The Highway Girls

by Matt Lockhart

  Russ fidgets in the passenger seat. Reluctant to make eye contact.

  “How long you known Bryce anyway?”

  “Ten years or so.”

  The man's voice is boyish. He's wiry in his red hunter's plaid, and his hair looks in need of shampooing.

  “You go with him on most of the tow calls, right?”

  Russ bites into his Papa Burger, nods.

  “You were with him when he went out to help those girls.”

  “We never saw them.”

  “Bryce told me. What did you see though?”

  “Nothin. Bryce checks the rig. There was no one around.”

  “But you didn't see any other vehicles? No one drove by you? No signs of anyone?”

  “That's right.”

  “So, what do you think happened?”

  Russ sips from his root beer. “Fucked if I know.”

  “What time did you guys get the call to head out there?”

  “Bryce didn't tell you?”

  “I want you to tell me.”

  “I don't know off the top of my head. Five, I guess.”

  “And it took over an hour for you to get there?”

  “It ain't a hop, skip, and a jump. An hour or so ain't bad.”

  “No reason to get defensive, I'm just asking. Establishing a timeline. You understand?”

  Russ nods.

  “Puts you on the scene around 6, maybe a bit after that.”

  “Right.”

  Nate finishes the last of his fries and gulps down the rest of his soda. “Did you drive your car to Bryce's place that day? You know, before you both headed out with the tow truck?”

  “My car?”

  “Yeah, you know, the Grand-Prix? I saw it was parked next to their garage the day I was out there.”

  Russ's leg's bouncing up and down. He stops eating.

  “Not sure what my car's got to do with any of this.”

  “Any of this?”

  “Yeah, you know, them girls and what not.”

  Nate takes a moment. Looks directly into the man's face. Wants him to feel his eyes on him.

  “You have any kids, Russ?”

  “The fuck you askin me that for?”

  “Pretty simple question isn't it?”

  Russ exhales in exaggerated fashion. “This the real reason you bring me out here?”

  “To ask if you had kids?”

  Russ starts picking at a spot on his forearm, refuses to look up.

  What the fuck is going on here? Nate wonders to himself.

  “Something you wanna tell me, Russ?”

  “No,” he mumbles.

  “Feels like there is. I saw a kid's toy in the back of your car. You wanna tell me about that?”

  Russ murmurs something inaudible. To Nate it sounds something like “will kill me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothin.”

  “Do you have kids, or no? You know I'm gonna find out either way, so you might as well tell me.”

  Russ shakes his head.

  “Nieces, nephews? Younger cousins?”

  Again he shakes.

  “Want to explain why you've got kid's toys in your car then, Russ?”

  “I want you to take me back to my truck, please.”

  “In a minute.”

  This isn't helping you find Raina, Nate checks himself. But the cop side of him knows he's found another thread that he desperately wants to pull on. Probably nothing at all to do with the missing girls, but there's something Russ is involved in and his curiosity has been piqued.

  “I wanna go, please. I told you, I don't know nothin about them girls. That's the truth.”

  “But, you know something about something else.”

  “I'd like to leave. You ain't a cop, you got no cause to keep me here.”

  Let this go for now, Nate thinks. For now.

  He drops Russ back off at his pick-up. Not another word spoken between them.

  Nate downs some more Cream at home, lays low for a bit then drives out to the Tim Hortons where Gray's actually agreed to meet up with him again. This time it's under the cover of darkness. Almost eleven.

  Nate pulls his Taurus along side Gray's driver's side window, surprised to see someone in a Polo shirt sitting in the passenger seat.

  “This is Special Agent Gorman, FBI,” Gray says. “He's on the Task Force.”

  “Words out I guess you've been sharing information?” Nate says.

  “What have I given you, really?” says Gray.

  Good point.

  Gorman speaks up from the other side of the truck. “Gray tells me you used to be with the Force.”

  “That's right.”

  “Left on your own?”

  Yes, asshole. I wasn't fired if that's what you're getting at. “Correct,” Nate says.

  “And now you're a P.I..”

  They all this astute in the FBI?

  “You got it,” says Nate. “Anyway, anything new?”

  “Surprisingly enough,” Gray says, “yes.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Letting you know before it hits the news. Probably be all over the place by morning.”

  “What is it?”

  “More remains have washed up.”

  Damn. Nate shakes his head, anticipating a call he's going to have to make to Belinda in short order.

  “Inside a rain barrel. Mostly bones,” Gray says. “Still waiting to ID them. Initial indications from the ME are they're female. Younger.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Burns too,” Gray says. “Figure the body was burned up to a certain point, then whatever was left was tossed in this barrel.”

  “Where'd you find it?”

  “Floating at the hydroelectric station. At the base of the dam near Buffalo Pass. You know the one out by the hunting road turn off before you hit the helicopter tours place?”

  Nate knows it, and again, just as before he knows what finding those remains in that spot probably means.

  “That's all Rez land around there.”

  “I know,” Gray says. “The shitstorm has arrived.”

  “Politically speaking,” says Gorman, “we might be in for a trying time.”

  An understatement from our American friend, Nate thinks. It probably doesn't make headlines south of the border, but Canada is deep in the Truth and Reconciliation trenches. Then there's the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women inquiry still making headlines. A nation trying to come to grips with crimes past and present, against the indigenous peoples, against itself.

  Poverty and desperation among the underfunded on the reserves leads to addiction which leads to crime which leads to incarceration and further marginalization and the cycle repeats.

  A culture of distrust. Indigenous people on many reserves do not trust government and they do not trust law enforcement, and will do anything they can to avoid them, avoid helping them, or avoid any perception from others in their communities that they might be helping them – lest you be labeled an Apple – that's red on the outside, white on the inside.

  The police, from city and municipal forces and provincial police agencies on through to the RCMP, do little to help themselves from a PR standpoint in First Nations communities where you continually see headlines like the one out of Saskatoon where officers drove a drunk indigenous man out of the city in the middle of the night and left him to walk in minus forty degree temperatures for miles. Starlight Tours the police called this common practice. Just another helping of street justice served by racist cops. In this one particular case the man died, fell over as drunks often do, and froze to death. The case made headlines across the nation and further sowed distrust between police and the indigenous.

  Hard to blame them, Nate thinks.

  That was just one such incident from years of clashes, skirmishes, perceived personal offenses from the words and actions of governments, hard feelings and wounded pride going back centuries. In the interim, for many indigenous people, there's bee
n too many instances of police officers being placed on “administrative leave” and not enough firings and apologies. Too many “inquiries”, not enough action.

  Basically, as Nate knew from the time he was a Mountie himself, whenever you set foot in a First Nations community you were immediately thought of as a homicidal bigot. You walk onto some reserves in uniform, prepare for some closed doors, and harsh looks.

  In some cases, you'd better be wearing your Kevlar.

  But, this time around it's not murdered or missing indigenous girls. This time it's three Americans.

  White girls. College girls.

  For all the big headlines it might make on cable news in the states. Who's gonna give a shit around here?

  Nate casts a weary glance at Gray. “If it's someone from Buffalo Pass, good luck getting anyone to talk.”

  “We've had some trouble with that, yes,” Gorman says.

  It had been years since Nate worked a case on the reserve, but he remembers it well.

  “Fuck you, racist pig.” A common refrain.

  “You'll let me know when the tests come back on those remains?” Nate asks.

  “Will do,” Gray says.

  Nate drives off, appreciative of the information, but not sure where that leaves him in his investigation.

  He drives toward the other end of Rocky Mountain House and pulls into an abandoned parking lot where the old hockey arena used to be. He drops another Cream and dials Belinda on his phone. It isn't until it starts ringing he clues in about the time. Shit, he thinks, it'll be two in the goddamn morning where she is. Before he can hang up, the window on his passenger side smashes to pieces.

  “What the fuck?”

  He jumps out and is immediately tackled by two men. A third kicks him while he's down. One of the men starts rifling through his pockets. Nate rolls and throws his foot into the back of one of their legs. The man falls back with a holler. Nate clocks him in the cheek while the other two take turns hammering him with their fists. Nate manages to get to his feet in time to receive another blow to his ribs. He exhales heavily and realizes the assholes got his pill bottle and whatever cash he had on him.

  “Fuckin assholes!”

  He lunges forward, but the three disappear into the dark. Gone. They got what they came for.

  Nate trudges back to his car, finds his cell phone laying beneath it. Surprised they didn't take his phone, he picks it up and gets back behind the wheel. Keys still in the ignition. As far as muggings go, it could've been worse. He starts the car up when his phone vibrates. A text from a number he doesn't recognize right away.

  “Sorry know its late” The message reads. “You still want to talk to my grandfather??”

  Nate clues in. Boyd Quinn. The stolen trailer thing. Should I even bother at this point?

  Fuck it.

  “Sure.” Nate texts back. “Cam DeViller, right?”

  “yep”

  “Tomorrow gonna work?”

  “yep ill let him know to call ya”

  Nate tosses the phone onto the shards covering the passenger seat. He shakes his head in minor disbelief about what's just happened and drives back to the Red Line.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cam being 80 years old means Nate knows he has to drive to Okotoks to see him rather than the other way around or even to meet half way between there and Rocky. It's a lengthy drive, and especially with a missing window. Low on cash, Nate goes to Dermott Wolski at the glass place he's used before and the guy cuts him a deal and puts in a new passenger side window for a quarter what he usually charges, but only after Nate sweetens the deal with a bottle of pills.

  Nate meets Cam at his trailer and the old man invites him inside.

  “Appreciate your seeing me,” says Nate.

  “How were the roads?”

  “Busy.”

  Cam shakes his head. “They got too many semis goin' now. Highway's full of 'em. It's these foreign truckers, ya know? These Indian and Pakistani fellas.” He chuckles. “They don't know how to drive. You're out there in yer car, what are ya supposed to do? They're a lot bigger than you.”

  If it weren't for old white men with bigoted opinions Alberta would be half-empty, Nate thinks. He just nods and smiles. “I hear ya,” he says. “It's rough out there.”

  “Anyhow,” Cam says, “I know ya wanted to ask me about that trailer, hey?”

  “Yes. I've already spoken with your grandson, Boyd.”

  “He told me. I think the police took the thing back to its original owner.”

  “Yes, you're right.”

  “Not sure why you're still botherin' with that.”

  “Sometimes I ask myself the same thing.”

  Both men chuckle.

  “Honestly, it's something I was made aware of, and it might tie into something else I'm investigating… well… probably not, but it's caught my interest nonetheless and I thought I'd look into it a little, just out of… curiosity.”

  “What is it you're investigatin'?”

  “You heard about those missing girls?”

  “Oh, yes, those Americans? Out on the David Thompson.”

  “That's right.”

  He's a sharp old bugger, Nate thinks. Give him that much.

  “One of the mothers has hired me,” Nate says. “I'm trying to find her daughter.”

  “Terrible thing, isn't it?”

  “Certainly is. Anyway, about this trailer. I was wondering if you could tell me where you bought it, who you bought it from, that kind of thing.”

  “It was a pretty nice trailer for the price,” says Cam.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes sir. Three hundred bucks. I thought that was a pretty good price.”

  “And where did you buy it?”

  “My friend Ralph had it. Asks me if I was interested. Ralph and me go back a few years. Goode's his last name.”

  “Ralph Goode,” Nate notes the name in his small pad. “How do you know him?”

  “Like I say, we've known each other a little while. Met him through another fella did some roofin' work for me. Must've been somethin' like ten years ago. Somethin' like that.”

  “And you've kept in touch ever since. Been friends, that kind of thing?”

  “Right.”

  “Where did Ralph get the trailer?”

  “Funny you should ask,” says Cam. “I said to him I never knew you had a trailer and he says he bought it off a lady he knows. I forget, think he said she was someone he worked with once or somethin'.”

  “Someone he works with now?”

  “I'm not sure. Maybe.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  Cam shakes his head. “Afraid I can't help ya there.”

  “Do you happen to have Ralph's contact information?”

  “I can give ya his phone number if that helps.”

  Just as he didn't sound too thrilled on the phone, Ralph Goode is even less hospitable in person. He lives in Airdrie, and speaks to Nate in his driveway, leaning over the covered bed of his Dodge Ram pickup.

  “You're driving all over kingdom come asking about this trailer,” Ralph says. “How many times someone have to tell you, that all got resolved?”

  “I'm not here to give you any trouble about the trailer, the fact it was stolen, none of that,” Nate explains. “I have something else I'm working on, and I'm trying to ascertain whether this trailer might be connected.”

  “Connected how?”

  “That's something I'm still in the process of figuring out.”

  Nate glances left and sees a woman watching him from inside Ralph's house. They live at the end of a cul-de-sac in an old subdivision.

  “I don't need the RCMP to come knocking on my door over this whole deal.”

  “This has nothing to do with the police,” Nate says.

  “Then why are you here?” Frustration rises in the man's voice.

  “I'm not a cop. I'm a private investigator, I believe I said that over the phone.”

 
“You did, but I still don't understand it.”

  “I'm working for someone, trying to investigate a missing person.”

  “A missing person? What's that got to do with me selling Cam DeViller a trailer? I don't want any part of some serious thing like what you're talking about.”

  Nate sighs. He's frustrated, but he does his best not to wear it. “Look, you're not in any trouble here, alright? I just need to know… check that… I'm interested in how the trailer came into your possession.”

  “I'm not sure that's any of your business.”

  Nate stands back from the man's truck with his hands on his hips. “I know it's none of my business, but I thought I'd ask.”

  “I bought it,” Ralph says. “It was a legal transaction, far as I'm concerned. I only found out about all the rest of it after the fact.”

  “I get it,” says Nate. “Again, I'm not here to get you into any kind of trouble. I'd like to know who sold it to you, if you can tell me.”

  Ralph shakes his head, waves his hands in front of him. “I think this was a bad idea. I'm not getting anyone in trouble over this. Last I heard the RCMP took the trailer back to the rightful person. That's good enough for me.”

  “No one's getting into any trouble.”

  “I'd like you to leave.”

  “So, you're not going to tell me who you bought it from?”

  “She's a friend, I work with her. I don't want to say anything more.”

  This guy's an idiot.

  Nate shakes the man's hand anyway, and goes to his car. He watches Ralph disappear into his house, probably about to catch an earful from his wife. She's probably even more insufferable than he is. He pulls out his phone and calls Boyd Quinn.

  “This is Boyd,” says the man on the other end.

  “Boyd Quinn, this is Nate Striker. Remember the P.I. you spoke with at that tavern a while back?”

  “Oh yeah,” Boyd says. “How ya been?”

  “Good. Listen, I was speaking with your granddad, and he put me in touch with his buddy, Ralph.”

  A bit of a pause. “Ralph, oh, right. Ralph Goode. Yeah, I know him.”

  “Good, I was hoping so. Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where Ralph works would you?”

  “Just a sec. Trying to think. It's a building supply place in Shaughnessy.” He pauses again. “You know what, I can't for the life of me remember the name of it, but it's the place right off the main drag there, across from the Wal-Mart. That's where he was workin' last I heard. Ya know you should probably ask him.”