The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

  EIGHTEEN

  When the ambulance returned that afternoon to Killdeer, David and Russell Red Bear abruptly parted ways. The doctor said he had to get back to his practice. They were bringing in an injured oil worker from one of the well pads just north of Killdeer. It was another emergency, a possible amputation, and he had to get ready to hop on the ambulance to treat the victim and get him to the nearest hospital. He asked for David’s business card. He said something was on his mind; he wanted to talk to David further. But now was not the time.

  David was off to Valley City, North Dakota, to look into the Killdeer Society and the death of Dr. Sheila Safferson. She was the only victim whom Julius Moore had mentioned as being killed in North Dakota. David had an appointment to meet with the local police chief the next day. He also wanted to scope out the scene of her slaying in Chautauqua Park, on the outskirts of town.

  It was a four-hour drive from Killdeer that required only two turns of the steering wheel. David imagined North Dakota was a rectangle divided into smaller and smaller squares and rectangles by its roads and highways, all the way down to the streets in the smallest town. Every street seemed to have a number for a name. He might be on Forty-Second Street and be in the middle of a city filled with nothing but prairie dogs. Even so, directions were relatively simple for traveling in the state once he learned to think in terms of numbers, straight lines, and right angles.

  David had turned east to get back onto Interstate 94, the same highway that ran alongside the tracks where the train had exploded due west of Killdeer. He was on the last leg of his trip to Valley City, a straight three-hour shot east. It was late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set in his rearview mirror. All four cylinders in his Chevy Spark were in overdrive trying to achieve the highway speed limit of 75 mph. David was thankful to have the wind at his back. It helped propel him on his way. He was glad to move faster than the blowing pieces of litter along the road for once.

  The buzz inside the car from the straining engine reminded David of being in an airplane. He turned the radio on in an attempt to drown out the noise. There was a news update on the South Heart train explosion. It wasn’t just a few cars that had blown up; it was all of them—every last one. The reporter called it a war zone, said a derailment was the suspected cause. Officials were evacuating South Heart because of the smoke, and twelve miles away, people in Dickinson were ordered to stay indoors with their doors and windows closed. The National Transportation Safety Board and the EPA were coming to investigate. The governor had declared a state of emergency for the county. “Two dead, thirteen injured,” the reporter said before signing off.

  When the station’s music programming returned, Jackson Browne was in the middle of singing “Running on Empty.” The song fit David’s mood to a T. He hadn’t slept much in the Walmart parking lot, and he hadn’t showered for almost two days. When he’d turned in for the night at the Killdeer ambulance station, he had planned to shower the following morning. The South Heart emergency call shot that plan to hell. Now, he had a hotel reservation in Valley City in the eastern half of the state—away from the Bakken-oil fields, far from the craziness. At this point, he craved a hot shower and good night’s sleep like a junkie searching for a fix.

  He tried to relax and absorb the vastness of North Dakota, but he couldn’t clear his head of the oil-train explosion or Johnny Rutherford. He was the injured firefighter they had rushed to Dickinson. At forty-four years old, Johnny didn’t look much older than Christy except for the silvering at his temples. Red Bear had learned his age on the way back to Killdeer when the hospital called to say Johnny didn’t make it. He’d died on the operating table from cardiac arrest; one of the two deaths. The doctors said they didn’t know if the toxic smoke could have triggered it. They said they’d do an autopsy, but they might never know for sure.

  Another one bites the dust.

  Red Bear was beside himself when he heard the news, wondering out loud to David if he could have done anything differently. But he pulled himself out of the funk. The next oil victim was already headed to his doorstep. A short-term memory was a first responder’s best friend.

  David recalled how excited Christy had been to have his first heart-attack victim during his ride-along the other week. It had taken him long enough to get that call, or any call for that matter. The paramedics had taken to calling Christy “white cloud” because there were hardly any calls when he rode the ambulance. David tried to appreciate Christy’s gallows humor and Red Bear’s, too. The doctor could have sung the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” as a guide to time the compressions, but he chose the Queen tune instead. David figured it helped him cope with the misery and death that came with his job. Odd how this was something that Christy had experienced much more than his father, despite being less than one-third his age. David felt horrible for Johnny Rutherford. He’d had a wife and two children, with another baby on the way.

  He wondered how Christy put death out of his mind, or if he blocked out the depressing finality. David knew he couldn’t do that himself. He never could. Some people seemed to accept the inevitable and bounce back quickly while others dwelled on death until it sucked the life out of them. David was a dweller. Harold’s death weighed heavily on his mind. He was both heartbroken and angry—mourning his friend’s death but mad about his predicament. And he resented the situation that had him wandering the highways of North Dakota, looking for answers.

  When the sun ducked behind a cloud, the glare from his mirrors disappeared. He could see it clearly then. He had wondered about it for the past sixty miles but had put it out of his mind, telling himself he was paranoid.

  But it isn’t paranoia if they really are out to get you. His stomach went into free-fall when he spotted it. There it was again—the black Chevy Suburban. The gold Chevy emblem mounted on the grill had the Spark in its crosshairs. It wasn’t riding his ass, but it was too close for David’s comfort. These FBI agents were ticking him off—following him like he was the answer to the killing spree. He wanted to get them off his tail. But in a race between the two Chevys, his eighty-four horses weren’t going to get it done. There was no place to run.

  His only option was to outmaneuver the Suburban. While he was searching for an escape, a realization hit him. Something had bothered David about North Dakota, but he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. All of a sudden, it made perfect sense. Yes, it was beautiful to see the sky touch the horizon in every direction. He marveled at the expansiveness of it all: the sunset at Walmart, the northern lights at night, and the wide-open grain fields waving golden in the midday sun.

  Now, the downside hit him. When the sky slid below the horizon, it felt like the ceiling dropped. The world appeared to shrink. The emptiness that surrounded him didn’t help. He felt vulnerable. Now he knew how his cats felt when they wandered into the large, empty spare bedroom. The cats wouldn’t linger in that room. They’d stop by just long enough to satisfy their curiosity and then flee to safer surroundings: a box, a basket, a curtain, a place that offered protection.

  David realized now that this wasn’t upstate New York. He couldn’t play hide-and-go-seek in the fields of North Dakota. The seeker in this game drove a 320 hp Chevy. David was trapped in the vast emptiness of the place, in a state where there were three times more cattle than people.

  No place to run, no place to hide.

  He drove for miles without discovering any option for action. A lawyer always wants options. If not A, then B. That’s how a lawyer’s mind works: always have an out. But barreling across the plains, he found none.

  He had almost resigned himself to having the Suburban follow him until a road sign offered him a plan. It was risky but, “everyone has a bit of the gambler in them.” David had read that in a free newsletter from The Benedictine Sisters of Sacred Heart Monastery. He had picked it up at the Richardton 7-Eleven where he filled up before getting on the interstate. The article mentioned that they were promoting their upcoming raffle t
o “help you scratch that gambling itch.” Now, with the nuns of North Dakota in his head, David had found the gambling itch within himself. He was ready to roll the dice with the Suburban.

  But his timing had to be perfect. He looked in his rearview again. The Suburban was about seven lengths behind him, one car length for every ten miles per hour—like this guy had studied his driver’s-education manual the night before.

  Has to be a G-man.

  Dead ahead was a tanker truck, hauling either oil or some fracking cocktail, and spewing out streams of exhaust that flowed through the prairie air like black ink. The tanker must have had a full load because it crept slowly up the hill in the right lane, even slower than David’s Chevy Spark. That gave David a chance to gain on it. He leaned forward, closed all the windows—did everything he could to pull up to the truck. When he got closer, he rode behind it to take advantage of the draft as he inched closer and got ready for his big gamble. Another check of his rearview confirmed his luck. The Suburban still hovered seven lengths behind him in the same lane.

  The road sign had advertised a rest area one mile ahead. He was a half mile away from it now, directly in back of the truck. It was time to make his move. He jerked the Spark into the passing lane and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The car hesitated for a second, shocked at the sudden flow of adrenaline into its engine, like it was the first time anyone had asked it to pass anything. It roared to life and shook like a wet dog as it hit the passing lane. David sure hoped the car lived up to its name. All he wanted was a spark.

  He was halfway past the tanker truck when the Suburban also pulled out into the passing lane. The hill was taking its toll on the truck, and David was about to pass it when he eased off the accelerator to keep pace with the truck near its cab. The Suburban edged closer; its nose was at the rear of the truck. He could see the rest area just ahead now and put the pedal to the metal. It was do-or-die time. When he gained two car lengths on the truck, he cut over in front of it into the right-hand lane. The trucker leaned on his air horn as David veered one more lane over to the right, onto the exit ramp for the rest area. He saw the trucker flip him the bird through the open window of the cab as the Spark rolled off the highway. David was happy to get the obscene gesture rather than a trucker bomb through his windshield. The tanker’s forward momentum blocked the Chevy Suburban from making the same move. The feds had no choice—they had to keep on driving.

  David took a parking space away from anyone else. He threw the car door open, climbed out, and then dropped to the pavement. The wind howled around his shivering torso as he shimmied under the car. He didn’t have his coat on. The asphalt was as cold as ice, draining every ounce of warmth from his body. He stood and repeated the process until he covered every section of the car’s undercarriage. He noticed that the Spark bore California plates. He checked under the hood, then rummaged through the trunk. Nothing. The car was clean. He couldn’t find any FBI tracking device.

  He retreated into the car and stared in disbelief over the field behind the rest stop. In the distance, he could see yet a few hay bales dotting the fields where the soy, wheat, corn, alfalfa, and canola had flourished just a few months ago. He also spotted the white steeple of a church. That was it—all there was. David thought there might be more churches than 7-Elevens in North Dakota. They were everywhere. He wondered what all the praying was about.

  Are they praying for a better life here or for the chance to get the hell out alive, like me?

  NINETEEN

  David didn’t see the black Chevy Suburban after he left the rest area. His motel in Valley City was located just off the exit ramp, at the terminus of a dead-end street. Before checking in, David stopped for a hot meal at the truck-stop café next door. Annie had called and left a phone message while David was driving, and David played it back while he waited at the counter for his bill. His wife said she and Christy missed him, wanted him to call that night. He missed her, too, but he didn’t want to talk to her yet, didn’t want to talk to anyone. The last thing he wanted to do was relive with her a day that he wanted to forget.

  In the gathering dusk, he drove the thirty yards from the truck stop to the motel. Its parking lot was a raging sea of crumbling asphalt, crested with ankle-high dead grass and bottomless potholes. The building looked like a fully loaded barge of concrete that was about to go under. It had two floors fronted with a narrow balcony that held a scattering of aging orange-plastic bucket chairs behind rusted railings. The seats resembled rotting pumpkin shells on bent metal legs. They all sat empty.

  The parking-space lines had faded to oblivion, so David made his best guess as to where the Spark should go. As he pulled in, his headlights flashed over the drawn drapes of some first-floor rooms. They did not hang level, and some had torn liners. What he saw in the high beams did not match the photos on the motel’s website. David wanted to run away, but all the hotels he’d driven past since the exit ramp had No Vacancy signs, and he was on a Scrooge budget anyway. This room was cheaper than the rest, and he had a reservation.

  David cautiously entered the dingy lobby. No one was on duty at the front desk. A sign handwritten on loose-leaf paper was taped to the worn surface. In red magic marker, it said, Dial 9 for service with an arrow pointing to the rotary phone on the unattended counter. It took ten minutes for the sleepy-eyed clerk to emerge from behind a moth-eaten brown-velvet curtain, tucking in her blouse. She passed over a standard registration form and a battered ballpoint pen while extending her hand for his credit card. The first card David gave her to swipe was rejected. He figured it was maxed out and handed her a different card. That one passed muster and earned him the key to Room 111.

  Surprisingly for such a run-down establishment, his room had a shiny, new gold key, another one gleaming in the palm of his hand. For a moment, he felt like shiny, gold keys were following him. David broke into a cold sweat; this situation felt much too familiar. He feared this key would reveal surprises, too.

  David had parked close enough to the motel that he could unload his stuff from the car before heading inside the room. The flickering porch lights from the other rooms dimly lit his assigned door. He put the key in the slot and once again had trouble opening the lock. He couldn’t believe it. As Yogi Berra would have said, “It’s déjà vu all over again.” He wiggled and jiggled it, and the knob finally turned, allowing the door to creak open. The wall of odor hit him immediately, but at least it wasn’t the smell of a dead man. The place reeked of stale cigarette smoke, even though he had reserved a nonsmoking room.

  Standing in the doorway, he ran his hand in circles on the inside wall, hunting for a light switch. He found two and flicked one. Nothing. When he flicked on the second one, it turned on the outside light. By its faint light, he saw a lamp off to the side of the room and stepped inside to reach under the shade for the knob. Then he turned it—nothing. He peered over the lampshade with his cell-phone light. There was no bulb, just an empty socket. He spotted another lamp on the wall between the two beds and headed over to try that one. The incandescent lightbulb had a black spot on it, but it still lit up the wall above. It didn’t illuminate much else. By now, the outside air had made a dent in the tobacco odor, so he closed and locked the door.

  David turned on another lamp by the TV and also the bathroom light. Now he could see enough, maybe a bit too much. The 1970s came calling via the brown-shag carpet and orange-crochet bedspreads. They belonged in a landfill—if you could find one to accept them. But David’s standards had dropped dramatically since his night in the Walmart parking lot; the room would do.

  He cranked up the heat, sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress, and dialed Annie.

  “David . . . I’m so glad you called,” she said. Her breathing was agitated. There was a note of strain in her voice.

  David could hear male voices in the background at his wife’s end. “What’s going on? Who’s there with you?”

  “They showed up about a half hour ago. I wanted to call y
ou again, but they’ve been keeping me busy.”

  “Who is ‘they,’ Annie?”

  “The police. Pete is here. They’re searching the house.”

  David shot to his feet. He couldn’t believe his ears. “Did he give you a search warrant?”

  “Yes. It’s something I never in my life expected to see. What’s this all about?”

  David sighed. “Harold Salar’s death.”

  “I can’t believe they think you had anything to do with it.”

  “What are they looking for?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like they’re searching the house for your clothing.”

  “Did you read the warrant?”

  “I skimmed it. I’ve been focused on keeping an eye on them.”

  “Good idea. You don’t have to say anything to them. Don’t answer any of their questions. Refer them to me. Okay?”

  “All right, I can do that. David, we need you home. Christy is upset.”

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can. Could you put Pete on the phone, please?”

  “Okay.”

  Now David was breaking into a full sweat. He didn’t care about the clothing. It wasn’t going to incriminate him of anything, except maybe bad taste, and that wasn’t a crime, at least not yet. He tried to remember if there was anything left in plain view in his office, something they might try to seize while looking for his clothing. The laundry area was in the unfinished section of the basement, right next to his office. Fortunately, he had brought Harold Salar’s laptop with him to North Dakota.

  “Yes, David?” Pete said into Annie’s cell phone.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m executing a search warrant.”

  “Unbelievable. You really think I killed Harold Salar?”