The Highway Girls

by Matt Lockhart

  “That's not a nice thing to say.”

  “Stupid white man,” says another kid.

  “You guys go play.”

  “You go play.”

  “What are you doing?” Says the one girl.

  “I'm working.”

  “In your car?”

  “I'm looking for a trailer, actually. You see anyone with a new trailer around here lately?”

  Blank stares for a few seconds. Then the tallest kid pipes up. “My friend from school. Willy,” he says, “he had a trailer. It was new.”

  “Shut up,” says another kid, “don't tell him anything.”

  “You a cop? A police?”

  Nate ignores the kid's question, looks back at the tall kid who'd spoken before. “Willy?” He says to the kid.

  “Yeah, he had it,” the tall kid answers, “but, I think it's gone.”

  Another kid seems to admonish him in a language Nate doesn't understand.

  “Where does Willy live?”

  Almost every kid points to the property where Lorna had parked and gone inside. “Over there.”

  Nate smiles at them. “Thanks, kids.”

  The girl at the back smiles to reveal her missing baby teeth. “Do you have any candy?”

  Nate smiles again. “No, sorry.”

  They're all visibly dismayed by this.

  “What about money?” Says one of the boys.

  “I don't have any of that either.”

  Annoyed by this, the kids clear off and go back to the field full of sand and dried tall grass where they'd previously been playing.

  Nate exits his car and walks up to the gray house.

  Both Lorna and her husband come to the door once he knocks. Neither of them look pleased to see him. Instead, they appear dumbfounded.

  “I'm Nate Striker,” he says.

  “Oh,” Lorna says, suddenly recognizing him. “Bill, this is the man from our store, was trying to talk to me.”

  Her husband Bill steps in front of her. “What do you want?”

  “I'm here about Willy.”

  Lorna frowns. “Willy?”

  “Yeah,” Nate says, “I work at the school, and I had some work I wanted to give him.”

  “You work at what school?” Bill asks. “Here?”

  Nate nods. “Right.”

  “You're a little late,” Lorna says, “Willy's not going to this school anymore. He's north.”

  “North?”

  “He moved north to Romy's, goes to school up there.”

  “Romy,” Nate says, “is that a town, or-”

  “Are you a cop?” Bill says.

  “I told you before,” Lorna says to her husband, “he's no cop.” She turns and looks at Nate again. “Romy's my cousin. That's where Willy is.”

  “Does Romy have a last name?”

  Bill glances at Nate's hands. “Where's the school work?”

  Lorna shakes her head. “I'm not telling you his last name.”

  “Same last name as you?”

  “I think you'd better leave,” Bill says, and he takes a step threateningly towards Nate.

  “Look,” Nate says, his hands held out, contrition on his face, “I'll come clean here, alright. I don't work at the school. I'm a private investigator and I was looking into a trailer that was sold to Cam DeViller.”

  “The trailer?” Bill asks, genuine confusion on his face.

  “Yeah. I wanted to ask Lorna about it, that's all.”

  “It's none of your business,” she says, and she slams the door on him.

  As he walks back down the driveway towards the road he can feel the eyes inside the house trained on him like daggers. Just don't shoot me please, Nate thinks as he briskly returns to his car.

  He pulls the car around in a broad U-turn and while driving down the dirt road he encounters the group of kids once again and he stops near them. Once again they all come crowding around his door.

  “So, Willy doesn't live here anymore?”

  A couple of kids nod.

  “He went away, is that right?”

  The little girl speaks. “He went to live with his dad I think.”

  “His dad? Is that Romy?”

  “Romy?” Says one of the boys as though that name is unfamiliar to him.

  “You don't know that name?”

  They all shake their heads.

  Nate drives off, and he decides to do a loop around the town thinking he might spot a truck bearing a similar description to the one Brian Caldwell had talked about. He drives past the school and when he passes a corner store, he sees an old man sitting in a lawn chair in front of a yellow and brown mobile home. The old man waves to him in a beckoning motion and Nate pulls over to speak with him.

  “Why have you come?” The old man asks.

  “I live near here,” Nate says, “I'm just passing through.”

  The old man shakes his head. “That isn't true. You come to make trouble.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “It isn't wanted here. You are not wanted here. You have a bad spirit.”

  A couple of bigger indigenous guys emerge from the corner store. They sense the old man has a bit of a problem with Nate. They start to walk over. Nate sees them approach in his mirror. That might be my cue to leave, he thinks.

  “I'm actually investigating a case,” he tells the old man. “You know about those girls? Those American girls that went missing along the David Thompson Highway.”

  The old man nods slow. “I know about them.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I know what happened to them too.”

  The younger men walk closer to Nate's car.

  “What happened to them?” Asks Nate. “Can you tell me?”

  “They were taken,” the old man says, “by wolves.”

  One of the large young men yells out to Nate, but he takes off and speeds out of Franklin headed back to the highway.

  Roughly, forty-five minutes into his drive, a call comes in from a number he doesn't recognize. It's Belinda's son, Raina's brother, Stephen.

  “How's your mother doing, I've been meaning to call with an update on the case,” says Nate.

  “It's why I'm calling,” Stephen says, and his tone causes Nate to steady himself waiting for news he doesn't want to hear. “She's been placed in intensive care, and she's asked to see you.”

  Nate shakes his head. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  “Are you able to come? I know you don't have a lot of money.”

  “You want me to come there? To West Virginia?”

  “It's what my mother wants.”

  “I mean, I can just update you both on what's been going on over the phone.”

  “Mr. Striker-”

  “Nate, please.”

  “Nate, she isn't well enough to talk on the phone. You understand? She's asking that you come and see her here, in the hospital. It is a lot of money probably though, to get here and back. I get it.”

  Nate isn't sure what to tell him. He starts thinking about the actual funds left in his account. Dwindling funds. Would I be able to do this? The last thing he wants to do is disappoint Belinda after everything she's been through.

  “We know they found Carly and Zoe,” Stephen says. “We know they're eventually going to find Raina too. I think my mom would feel better if she could see you, and talk to you. I'll be honest Mr. Striker, Nate, sorry – I don't know how much longer she's got left.”

  Dammit. He slaps the wheel with his palm. “Let me see what I can do, alright, Stephen? I can't make any promises that I can come, but I'm going to try.”

  “If you can come soon, that would be amazing.”

  “Like I said, I will try.”

  They hang up and as he watches the sun sink deeper over the horizon and the darkness close in on him as he drives, he can't help but yearn for Eve's loving touch and then his thoughts drift back to that night, driving… all three of them. A night like this one.

  He grabs his bottle of pills
from the glove box and swallows one. Then he wallows for a half hour, pushing his car into the black mountains and inky forests lining the highway back to Rocky.

  For mile after mile he drives without seeing another set of headlights. Then just past the sign letting him know Rocky's only another forty five minutes away, a set of reds and blues fill up his rear view. The police truck gets right up on his rear. Its headlights flash bright in his mirror and he puts his hand up to block the light while he pulls over.

  What in the hell is this?

  An officer he doesn't recognize comes to his window.

  “Are you out of Rocky?” Nate asks him. He knows he is because Rocky Mountain House is the only town with an RCMP detachment in the entire region.

  “Have you been drinking tonight?”

  “What?” Nate asks incredulously. “No.”

  The officer takes Nate's license and his papers back to his truck.

  A few minutes later he returns.

  “Sir, I'm going to ask you to step out of the vehicle.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I have reasonable suspicion to believe you are carrying illegal narcotics on you at this time. Please exit the vehicle.”

  Nate's thoughts turn to the bottle of Cream in the dash. Fuck.

  “This isn't necessary. I'm a former police officer, I know a lot of people who work at your detachment.”

  “Sir, again, step out of the vehicle.” The young officer then keys the radio on his shoulder, asks for another vehicle to assist.

  “I'm not going to cause you any trouble,” Nate says, and he steps out.

  “Turn around, sir. Place your hands behind your back.”

  This has to be Gray, Nate thinks. Unbelievable. You must be too close to something.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nate stands inside a barren cell at the back of the Rocky Mountain House RCMP detachment. The cell is painted canary yellow, and there's a metal drainage grate in the center of the floor. Along one wall lays a foam pad covered with thick vinyl. His bed for the night.

  He's glad Eve can't see him like this.

  No shoes. No belt. Just his jeans, socks, a button-up shirt.

  If he was being transported from here to the Edmonton Remand Center, they'd definitely be bagging up his belongings, but he knows that's not happening. Simple possession. He'll get a bail hearing, a trial date will be set and he'll be kicked loose on his own recognizance. He'll have conditions too. No drinking, no drugs, yada yada yada. He knows the drill. Hell, I was the drill, he thinks.

  The thing that hurts the most however, is it will mean no international travel. Not for a while. Not until he's past his trial anyway, and that's if he manages to avoid jail time.

  Jail time, for this? No way.

  But, a lot depends on the officers involved, and the Crown Prosecutor.

  What a shit-show.

  Sitting with his backside on the concrete, something catches his eye on the other side of the solid steel door. The shutter across the small plexi-glass square window slides open and Nate sees Constable Sam Gray's dumb face looking in on him. He motions for Nate to come over. There's a hatch two feet up from the floor that suddenly opens. It's where trays of food are placed for prisoners.

  Nate sits next to the door so he can peer through the hatch. Sam Gray does likewise on the other side. Nate's orange bottle of Cream rattling in his hand.

  “Recognize this?” Gray says.

  We're not doing this, Gray, Nate thinks. We're not going to banter here where you get to Lord it over me how you're in a position of power and I'm clearly not. I won't play this game with you, though it seems to be the only game you know.

  “You know I do,” Nate says.

  “They found it in your car, imagine that.”

  “Imagine. Wonder who told them.”

  “You should learn to be more careful out there,” Gray says.

  Nate holds out his hand. “Can I have it back?” He already knows the answer, but anything he can do to antagonize Gray seems a good use of his time.

  “You gonna tell me who sold it to you?”

  “Like you care.”

  “That's what I thought.”

  “Can we cut the bullshit, Gray? I know what this is about.”

  “And what's that?”

  “You don't like how close I'm coming to finding out who really killed those girls.”

  There's the other thing too, Nate thinks. But, like hell I'm letting on that I know anything about that. Gray and the rest are probably already suspicious and spooked enough. It's why they're pushing this whole murder case on Grady Willard Barnes, right?

  Gray laughs. “You? Coming close?”

  “That's what it is. This drug thing is a chicken-shit charge. Not that I should be surprised. You've made a whole career of chicken-shit charges.”

  Nate can tell it's all Gray can do to swallow his anger over the comment. But, everything in cells is being recorded – audio and video.

  “Anyway,” Gray says, calming himself, “you'll have a bail hearing in the morning.”

  “I know how it works, asshole,” Nate says. “I'll be released with a trial date sometime way the hell down the road. Whenever our illustrious government can find the time for a dope fiend like me.”

  Gray gets up from the floor. “Hope you didn't pay too much for these,” he says. Then he drops them out of the container individually and crushes them under foot.

  Nate winces with each one, but he does his best not to show it and give Gray what he wants.

  “That somehow supposed to rile me?”

  “Would hate to have to put you in restraints if you got out of line.”

  “I'm sure you would hate that.”

  A snarl cuts across Gray's lips. He drops the empty pill container into a trash can and wanders away up the corridor that splits between all of the cells.

  “Sleep tight, Striker.”

  This is a different Gray. More malevolent than usual. More on edge. His cage is definitely rattled.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sure enough, things go as predicted and Nate's kicked out of cells in mid-afternoon following a bail hearing done via teleconference with his trial date set for five months hence.

  Luckily, he only had the one vial of opioids on him at the time he was driving. If they'd found his whole stash, that might've been a problem. Nate envisions himself doing community service. Wearing an orange vest collecting trash from the side of the David Thompson. Fresh air, relative quiet. Could make for a decent time, actually. Looking for the silver lining, Eve would be proud. Sort of.

  Laying on his bed after a shower, Nate dials Russ's number. Unsurprisingly, the young man doesn't answer.

  What the hell happened to him?

  It can't be Grady, he's probably sitting in a cell as we speak.

  He pulls up Lena's number. Begins typing:

  “Hey, can we talk?”

  A few minutes go by without a response.

  She probably won't reply.

  Surprisingly, she texts back:

  “I'm suspended because of you. Almost fired. Please never contact me again.”

  Feeling low, loathsome, and racked with guilt, Nate drives out of town. He keeps driving west into Nordegg. He's never ventured the lone tavern there. The Hideout. First time for everything.

  Upon entering he immediately regrets it. The place was full of locals from the nearby reserve. You're full-on racist for feeling uncomfortable here, he tells himself. No you're not, you're just uncomfortable. Why? Because you're one of the only white people? Because you're secretly worried whatever racial grievances the people in this tavern might rightfully have with someone of your kind might find them in the mood to take out their boozy frustrations on you? Maybe you deserve it. Ever think of that? Maybe you and every other white asshole this side of Montreal deserves it.

  He sidles up to the bar, can barely hear himself think over the loudness of Dwight Yoakam blaring from the speakers overhead. He has to pr
ess his way between two big indigenous guys just to yell his order out to the bartender, himself a white guy too, albeit covered nearly head to toe in tattoos.

  “Jack and Pepsi,” Nate hollers.

  The barkeep nods and throws it together. Nate pays, spins and looks for a corner to crawl into where he can get a load on in peace. Every seat in the place appears occupied except for one wooden chair he spies through the gyrating bodies of fifty-something women on the downsides of their lives pulsating to the rockabilly early 90s guitar country kicking out of the sound system.

  Nate pushes through the crowd to the empty chair and finds it adjacent to a table rounded by three other people. Two guys probably in their late 50s, and a woman his age wearing too much eye make-up.

  “Mind if I sit here?” Nate yells.

  One of the men, his eyes barely open, holds out his hand as if to say 'be my guest'.

  “Thanks.”

  Nate does his best to ignore the others at the table. He turns slightly from them to face the dance floor and does his best to drink and pretend everyone seated around him isn't staring at him as though he were an alien just arrived from a planet no one there felt especially positive about.

  A woman wearing an unfortunate top that seems barely capable of containing her makes eye contact with Nate and throws him a bit of a flirtatious smile. Nate smiles back, but then wonders if that was the right decision. Don't give her any ideas. She's a rough looking ticket.

  “Hey,” hollers one of the men at the table. The guy seated right behind him. “What's your name?” The man asks with a liquored up slur.

  “It's Nate.”

  “George,” the man says.

  “Pleasure to meet you, George.”

  The man laughs, this causes the other two patrons at the table to laugh as well. They're laughing at their drunk friend. While they laugh, the music stops and someone yells something unintelligible into a microphone that comes out through the speakers like a drive-thru order passing through the worst intercom system imaginable. Whatever it was the voice said, the music doesn't seem to be coming back right away, and the dance floor clears and the crowd around the bar swells to three times the size. Recognizing this causes Nate to sip his drink more slowly.