by Joe Field
Not a good omen for the trip, Cooper thought.
Cooper finished his cigarette and lowered his window. The arctic-like wind hit him in the face, and he quickly flicked the cigarette onto the pavement and closed the window tight. He took a drink of coffee from his thermos and grabbed another piece of black licorice from the open bag in his lap.
My three favorite vices: cigarettes, licorice, and coffee. These three trusted friends could get me through any assignment.
As Cooper put his coffee back in the cup holder, he spilled a little bit of it on his pants. He looked down, shrugged it off, and then laughed when he thought about his attire. He knew it was cheesy, but he couldn’t help making a stop at a Mills Fleet Farm store on his way out of town. He wore a black stocking hat, a blue and white flannel shirt, a winter jacket, and heavy-duty work jeans. All made by Carhartt.
Like a walking Carhartt mannequin. They should pay me to wear all this gear.
The only thing that wasn’t Carhartt was his trusty Red Wing boots. Made in Red Wing, Minnesota, the reliable boots kept his feet warm and supported even in the coldest North Dakota weather. Cooper looked back up when the black pickup truck honked at him again from behind, urging Cooper to inch forward some more.
What does two inches get you, buddy? Cooper shot him a look in his rearview mirror.
This wasn’t exactly the welcome-home assignment Cooper had been looking forward to following his month-long European honeymoon with his new bride, Soojin. They’d had the time of their lives as they strolled down the streets of Paris, danced with the locals in Munich, sipped on cappuccinos in Rome, drank excessive amounts of vino in Tuscany, and made love in seven different countries. Cooper had even rediscovered his love of black licorice in its homeland, Holland. Soojin didn’t mind red licorice, but she couldn’t understand how he could eat the black stuff. It was the most memorable trip of Cooper’s life, and if not for all the weight he had gained, he could have stayed forever.
One sore spot on the honeymoon was Cooper’s relapse into smoking—a habit he had given up a few years before he met Soojin.
It had started innocently enough with a few celebratory cigars at his wedding, then a few more in Italy. From there, the nicotine addiction began creeping back, and by the end of the trip, Cooper was going out late at night in search of a secret smoke.
Secret, because Soojin hated it.
It was turning out to be a sore spot in their young union, but Cooper was only smoking a few cigarettes a day since returning to Minnesota—usually just on breaks at work, and never around Soojin. Plus, he was smoking the natural American Spirits cigarettes, which supposedly didn’t have all the extra additives.
And now my world revolves around western North Dakota. At least I can smoke out here to stay warm and pass the time.
Before heading out to North Dakota, Cooper had attended a preparation meeting back at Minnesota Public Radio headquarters in Saint Paul with his editor, Bill Anderson. Wild Bill, as the reporters called him, was in true form for that meeting as he questioned Cooper’s commitment and loyalty to MPR following his month-long honeymoon. Cooper assured Bill he would not be getting married again anytime soon so there was no need to worry about other extended vacations. As usual, Cooper’s sarcastic remarks won him a fiery retort from Wild Bill.
“You young punks are all the same.” Bill’s face burned bright red. “You think the world should be handed to you on a silver spoon. You need your little boutique coffee, and your hipster boots, and your hair gel. Why the hell do you need so much hair gel? Would you like a more flexible work schedule? Okay, I can accommodate. How does working from home permanently sound to you? Don’t bother picking up your last check, either, I’ll send it with your pink slip in the mail.”
“Bill, to be fair—”
“You better grab your hair gel and get out to North Dakota quick, like tomorrow morning. I’ve waited long enough for this. We need to get the Bakken oil story. I’ve heard rumors that the oil boom is about to go bust and I want you to get a story worthy of this newsroom.” Bill suddenly stood up from his desk and looked outside his window at the traffic out on the street. “All the majors are heading out there, including the New York Times. But, don’t think for one moment I want some NYT policy wonk article. You need to go out there and tell the stories of the actual people on the ground. I’m talking about original stories of the people in western North Dakota affected by the oil boom. And, like I always say, the story needs to have—”
“Breadth and depth. I got it, Bill. No need to worry about a thing, I’ll get you the story.”
Cooper thought Bill would cut him some slack following his successful Brown Sugar in Minnesota series, which highlighted the heroin epidemic in Minnesota. That story ultimately helped authorities take down a major drug ring in the state. It wasn’t enough for Wild Bill, and now Cooper knew one thing was true about editors.
They have shorter memories than squirrel monkeys.
Another loud honk from the black pickup truck brought Cooper back to the present. He looked closer in his rearview mirror and could see a man wearing a blue stocking hat behind the wheel of his truck making hand gestures for Cooper to move ahead. Cooper gave a vague wave of acknowledgement and eased slowly onto the gas, antagonizing the tailgater even more by not speeding up fast enough. Cooper could see the man rip his hat off and show Cooper how long his middle finger was when raised from a closed fist.
Classy. Real classy.
Cooper saw a Walmart sign up ahead on the right. A perfect escape so the black pickup could pass him. As he pulled into the parking lot, Cooper wondered what Lewis and Clark would think of this town, which they visited back in 1804, now. They had spent a wretched winter here as they erected walls and met with Sacajawea to prepare for what they thought would be their demise. And, what would Cooper’s beloved Teddy Roosevelt have said about this area of western North Dakota, a place that was once his refuge after the loss of his wife and mother? They would probably be as culture shocked as Cooper was as he looked up at the enormous Walmart logo that greeted his arrival.
Endless rows of parked pickup trucks and RV campers filled the lot. Cooper pulled Wellstone into an open space. He looked over toward his passenger side window, and to his disgust he saw the black pickup truck park next to him. The man put his hat back on, got out of his vehicle and spat chewing tobacco onto Wellstone’s passenger window, leaving a dark streak. The man had a husky build and a thick black mustache. After a lingering glare, the mustached man turned and walked toward the front door of the Walmart.
Who pissed in that guy’s cereal this morning?
Cooper was curious about what the inside of the Walmart might look like. He had heard stories about barren shelves and mind-numbingly long lines. But, with his tobacco-spitting friend inside, he decided to stay in his vehicle and have another smoke.
As he lit up, he watched the spit slide down his window. When it reached the bottom, Cooper turned and looked out his windshield, noticing an electronic billboard directly in front of him. It featured bright advertisements that rotated every ten to twenty seconds. The first one was from Walmart, and it offered prospective employees a $500 signing bonus and $18 per hour for stocking positions. Shoot, that’s more than I make at MPR. The next advertisement was for new Ford pickup trucks. The third display caused Cooper’s jaw to drop.
That’s not possible.
It was a public service announcement from the Williams County Sherriff’s department. They were offering a five thousand dollar reward for anyone who could provide details that would lead to the whereabouts of a missing person. Cooper had seen similar billboards countless times, but this was the first one that had ever mattered to him. The face and name on the billboard belonged to Gabby Hanson, one of Soojin’s best friends and a bridesmaid at their recent wedding.
◆◆◆
“Soojin, I—I have something to tell you,” Cooper stammered into his phone.
“Coop, what is it?”
“It’s bad news.” Cooper paused. “I’m sitting here in a parking lot in Williston watching a rotating digital billboard . . . .”
“What is it?” Soojin’s voice wavered.
“It’s Gabby.”
“What about her?”
“She’s gone missing, it looks like she may have been kidnapped.”
Soojin let out a gasp just before Cooper heard a clatter.
“Are you there? Hun, are you there?”
“Sorry, I dropped my phone.” Soojin’s breath was ragged. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve watched the same notice loop through five times now,” Cooper said. “I don’t have many details, but I’m going to head down to the sheriff’s office to see what I can find out.”
“We have to find her,” said Soojin. “I can be there tonight. I’ll catch the next plane out of the Twin Cities.”
“Just wait a minute. Let me talk to the authorities before you head out here, and I’ll call you right back. Then we can make a decision on the best course of action.”
“Get over there quick,” Soojin said. “I’ll start looking online to see what the local news is saying.”
Cooper had a terrible feeling in his gut as he hung up the phone. Soojin and Gabby had been roommates for four years at the University of Minnesota’s main campus in the Twin Cities. They had bonded quickly when they learned they had both lost parents. Soojin had lost her mother to breast cancer when she was seven, and Gabby lost both her parents in a car accident when she was nine. Gabby had been raised by her grandfather, long-time North Dakota state senator, Mark Hanson. Senator Hanson ignited a political spark in Gabby that was further strengthened through her connection with Soojin. The two of them were strong voices on the U of M campus and in the Twin Cities community. They joked that they would both be the first female governors of their respective states, which wasn’t so farfetched.
Until Gabby went missing.
Cooper drove Wellstone across the parking lot toward the billboard so he could read the text on the bottom. He looked up at Gabby’s picture as it flashed and then quickly took down the number and address of the sheriff’s office. Cooper checked his map for the location and put Wellstone back into drive.
As the Jeep sprang forward, he noticed out of his peripheral vision that a vehicle was accelerating right toward his rear passenger-side window. It was too late to react, as the vehicle struck Wellstone and jolted the Jeep sideways. Cooper tried to turn the wheel, but he couldn’t stop the momentum as Wellstone slammed into a parked RV. Cooper’s seatbelt locked as his airbag popped out and struck his face.
When the airbag had settled, Cooper grabbed for the door handle to get out, but stopped. He heard a man shouting and running toward the Jeep. Cooper locked his door as the man reached for the handle. Cooper could see around the airbag that it was the Mustache Man with the blue hat from the black pickup truck. His face was beet red as he pounded on Cooper’s window.
“Get out here right now, I’m going to kill you!” Mustache screamed.
Cooper tried to put his vehicle back into drive, but it was wedged too tightly between the RV and pickup truck. Mustache sprinted back around to his pickup truck and Cooper could see him grab something out of the truck bed—a crowbar. As Mustache came back to the driver’s side window, Cooper slid around the airbag and over the center console to the rear passenger side so he could escape.
Mustache smashed the driver’s side window with his crowbar. Glass shattered into the Jeep. Cooper grabbed the only weapon he kept in the vehicle, a small tomahawk under the rear seat. He pulled off the cover and jumped out the rear passenger side door.
Mustache sprinted back around his truck with the crowbar to meet Cooper on the other side. Just as Mustache rounded his truck, a police car’s sirens whistled out as it shot across the parking lot straight toward them.
“Drop your weapons,” boomed a voice over a speaker from the police car.
Cooper and Mustache both stopped and immediately dropped their weapons to the ground. Cooper raised his hands up over his head. The other man, now ten feet away from Cooper, also reluctantly lifted his hands.
“You better hope they put us in separate cells, or you’re done for,” said Mustache.
He spat once more at Cooper just as the police car stopped and two officers exited the vehicle with guns drawn.
Welcome to Williston, Cooper.
Chapter 4
Bismarck, North Dakota
The North Dakota governor’s residence was just that—a residence. While most states had prominent gubernatorial mansions, the Peace Garden State settled for an unassuming, one-story brick house near the state’s capitol building. First built in 1960, the home had suffered its fair share of wear and tear with a few stopgap renovations to keep it functional. A bipartisan group of North Dakotan congressmen had expressed interest in using new state revenues from oil taxation to build a new governor’s residence, and they planned to put forward a bill in the upcoming 2015 session.
The primary beneficiary of this new bill, a man named Rick Simmons, was elected in 2010 as the thirty-second governor of North Dakota. Simmons crafted a public image of a tee-totaling, straight-and-narrow Ronald Reagan Republican while privately enjoying fine whiskey, cigars, and women not named Mrs. Simmons.
The wind howled outside the governor’s residence as the temperature dropped and clouds moved in to block the full moon. Simmons sat back in a large leather chair with his feet up on his dark, wood-paneled executive desk. His Richard Nixon bobblehead doll sat on his desktop. The room was dark, except for the light illuminated from the fireplace. The room was lined with books on floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which were purely decorative. Simmons avoided reading at all costs. He hated it so much he had his secretary read important bills to him out loud while he smoked cigars.
Simmons was in his forties, as short as he was wide, with salt-and-pepper hair. He hid his deep-set eyes behind hipster glasses—his ploy for relating to his younger constituents.
He took a long pull from his cigar and slowly exhaled, glancing across the desk at Nate Thompson, his lieutenant governor. “Have you seen Bob’s new intern?”
“Not yet.” Thompson had been elected with Simmons in the Republican Party’s banner 2010 election year. “But I heard she’s a total knockout. What is Bob putting in the water up there in Grand Forks to produce such beautiful women?”
While Simmons was short and chubby, Thompson was tall and bony. He attributed his physique to genetics and his obsession with running. He had won his age category in the Fargo Marathon each of the last six years. He was four years younger than Simmons, and the two politicians had secretly agreed to a two-term Simmons administration, followed by a Thompson succession.
“I guess when you are elected to the state senate for twenty years, the women come running,” said Simmons.
“As if a whole bottle of Viagra could even help a guy like that,” replied Thompson.
The men snickered as Thompson stood up and poured two more glasses of whiskey.
“What do you know about her?” asked Simmons.
“Not too much. I heard she graduated from UND in May with a political science major. Looking to make a career out of politics.”
“Oh, really . . .” Simmons set down his glass as his eyebrows rose. “See what you can do about arranging an informal meet-and-greet between her and me. Informal being the key word.” Simmons winked at Thompson.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Thompson took out his phone and wrote himself a reminder.
“Speaking of old geezers,” said Simmons, “I was briefed today by the highway patrol about old Senator Hanson, and the situation with his granddaughter. What’s the plan to mitigate risk here?”
“You mean, in regards to the money?”
“Of course.”
Thompson took a big swig of his drink and set it down on the table next to him. “Well, Hanson took the money willingly and looked the other way when those oil companies fra
cked the hell out of protected lands. He is in too deep now.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid this incident with his precious granddaughter and those idiot roughnecks might put him over the edge. You know, make him talk.” Simmons set his cigar down and started to tap his fingers on his desk.
“Don’t worry, he isn’t going to bring the whole ship down over this. He would be committing career suicide, and worse, he would send us all to jail, himself included. We all made an agreement, and he will stick by it.”
“You’re from his hometown and you served with him in the capital for years,” Simmons said. “Can you use your history with him to keep him quiet? I don’t want this to get away from us. We’ve come too far, and there is so much more money to be made.”
“I’ll reach out to him tomorrow. Where do the police think Gabby is?”
“They haven’t got a clue. It’s a terrible thought, but she’s probably already dead in a ditch somewhere, and I’m sure that roughneck is long gone.”
“Do you want to call for extra police and rescue resources to help with the search?”
Simmons finished off his drink and turned his glass over so the rim was down on the table. Then he pushed Nixon’s head down with his index finger and watched it bob. Nixon gave him his mischievous smile with his signature peace signs extended from his body. “Nah, there’s no use. That blizzard is going to hit sometime tonight or early in the morning. Tell them all to go home and to brace for the storm. I’m going to bed.”
Chapter 5
The Louisiana Bayou
A houseboat sat perfectly still on top of green, swampy water, tucked tightly between patches of cypress trees, Spanish moss dangling down on its roof and sides. A sliver of light from a high noon sun hit one of the windows on the houseboat’s ceiling, and for a few minutes it illuminated the inside. It would be the only natural light inside the houseboat all day.
