The Highway Girls

by Matt Lockhart

  “You know what?” Nate says, playing dumb. “You're right. I'll have to do that, thanks a lot.”

  Nate calls Belinda to update on her everything that's happening with his investigation, only to be surprised when her son, Stephen answers. He informs Nate she's been really sick as of late and she's been admitted to the hospital after coming down with pneumonia. Nate leaves a message with Stephen asking that his mom call him whenever she can. Stephen asks about the investigation, and says he's worried his mother might not make it out of the hospital again.

  “It's that bad?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  Whatever sense of urgency Nate felt before immediately ramps up three-fold.

  It didn't take him long to figure out the building supply place Boyd Quinn had told him about. Roscor-Gwynn Suppliers. A small red building across the street from Wal-Mart. Nate walks right in, and immediately begins looking around for female employees. He found a woman wearing a red smock with white stitched writing, standing near a cart full of doorknobs, applying price tags to the items before shelving them.

  “Excuse me?”

  She turns toward him in the way all retail employees do when interrupted by a lost or inquiring customer, a look on their face that reads as bemused detachment.

  Nate says, “I'm looking for someone who works here, maybe you're her.”

  Bemused detachment turns into suspicion.

  “A friend of Ralph Goode's,” Nate says.

  “Ralph's not here today,” she says.

  “That's okay. I'm actually not looking for Ralph.”

  “Well, what is it you want?”

  Another store employee happens by the end of the aisle, overhears the woman speaking to Nate.

  “I was hoping to speak to someone who works here who is friends with Ralph. This person sold him a trailer.”

  The male employee comes over. “Are you a police officer? You don't look like one.”

  “I'm not,” Nate says. “I was hoping-”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “So, you're not going to help me?”

  “I don't know you,” the woman says. “How do I know you know Ralph?”

  “I was speaking with him,” Nate says. “About a trailer he bought, and he told me he bought it off a person who works here. But he didn't leave her name.”

  “Well,” the woman says. “It isn't me.”

  “Could you tell me the name of the person then?”

  “Ralph didn't tell you?” The male employee asks.

  “No. It's why I'm asking.”

  “We don't give out names of employees. Unless you're the police.”

  Great. A bunch of non-forthcoming assholes, think I'm gonna get them locked in Alcatraz over a stupid stolen trailer. Why do I bother?

  At the risk of being thrown off the premises, Nate waits in his car outside the building and leaps out like a coiled spring when he sees another woman wearing the same kind of red smock crossing the parking lot from her pickup truck towards the front of the store. She's indigenous. Tall and thin, with long, black hair cascading down her back. He manages to catch her before she gets inside. She looks at him with wide eyes as he runs over. Who in the hell is this wingnut, written on her face.

  “You wouldn't happen to be a friend of Ralph's would you? Ralph Goode?”

  He reads she's reluctant to say. He extends his hand. “Name's Nate Striker,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”

  She squints and offers him a limp shake in return. “Lorna,” she says.

  “Lorna?” He says, expecting her to give her last name.

  The male employee from before suddenly appears in front of the store. He's angry this time. “Is this man bothering you?”

  Lorna raises a brow. “Kinda.”

  “You need to leave, right now,” the man says. “You leave right this instant or I'm calling the police.”

  “Okay,” Nate says. “I don't want any trouble.”

  “Go,” the man says.

  Nate rushes back to his car and takes off.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The night's blackness surrounds Nate like death. He waits in his car with the windows down so he can hear approaching footsteps on the gravel. The steps come closer. Someone approaches across the dirt lot outside of Rocky Mountain House where the electrical towers gather and then scatter in a straight cut across the Alberta wilderness.

  The shadowy figure, barely discernible against the coal colored sky, opens Nate's passenger side door and drops into the seat. A heavy sigh, a reluctance to even be here.

  “Thanks for coming, Grady,” Nate says.

  “Whatever.”

  The two men can barely see each other's faces, but they see enough of each silhouette to confirm who they're talking to.

  Grady Willard Barnes has been on Nate's radar since Constable Sam Gray brought him up. He knew Barnes from a previous investigation he'd been conducting when he was still a cop. A case of sexual harassment and child pornography. Barnes never hid the fact he was guilty of stalking one of his co-workers and making unwanted comments, just like he admits all the child pornography found on his hard drive at home is his, but he denied any claims he was ever violent. And Nate believed him.

  “I ain't coming to tell you anything the cops don't already think they know,” says Grady. “They think they got me dead to rights on these girls.”

  “They found your blood in the RV,” Nate says.

  “Which I explained.”

  “Yeah,” Nate says, “I know you worked as a cleaner on those units.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The Task Force knows it too.”

  “Isn't that, like, my alibi or whatever?”

  “No,” says Nate, “but it's not something they can use to convict you either.”

  “Oh, they're convictin' my ass. You can count on that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I'm going down for this whole deal.”

  “They tell you that?”

  Grady turns in the seat to better face Nate. His speech gets more harried, desperate. “It's all the freakin' FBI wants to talk about. Kept hammerin' me in that room, over and over.”

  “Here at the detachment in Rocky?”

  “Exactly. And in Edmonton too.”

  “Edmonton? They took you to Edmonton?”

  “Yeah, they did. Had me talkin' to all kinds of different detectives. Trying to spin me up, turn me around. I kept tellin' 'em, it ain't me. I didn't do this.”

  The song every shitrat sings, Nate thinks. This particular time however, Nate didn't doubt Grady's innocence. Just like he didn't doubt Grady was telling the truth about the Task Force coming after him hard, wanting him for it, not wanting to look at anyone or anything else. Tunnel vision. It happens to the best of investigators. Nate knew of more than a few unfortunate souls rotting in prison cells who hadn't committed the crimes with which they were charged and all because of tunnel vision aided by a culture of clearance. Clearing cases was everything. Telling a fearful public and a scrutinizing media that you've solved a case and put away the guilty party meant investigative and bureaucratic peace of mind. Gets the prying eyes off of you. Lightens the load on your ever-heaping plate.

  “What did they say whenever you'd tell them that?” Nate asks.

  “They just straight up aren't interested, man,” says Grady. “I'm tellin' you they are dogs on a damn bone when it comes to me. My past. I done shit before and now they got this thing they wanna pin on me.”

  He's about to say more and he stops himself. Nate catches it. Something else. A reluctance.

  “What?” says Nate. “What else?”

  “I don't know, man,” Grady says, turning away towards the window on his right. “I shouldn't even be out here talkin' to you. You're just gonna go and tell the rest of your cop buddies whatever it is I say.”

  “It's not like that.”

  “Sure.”

  “I'm telling you,” Nate says. “I'm ou
tta that life. I work privately now, and all I'm trying to do is find Raina Smith's killer.”

  “What about them other two?”

  “Yes, them too, indirectly. But, it was Raina's mother that hired me.”

  Grady hangs his head. “I am truly sorry what happened to them girls. I am. But, I'm also scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “They're gonna hang it all on me.” His voice quivers. “I'm gonna get put away for shit I didn't do. It's just wrong, man. They ain't got shit on me. I mean, other than that speck of blood which I was tellin' 'em why it was there. But it don't matter. They gonna put me down for it 'cause they got to.” He folds himself further against the passenger side door.

  “What do you mean by that?” says Nate. “What do you mean 'they got to'?”

  “The Feds, the RCMP, all of 'em. They need me. I'm the distraction.”

  Nate frowns, trying to follow the logic. “You're losing me here, Grady. What are you talking about?”

  “I've said enough already.” He glances around the darkness enveloping the car. There's not so much as a streetlight visible in any direction. “I should probably go.”

  “Wait,” Nate says. “Finish your thought. There's something else you're not telling me.”

  “You know who I am. Me and you's had business before, right?”

  “Right.”

  “There's just, other stuff, man. I can't get into it. You gotta trust my word. But, I'll tell you the whole FBI thing. They ain't here by accident. You should know that much.”

  “I know that. They're here because this is a high-profile case of abduction and murder. It's making international headlines. These are American girls. Two of them from very wealthy families. The FBI's involvement is a given.”

  Grady absorbs Nate's words and sits in silence for a minute. Nate sits waiting for some kind of response, something he can grab onto, a thread he can pull.

  “Sure,” is all Grady can muster.

  “If you know more,” says Nate, “I'd appreciate the heads up.”

  “I've told you everything, man. They're gonna fry me to cover up for this other shit. It ain't just about this case. You want me to paint you a picture? There's big shit about to pop off. This ain't just about them girls.”

  Nate's head swims, his stomach churns. “So, what's it about?”

  “Man, I can't tell if you're playing me or what? You gotta know what's going on.”

  “I'm telling you, Grady, I have no clue what you're talking about. I've got no reason to lie to you about that.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “No, wait.” Out of instinct, and keen curiosity, Nate reaches towards Grady, puts a hand on his elbow. “Please.”

  “Don't touch me, man.”

  Grady grabs the door latch and bounds from Nate's car. Nate can hear his rapid footfalls in the dirt, carrying off into the night.

  Nate's cell phone lights up. The intensity of the phone screen against the dark blinds him for a second. It's Constable Gray.

  “This is Striker,” he answers.

  “Where are you?” Constable Gray asks.

  “Why?”

  “You should come home,” Gray says. “There's been a death.”

  Nate sees the reds and blues blinking through the silhouettes of spruce around the Red Line Motel before he reaches the lot. A couple of Mounties are running yellow tape around the property, but he sees Gray standing near them and he waves him under the police line and allows Nate to park on the far side of the small lot away from the front of the motel. A half dozen police vehicles sit idling in front of the structure. A few of the residents huddle together near the front office, corralled in by officers, answering questions.

  Gray approaches Nate as he gets out of the car. “Where you been?” Gray asks.

  “None of your business.”

  “I'd prefer for this to be a friendly exchange.”

  “I was working.”

  “The stolen trailer thing? Thought I told you that was a dead end.”

  “I'm working the girls' case. You know that.”

  “At eleven o'clock at night?”

  “Is there something specific you wanna ask me, Gray?”

  “Just wondering where you've been, is all. We've got a suspicious death here. One of your neighbors. I need to account for everyone who lives here.”

  “Well, I haven't been home all night. You can ask around. My car hasn't been here. There's cameras if you ask Tammy. She'll let you check the footage I'm sure. Anyway, who is it?”

  Gray seems satisfied Nate's telling the truth. Besides, he recognizes Nate wouldn't have much incentive to off someone living in such close proximity. “Marshall Thomas Blinz,” Gray says. “Went by the nickname, Bug, if that means anything to you.”

  Bug. Nate shakes his head. “Damn.” He knew it was just a matter of time. The guy was a hermit living in a hell of a mess. He was a hoarder, and the few times Nate had been inside the man's place he knew the smell of mold and rotten food that had been piled god knows where beneath a stack of old newspapers and moth-bitten clothes. He always figured Bug would go out from “natural causes” though, not as a victim to some violent act. Bug was an alcoholic, and he had a few rough friends who came around now and then, but he was mostly friendly and didn't seem to have many enemies.

  “You knew him?” Gray says.

  “Of course. He's just down from me. What? You think I don't know my neighbors?”

  “I'm just asking.”

  “Yes. Never by his real name though. First time I've heard it is you telling me I only knew him as bug.”

  “But you knew him.”

  Nate rolls his eyes. “Of course. Anyway… what happened?”

  Gray looks around, contemplates what he should share. Has an inkling a fellow officer might be watching them, might overhear. Then he shakes the notion off. They're well away from the rest who are mostly gathered in and around Bug's unit and over by the front office. “Gunshot wound. Back of the head. Execution style.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You got your piece, right?”

  “It's locked inside my unit,” Nate says. “You want to go check, be my guest.”

  Gray recognizes Nate's annoyed, and he knows he's not involved. “It's fine. Anyway, there was one vehicle here. We had it taken away. We believe it might've been involved. Thought I'd ask-”

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  “Black Toyota Corolla. Back wheel's a donut,” Gray says. “You seen a car like that around here lately?”

  Nate nods. “I have in fact. Parked out here a couple of different times. Never once saw the driver though.”

  “We'll have to check the cameras.”

  “Like I said, talk to Tammy. She'll help you out with that.”

  Gray folds his arms, watches as investigators wearing gloves and masks pull things from Bug's apartment, bring them out to the Forensics van. “This Bug character in anyone's bad books that you know of? Drug debts, that kind of thing?”

  Drug debts are a possibility, Nate figures, but that's par for the course for pretty much everyone living at the Red Line. The place has a reputation. “Nothing I know of specifically.”

  “Specifically?”

  “The man wasn't an angel,” says Nate. “I'm sure his hands were never completely clean. But, if you're asking if he went around making enemies, I'm telling you that's never something I ever saw. Frankly, I doubt it.”

  “I guess when it comes to the whole drug connection, you'd be in the know about that, wouldn't you?”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  Here we go, Nate thinks. This asshole can't resist poking at me. The ex-cop druggie. He's just afraid. He's scared it could happen to him. Like it's a disease you can catch. Try losing everything you've ever loved, Gray. See what happens to you.

  “Oh, nothing,” Gray says. “Gotta look at every angle.”

  “Can I go?”

  “Where you gonna go, Striker?”

  �
�I'd like to go home. What a novel concept, right? Are you not letting residents back into their units yet, or?”

  “I suppose it's fine.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Fine, yeah, go,” Gray says.

  Nate walks away, but then Gray says to him, “tests came back to confirm those remains we found.”

  Nate turns, looks at the Constable.

  “It's them,” Gray says. “The foot's Carly Ann Lewis for sure. The rain barrel with the charred remains, it's Zoe Myles. Thought you'd wanna know.”

  Even confirming what he already knew, Nate felt sadness upon hearing the words. “So much for a missing person's, huh?” His cell phone vibrates in his pocket at that moment. He doesn't bother with it while Gray stands there looking at him.

  “Still haven't found any sign of Raina Smith,” Gray says.

  No, Nate thinks, but I will. He turns to walk away again. Again, Gray can't quite let him go without a word. “Guess that'll pretty much wrap things up for you, hey?”

  “What do you mean?” Nate stops once again to look at the cop.

  “Your investigation. We got answers. We think we know who did it too.”

  “Not Barnes?” Nate says.

  “I'm not at liberty to say.”

  “You know there's no way he's capable of that kind of crime, right?”

  “Anyone's capable of anything,” Gray says. “Didn't I hear you say that once?”

  Nate turns and walks towards the stairs on the other side of the lot that lead up to the motel's second floor. “Not me,” Nate calls back to him. “Don't believe I've ever said that.”

  Another officer attempts to stop Nate as he approaches the stairs. Gray sees it and calls to the guy, “he's fine, let him go.” The officer steps out of the way, and Nate climbs the stairs and walks down to his unit. Once inside with the door locked, he fearfully goes to the lock box on the shelf, worried maybe someone might've busted in and stolen his firearm to do the deed on Bug. A frame up would just complete everything in his life. He breathes a sigh of relief to see his pistol still laying there, as pristine as the last time he cleaned it.