The Highway Girls

by Matt Lockhart

  “I'm not the cops.”

  “But, you used to be.”

  “But, I'm not now. Far from it. Look, I'm not trying to jam you up or anything. Couldn't if I wanted to anyway. Besides, I know you didn't know. Believe you when you told me. Reason I wanted to meet is thought you could tell me more.”

  “Like what?”

  “I just wanna know what happened.”

  All Nate has is that note from Gray's notepad. Quinn's name and phone number next to the words “stolen trailer”. He calls and he's grateful Boyd agrees to meet, even if it means driving three hours to Quinn's hometown.

  “They let me go 'cause they know I didn't steal it.”

  “How'd they come to find that out? You were pulled over with it, right?”

  “Yeah, outside Oyen.”

  “Where were you headed?”

  “My grandfather's cabin in the Cypress Hills.”

  “Saskatchewan?”

  “Yep. Was him who called me about the thing. Had it on his property in Okotoks. Asks me to hitch it and take it.”

  Nate flips open a small pad of paper. There isn't a lot of light beyond the glow from a neon sign on the wall two booths over, but he can see enough to write some things down.

  “You mind?” Nate asks as he holds his pen to the page.

  “Guess it's fine.”

  “So, your grandfather?”

  “Yeah, Cam DeViller. He's got this place in Okotoks. That's where the trailer was. He wants it at his cabin, asks me if I could take it there. He's pretty up there in age, in his 80s now. I help him out when I can, you know? Anyway, I wasn't paying attention much to my speed I guess coming through Oyen, and that's when they pulled me over. Asked me about the trailer, told 'em it was my granddad's and all of that. The Mountie ran the serial number I guess and boom, they haul me off to the station. Held me for bit, ask me a bunch of questions. Then this other fella came out to my place a day later or so. Gray, I think his name was.”

  “What happened to the trailer?”

  “Far as I know it's back with the real owner. That Gray fella spoke to my granddad maybe a couple minutes on the phone, told him they took the trailer back to the person who had it registered. Told him to be more careful, that was about it.”

  Bang-up police work, Gray, Nate thinks.

  “No one follows up after that?”

  “Follows up? Nope. Not 'til you called. You working with the cops or something?”

  “No,” Nate says, “nothing like that. This is something else. You happen across an RV or anything on your drive?”

  “An RV?”

  “Yeah. Rental kind. The type people would rent to take on a vacation. That sort of thing.”

  “On the highway? Shoot, I probably saw tons of 'em. Time of year and all.”

  “None that stick out in your mind though? Pretty young girls driving it?”

  “Can't say I recall anything like that.” Then Boyd's face changes as he clues in. “Oh, shit. This about them missing girls?”

  Nate nods. Would prefer to keep their conversation private inside this establishment.

  “Was gonna say. Seems kinda funny someone hiring a detective about a trailer like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It's nothing much,” Boyd says. “Flat, empty cargo trailer. Two wheels. Maybe eight feet long. Think my grandfather paid something like three hundred bucks for it. I mean, it's nothing.”

  Nate waves to the lady for another beer. What he really wants is more Cream to dull the ache from that tooth.

  “You said the trailer ended up back with its owner.”

  “That's what this Gray fella told my granddad.”

  “You know who that is? The original owner, I mean. Where they live?”

  “Couldn't tell ya. Cops probably think we'd go and try and steal it for real if we knew that. They don't trust no one.”

  I can attest to that, Nate thinks. His second beer arrives. As soon as he takes a swallow, he winces as the cold liquid hits his rotten molar.

  “You alright?” Boyd says. This ex-cop is more of a mess than he is.

  “Your grandfather, Cam, he paid three hundred for it.”

  “Right.”

  “Paid 'em cash?”

  “Yep.”

  Nate jots something on the page. “Who'd he buy it from?”

  “No idea.”

  Nate looks up at the guy, not fully buying it. “I'm not a cop,” he re-iterates. “No one's in trouble here.”

  “I know, you said. But, honest, my granddad never told me where he got it. Alls he said to me was he wants it moved. That's all I was doin'.”

  “You never asked him since then where he got it?”

  “Nope. Don't need to know. Told that to the cops too.”

  Nate asks for Cam DeViller's address and phone number. Boyd provides them.

  “Don't know if he'll be able to help you much. His memory's shoddy the best of times.”

  “We'll see.”

  “But, you said this wasn't to help out the cops?”

  “That's right.”

  “Then what is this about anyway? Since it's somethin' to do with them girls, right?”

  “I'm not sure,” Nate says, and he stands up and throws a twenty and a ten on the table. “Probably nothing.”

  Nothing turning into something.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nearly three solid days of torrential rain over the region and Nate sees something in the fading light he's never seen before in the town of Rocky. A small river of rainwater gushes along one side of Highway 11, filling the ditch almost up to the blacktop. He's never seen water that high up on the circular culverts at each intersection through town.

  Luckily, the rain subsides but for a few scattered showers. Nate wonders how far out toward the mountains the storm has reached. Then he thinks about the girls and any potential crime scene the weather has possibly washed away.

  Of course it has.

  Always expect the worst.

  He stops for a drink at Josie's Pub. It being one of the nicer drinking establishments in Rocky Mountain House, he figures he has a shot at seeing a few of the FBI suits hanging around. A way of sizing them up, playing armchair judge, observing them enough in the wild to see if this joint Task Force of theirs has any hope of finding answers. Most 5-0 you could tell just by looking at them if they were any good.

  Not one suit in the place. Nate finishes his whiskey and stifles a cough into his elbow. Tooth still hurts like a bitch. He nods at Roddy the old bartender, settles up his tab. “Any cops been in here tonight?” Nate says.

  “Only you, pal.”

  Nate chuckles, gives the old man a wave walking out.

  Should've tried the cafe. Closed now anyway. That would've been the place though. Those FBI dicks would probably trip over their Hugo Boss ties lining up to drown themselves in lattes before they'd entertain a good scotch. Ah, who am I kidding? As if they'd be staying in Rocky for the duration of the investigation. On a budget like theirs, why would you? They're probably camped out in the Hilton in Edmonton or some damn thing.

  Nate slides behind the wheel and drives out to the edge of town, half hoping the Red Line hasn't been carried away in a Biblical flood, half hoping that everything west of where he's been has swept out into the Pacific. Rocky, the Reserves, Nordegg, the missing girls, Banff, Jasper, the mountains, Alberta, B.C., everything.

  Hell, take me right along with it. Maybe I'd actually get to see my girls again.

  He pulls into the lot at the motel, notices a black Toyota Corolla he's never seen before. Alberta marker. Expired tags. One of the rear tires is a donut. A Rez Rocket if ever I've seen one, Nate thinks. Usually cars off the Reserve are coated up to the windows in mud. The fact this one's mostly clean can only be on account of the weather. Nature's power wash.

  Nate's hackles immediately rise. Any encounters he's had with folks from Fox River Reserve or Buffalo Pass for that matter who might hang around the motel are rarel
y civil. There is no one standing around, and the sun is completely gone. The lone orange light overhead provides plenty of shadows around the building to skulk around in. Like cops, most everyone from the Reserve is an expert in finding the most advantageous spot to observe without being observed themselves, the best way to get the drop on someone else.

  He puts the car in park. Hates thinking about the idea of a few people he can't see lurking in the shadowed embankment off to his right. Sometimes he carries his unregistered piece with him. This isn't one of those times, and he curses himself. Still, if he's pinched with it out on the highway, that could be the end of his investigation. The end of things for Belinda.

  Nate gently pushes the driver's side door closed. Bug coughs somewhere deep inside his unit. He hears a couple of voices right after. Muffled chatter. Someone's TV. Anyone wants to try anything, Nate thinks, keeping his eye on the black embankment while padding the stairs up toward his place – this is their chance. He reaches the front door to his unit, notices it's ajar. Adrenaline spikes, the hairs on his forearms stand on end. He steps to one side of his door. Training, experience, and instinct. Never stand fully exposed in front of a doorway. How many cops lost their lives that way?

  Nate shuffles off to one side of frame, faces out to the second floor balcony railing, his left shoulder back to the wall. He slowly reaches with his left arm and presses in on his front door. The hinge croaks as his door coasts wide open. Memories of the Job floods to him as he braces for the shot. He glances inside, sees a dark figure, someone sitting on his bed, feet on the floor, upper body fully reclined, flat back across his mattress.

  What the hell?

  Shit, it's Rico.

  Adrenaline dump. Nate exhales and walks in, relieved and annoyed. He shuts his unit door behind him. Rico lays there, eyes closed, still hasn't noticed Nate's arrival home.

  He nudges the dope dealer's foot with his own. “Wake up, dummy.”

  Rico opens his eyes, half-stunned.

  “How the hell'd you get in here?” Nate says. “I don't remember giving you a key.”

  “Tammy,” Rico says. “She let me in.”

  “I told her to stop doing that.”

  “She still thinks we're brothers.”

  “Told her to stop thinking that too.”

  They look nothing alike. Rico has shoulder length jet black hair and cheekbones so sharp his face looks carved by a jackknife from a block of Aspen. He's half-Metis, half-Cree, stands about 5'3” and weighs maybe 140 on a good day.

  As Nate comes down from the high of thinking he's about to get shot, his toothache roars back to the front of his mind as well. He holds his hand to his jaw. “Tell me you brought some more.”

  “It's why I'm here,” Rico says, raising a crumpled paper bag from the floor. “Where you been?”

  “Business.”

  “Out of town shit?”

  “Out of town shit.”

  “Alright.”

  “That your car out there?”

  “Nah, man, I walked.”

  “Figures.”

  Nate grabs the paper bag and removes four pill bottles held together by a thick elastic band. He immediately pops two Cream, forces them down with a wad of spit. Wouldn't be long and the tooth would be forgotten.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Two.”

  “Wasn't it one-fifty last time?”

  “Nah, man, it's always been two.”

  Nate's tooth tells him not to argue. Give the man his money. Be thankful he shows up at all.

  He grabs two hundred dollars from a lock box he keeps on a high shelf. Rico grips the crinkled bills in his long, bony fingers. “Still can't believe you used to be a cop, man.”

  “Don't go broadcasting that around.”

  Rico scoffs. “Everyone already knows.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Chill out, man. Nobody cares. They know you're cool an' shit now. I don't know. I still can't picture it. You woulda been arrestin' my ass.”

  “Nah, Rico, I don't think so,” Nate says, sinking down onto his bed. “I've always been cool.”

  The drug starts to kick in. Rico sees it. “You white boys always say that. Cops especially. Harrassin' the Indians like a bunch of racist motherfuckers. Yeah, that's real cool.”

  “That was never me.”

  “Heard that before too.” Rico steps to the door as Nate's eyes grow heavier by the second. “Call me when you need more.”

  “You know I will.”

  Rico slips out of Nate's place, quietly closes his door and drifts off into the night.

  What seems like only a few seconds later, Nate shoots upright like a steel rod has been shoved up his spine. A loud pounding on his front door. It's daylight outside. Fighting through a daze, Nate checks the peephole and recognizes the fat face on the other side. Another hard knock vibrates the door into his cheek.

  Nate flings the door open. “Jesus, Tammy, what the hell?”

  “I knew you were in there.”

  “Yeah, what's so damned urgent you gotta wake up the whole building?”

  “It's one in the afternoon, Striker.”

  “Still.”

  “Here.” Tammy presses Nate's cell phone into his sweaty palm. “Someone found it laying next to your car. You're lucky. I had it with me in the office all morning. Stupid thing keeps beeping. You should probably check your messages. And pay your rent while you're at it. You know where to find me.” She marches off to the stairs and descends back to the motel's office.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Nate steps back inside and slumps on the bed. There is no voicemail, but Nate notices a text has come in. It's Gray.

  “Have something for you,” the message reads, “if interested.”

  It's been a few days since the last time Nate visited the spot police had found the girls' RV. Seems as good a place to meet as any.

  “Disappearance spot,” Nate texts back. “5pm?”

  Gray waits fifteen minutes before responding with, “1o-4”. Probably doesn't like the idea of being asked to drive all that way. Over an hour west of town. Nate can just hear him. “the nerve of this guy”. The thought causes him to grin briefly until he catches sight of what is being reported on his muted TV. He fumbles for the volume and stares at the screen in incredulity. A news anchor already mid-sentence.

  “They made the announcement in a joint press conference earlier this morning.” Cut to a gray hair in a suit speaking to reporters in front of an RCMP backdrop flanked by Canadian and American flags. The media room at K Division HQ in Edmonton, Nate reckons.

  “Arrest made in missing girls case,” reads the text at the bottom of the screen.

  “Yesterday afternoon the joint Task Force located a subject of interest in our investigation. We have brought this person in for questioning,” says the suit.

  The rest of what he says is just as boilerplate and non-descript, and most of it fades to the background while another recent hit of Cream leaves Nate warm and wrapped in a bubble where everything sounds like it's at the bottom of a pool.

  His mind keeps churning though, however more slowly.

  Did they really catch the son of bitch responsible? Already? Maybe that blood speck proves more important than originally thought. Maybe Gray can spell it out for him when he sees him. Maybe the constable won't be jerking him around after all.

  Nate has to laugh at himself in that moment. Creamtomism he calls it. Sometimes he'll catch himself doing it, sometimes not. The drug can make the world seem like a kinder place than is the reality.

  Don't kid yourself, Nate comes back around a bit.

  Gray isn't your friend, and he'll definitely jerk you around.

  Against the wishes of the other half of his brain still enjoying the high, Nate splashes cold water on his face. Don't pop anymore today, alright? You don't want to meet Gray like this. You don't want Creamtomism tainting anything he might have to say. He downs a glass of water and stares at himself in the mir
ror and then slaps his cheeks. Relax, he thinks. You'll come around in time.

  What about your tooth?

  Forget about your tooth.

  He shakes his head and walks back to the mattress, slowing his breathing, bringing everything under greater control.

  Steady as she goes, he thinks. Steady as she goes.

  A week of storms has given way to brilliant blue skies spread across Buffalo Pass country. Bald mountaintops, descend into evergreen thickets of spruce and pine, wrapped in rivers of rainwater diverted away from Highway 11 into stone channels built in response to floods of the past. Nate sits in his Taurus off the shoulder of the road facing west as the occasional tourist whisks by. Almost the exact location of the rented RV the girls were driving when someone stopped and picked them up. When someone took them. Why had they stopped there? The realization knocks into Nate that there was still so much he didn't know.

  It bothers him there hasn't been search teams out scouring the area as of yet. Gray explains it away when he asks him about it. Something about the weather. Nate thinks it's bullshit. Not a lie, but just terrible decision making. Anyone in law enforcement – well, almost anyone – should know the longer you wait the lesser your chances of finding them. No, if it'd been me running the Task Force I'd have had teams and volunteers out here day and night from the word go. I'd have them in sou'westers and hip waders, if that's what it took. Cops were soft these days. Well… some cops. Gray.

  Speak of the devil, an unmarked F-150 pulls up behind Nate's car. The two men get out of their respective vehicles, greet each other with a handshake and stare south across the highway to the forest that scoops low from the road and off into the Crown lands and those under control of the Buffalo Pass First Nation. As his eyes come to rest on a canopy of black spruce several miles out, Nate figures he is looking at the very land where the murdered bodies of those three girls lay.

  “Beautiful day isn't it?” Gray says. He wants to be there like he wants a tapeworm.

  “Yep. So, you said you had something? I see your boys brought someone in.”

  “You know I can't talk about that.”

  “I know you think you can't.”

  Gray kicks at the gravel. They both watch as a black pickup hauling a fifth wheel glides by.