find this guy, you contact the police, okay?” she told Mila. “Don’t go trying to be a hero on your own.”

  Mila took the phone charger, the warm clothes. Started packing them into her sack beside her own little knife, the first thing she’d ever stolen. It wasn’t as nice as Ash’s grandmother’s knife, didn’t have a story behind it, except for how Ash had flirted with the counter boy at the camping outfitter in Toledo, Ohio, distracting him while Mila pocketed the blade. Maybe that was story enough.

  “What about weapons?” Mila asked Ronda. “Do you have, like, a gun?”

  Ronda looked at her sideways. “What did I just say? You call the police. You don’t confront this guy.”

  Fine, Mila thought. But still.

  She was thinking, what if this guy surprised her? What if he got the drop? She was thinking about Ash. Ash took her grandmother’s knife to the High Line. It wasn’t enough.

  Ronda was still looking at Mila, waiting for an answer.


  “Okay,” Mila said. “I’ll call the cops. Promise.”

  Something was moving outside. Cars. Doors slamming, voices. Lights flashed through the rain and played against the windows, red and blue. The police.

  Mila stood quickly. “Did you call them?”

  Ronda saw the lights. She went to the window and looked out, then came back shaking her head no. “I don’t turn people in. I wouldn’t have bought you this stuff if I’d known they were coming.”

  “Well, they’re here.”

  Boots on the front steps, heavy. More voices. A knock at the door. Ronda looked back at Mila, her partially filled packsack. “You ready to go?”

  Mila sped up her packing. “Give me, like, five minutes.”

  “You have two,” Ronda said. “The cops don’t exactly wait to be invited in this neighborhood.”

  Mila packed her clothes as quick as she could. The food and the water and the compass. Stuffed it all into her packsack and zipped it closed. “Ready.”

  Ronda was already leading her toward the back door. “Listen,” she said. “You’ll never make it through the mountains on an open train car.”

  “I’m going,” Mila replied. “I already told you.”

  Ronda held up her hand. “Listen to me, kiddo. This is the only way you’ll make it. You want to know how the rider gets around in those storms?”

  Mila stood silent, hand on the back doorknob. He’s a ghost, she thought. He’s an evil spirit. Superhuman.

  Ronda shook her head, like she could read Mila’s mind. “It’s not magic,” she said. “Listen close. Those really long trains, the coal draggers and some of the hotshots, they can’t make it through the mountains with just a couple of engines at the front. They’ll put a couple more in the middle of the train, or maybe at the back, remote-controlled. There’re no engineers inside them, but it’s warm in the cab anyway. No wind, no snow. You just have to look out, because if the bulls catch you in an engine, they’ll throw you in jail.”