Cassie Dewell 01 - Badlands

by C. J. Box

  She said, “Drop everything and concentrate on this?”

  “Except for you,” he said under his breath.

  * * *

  ON THE way home she’d waited in the drive-in lane at McDonald’s for fifteen minutes. She’d never been in a fast-food line that took longer, but when she thought about bailing out she realized she was pinned in by other vehicles both front and back. The line extended out into the frozen street and around the block.

  She’d ordered, received her change from a flinty blond woman who was at least a decade older than most fast-food workers she was used to, and had driven back to the county apartment building. It wasn’t until she shifted her Yukon into park that the pure exhaustion hit her and swept her away.

  * * *

  AFTER TWENTY minutes with her eyes closed, Cassie sat up with a grunt. Something had awakened her, and she realized she’d fallen asleep in the Yukon outside her own building. She cursed herself for being so stupid. The warmth of her apartment was thirty yards away. She’d promised to call Ben before he went to bed. And although the Yukon was a late model, the potential for carbon monoxide poisoning in a stationary car was always a possibility.

  She realized what had jarred her awake was the vibration of her cell phone ringing in the inside pocket of her new sheriff’s department coat. By the time she retrieved her phone it had stopped.

  There were two messages. One was from Isabel, her mother. The other was from County Prosecutor Leslie Behaunek in North Carolina. Cassie looked at the clock display on the dashboard—eight thirty. Which meant ten thirty in Wilson. Pretty late to call with something mundane, she thought.

  Cassie grabbed the McDonald’s bag, the bottle of wine, the six-pack, and her briefcase and went out into the stunningly cold night.

  * * *

  “YOU WON’T have to do anything,” Cassie said to Isabel on her cell phone while she put all the items on the kitchen table and shed the parka. “They’ll come in and pack everything up and label each box. Then they’ll load the boxes into the truck and head east to North Dakota. All you’ll need to do is put Ben in the car with some of his books or toys and drive here next week.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing before,” Isabel said, offended. “They just walk into our place and pack our things?”

  “Yes. That’s what moving companies do.”

  “Well, needless to say, I’ve never used one before. I’ve probably moved a dozen times in my life and you know what that was like.”

  Cassie did, and they weren’t pleasant memories. Isabel filled her VW bus with most of their possessions leaving just enough space for Cassie and drove across town to whatever cheap hovel was replacing the last cheap hovel. Whatever couldn’t fit into the bus was piled on the sidewalk with a sign that said, FREE STUFF—TAKE IT. PEACE.

  Isabel didn’t believe in crass materialism, she had explained.

  “We can afford it now,” Cassie said, rolling her eyes. “The sheriff’s department here will pay for the move.”

  “But it’s such a waste of taxpayer money.”

  “It’s their money to waste,” Cassie said. “Now can you put Ben on?”

  “Yes, he’s right here waiting. But first you have to tell me about what I heard on the news today. Something that happened in the town you want us to move to.”

  Cassie sighed. The sheriff was right: it was all over the news. “Not with Ben right there,” she said.

  “Why—so he won’t be scared to come there?” Isabel asked. “Doesn’t that tell you everything one needs to know about us moving to North Dakota? That you can’t even talk about it?”

  “We’re handling it,” Cassie said. But she had to concede that her mother had a point. “Now please put Ben on.”

  * * *

  WHILE SHE talked to her son about his last days of school—his friends wanted to throw him a good-bye party, which brought unexpected tears to her eyes—Cassie put the bag of hamburgers and fries into the microwave and set it at thirty seconds to heat up the food.

  The wine had a screw top for which she was grateful because she didn’t have a corkscrew. She filled a drinking glass three-quarters full and took a long pull while listening to Ben. The bad wine was good.

  Ben asked Cassie if he could buy a fishing license and a fishing pole when he got to North Dakota.

  “Yes, but it’s cold here right now. Everything’s frozen over. But yes, we can do that.”

  Ben told her he might want to go ice fishing, maybe, as she secured the phone to her ear with her shoulder so her hands were free. She opened the refrigerator door for the beer, put it inside, and closed it.

  Then she stood still, frozen inside, suddenly unable to make out a single word Ben was saying.

  She thought, No. It had to be a hallucination brought on by what she’d been through that day.

  “Honey, can you hold on for a minute?” she said.

  “Okay,” Ben said impatiently.

  Cassie put the phone on the counter and braced herself and opened the refrigerator door once again as the microwave chimed that it was done. She paid no attention to it.

  Rufus Whiteley’s head was on the top shelf next to the six-pack of beer. She recognized it from his driver’s license photo that had been circulated through the department. The eyes were closed but there was a black pool of blood that had drained down through the shelving onto the glass top of the vegetable bin.

  “Ben, please put your grandma Isabel back on.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Do it, please.” Somehow, she didn’t shout it.

  When Isabel took the phone Cassie said, “I’m postponing the moving truck until further notice.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AT THE same time, on the darkened porch of a dilapidated farmhouse just outside the city limits of Grimstad, Willie Dietrich burst out the door and shoved the muzzle of a pistol deep into the mouth of the man who’d knocked to come in.

  As the man struggled and gagged, Dietrich said, “Well look who’s here. It’s the Winkster.”

  “You said to come by,” Winkie tried to say. But it came out as a series of squeaks and grunts. Dietrich stepped back and withdrew the gun and dried the barrel on his jeans. Winkie spat the taste out. His spittle froze instantly between his boots on the concrete stoop.

  “Yeah,” Dietrich said, as if forgetting was no fault of his own. “You know there’s no product now, right? You know that.”

  “Of course, man. Jesus, that gun hurt. You mighta broke my tooth, man.”

  Blink.

  “You’re fine, asshat.” Dietrich laughed huskily.

  He was big, blond, and manic. Winkie could never be sure if Dietrich acted crazy because he was high or because he was naturally crazy or because he wanted everyone to think he was crazy. Dietrich had been so violent as a middle linebacker on the high school football team that opposing coaches boycotted playing the Grimstad Vikings. It had been quite the controversy when Winkie was a junior. Not that Winkie ever played football, but Friday nights were party time during and after games and the boycott ruined the month of October that year.

  Despite hard living and a couple of stints in jail, Dietrich still had the intimidating physique of the middle linebacker he’d once been, Winkie thought. Broad shoulders, slablike pecs, and six-pack abs all on display because Dietrich wore only a tight wifebeater, jeans, and no shoes or socks.

  “Fuckin’ cold, man,” Dietrich said, as if accusing Winkie of the weather. He hopped from one bare foot to the other like the concrete was hot instead of cold.

  “Twenty-three below, man. I seen it on the bank sign in town.”

  He paused, then asked, “Can we go inside?”

  “No, dude, let’s stand out here on the porch all night.”

  Blink.

  “Come in, Winkie. But like I told you, there’s no product and I ain’t selling you any of my private stash so don’t even fuckin’ ask.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don�
�t, douche.”

  “I won’t.”

  * * *

  THE SHABBY front room was overheated from a glowing woodstove in the corner of it. There was a large pile of split hardwood stacked up next to it, and the floor was littered with bits of bark. It was a cheap stove, Winkie thought, because the top was glowing red and he could glimpse yellow flames through cracks on the side. Winkie shed his coat while he stood in the entryway but Dietrich didn’t indicate where he should hang it. The room was dim and lit with a dozen or so candles for effect, Winkie guessed, because there were a few unlit lamps in the dark corners.

  ESPN was on the big-screen TV but the sound was muted. “SportsCenter.”

  Two women—a blonde and a tall black beauty—were in the kitchen down the hallway. Winkie could smell baking. The women looked more like prostitutes on their night off than bakers, Winkie thought: big hair, high heels, tight tops. The tall black woman squinted to see who he was in the gloom of the living room, but she apparently wasn’t very impressed when she saw him because she turned away and went back to baking.

  “Hash brownies,” Dietrich said. “They’re making hash brownies. Don’t even think of asking.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Drop the coat,” Dietrich said, “arms out and spread ’em.”

  Winkie did as told and Dietrich patted him down like a professional, even pulling his pant legs up to grope inside the shafts of his boots.

  “You wearing a wire?”

  “No.”

  “Gotta check,” Dietrich said, roughly unbuttoning the front of Winkie’s flannel shirt and opening it with a rough flourish.

  “Fish-belly white,” Dietrich said. “You ought to get some sun, Winkie.”

  Winkie smiled uncomfortably while he buttoned back up and tucked his shirt in his jeans.

  Dietrich sprawled on an overstuffed chair, one leg cocked up over an arm of it. The pistol was in his lap.

  Winkie took a step toward an old couch strewn with clothes and Dietrich said, “I didn’t say you could sit down. Did I tell you you could sit down? Did you hear me say that?”

  “No.” Winkie stood there, his coat pooled in a clump near his boots.

  “You told one of my friends you might have a lead on some missing black and blue, is that right?”

  Blink.

  “The county has dried up, as you know. I’ve got good customers who are getting pissed off. Some of ’em are driving as far as Rapid City to score. My guys are getting antsy because their customers are leaning on ’em. So if you know where I can get my hands on real product, you better speak up.”

  Winkie tried to remember everything T-Lock had told him to say. It sounded so smooth and good when T-Lock said it.

  “I don’t know the guy personally, but I heard through a buddy of mine that this,” Winkie hesitated, “this guy might have found a whole shitload of blue. He’s sitting on it right now because he doesn’t know what to do and he doesn’t know who he can trust.”

  “This guy,” Dietrich repeated. “This guy who your buddy knows. So who is your buddy?”

  “I don’t want to say. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “I don’t even know his name. All I know is he’s local. I mean, he ain’t one of the newbies.”

  “So why hasn’t this guy taken the shit to the sheriff’s department? Turned it in for a reward and a write-up in the paper or something?”

  “Man, I don’t know.”

  “The fuck you don’t,” Dietrich said, his neck tensing. Winkie was impressed. He could actually see Dietrich’s muscles and tendons dance beneath his taut skin. “This guy wants me to pay him big bucks for the shit sight unseen. This guy thinks he’s smart enough and I’m stupid enough and desperate enough to set up a meeting and show up with what, a few million in cash?”

  “I don’t know nothing about prices,” Winkie said.

  Blink.

  “Give me a name,” Dietrich said. “Your buddy’s name or this guy’s name.”

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Then get the fuck out of my house before I shoot a bullet into each one of your stupid blinking eyes,” Dietrich said, sitting up straight, getting ready to spring like some kind of lion, Winkie thought.

  Winkie realized he was sweating. He could smell himself sweat. Then he remembered and said, “I brought you a sample.”

  Dietrich’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t spring.

  Finally, he said, “Hand it over.”

  Winkie reached very slowly into the front pocket of his jeans. He knew better than to try a sudden movement. Dietrich’s eyes locked on Winkie’s hand as he moved. The gun was back in his hand.

  Winkie eased the clear plastic baggie out and held it up by his fingertips.

  “Give,” Dietrich said, holding out his hand palm up.

  Winkie placed the packet into Dietrich’s hand.

  “Blue,” Dietrich said, sitting back and studying it. “I know this stuff.”

  Dietrich pulled apart the Ziploc top and licked his little finger. Almost daintily, he probed into the bag with his finger until it was covered with tiny crystals. Then he stuck the finger up his nostril and inhaled.

  He sat and waited. The look on his face was vacant but expectant. Winkie knew it was the real stuff but he was scared anyway and he felt like his legs might collapse on him.

  Dietrich briefly closed his eyes as if in awe, then opened them and smiled.

  “This is good shit,” he said. “I know where it came from.”

  Winkie shrugged as if he had no idea.

  “I know who really, really, really fucking wants it back. Was there a lot of cash in the bag as well?”

  “I don’t know.” It sounded hollow, even to him.

  “Sure you do, Winkie.” Dietrich said with confidence. He seemed to be studying Winkie’s face for cracks.

  Then Dietrich slapped the tops of his thighs and stood up. “I want to show you something, Winkster.”

  Winkie blinked.

  Dietrich reached into his front pocket and withdrew a wad of cash that was folded in two. He smoothed the bills on the table in front of him and then fanned them out as if they were a hand of cards.

  “Watch this,” Dietrich said, holding an odd-looking penlight over the bills. He thumbed a switch and suddenly the faces of the bills revealed glowing swoops and curlicues marked on them.

  “This is what they do to prevent skimming from their dealers,” Dietrich said. “A dude’s less likely to peel off a few bills if he thinks somebody might go through his wallet and flash an ultraviolet light on his stash. And guess where these marked bills came from?”

  Winkie shook his head.

  Dietrich sang, “‘Ba-da-ba-ba-bah, I’m lovin’ it.’ That’s right, our very own Mickey D’s. Two of my guys went there today and they both wound up with some of these bills in change. We’ve been checking all the cash that comes through here and we got two hits from the same place. Crazy, huh?”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Winkie said. But he was thinking T-Lock might have put Rachel up to it. He didn’t know why. But Rachel worked there.

  “See,” Dietrich said, “here’s what I was thinking before you showed up. I was thinking we could make a deal where everybody wins. You—or your mystery guy—could keep the cash. Just keep it. Consider it payment for the product and everybody’s happy. Well, maybe your guy isn’t completely happy, but at least he’s not cut into a million tiny pieces along with every member of his family. But if this guy is already circulating the cash through town like this, it’s a matter of time before the cops figure it out and shut him down. Which means he don’t get anything, and I don’t get any product. And the people who the product belongs to, believe me, they don’t fuck around with losers like you and this guy.”

  “Look,” Winkie said, “I’m just the messenger, you know? I don’t have the stuff and I don’t know where it is. I really don’t want to be in the middle o
f this.”

  Blink.

  “But you are in the middle of it,” Dietrich said with a laugh. “You came to me, remember? Now what we’ve got to do is figure out what comes next.”

  Winkie didn’t know what to suggest, other than he just wanted the last hour of his life back so he could do something else with it.

  Dietrich leaned back in his chair and angled his head toward a closed door over his shoulder. His eyes never left Winkie.

  “Did you get all that?” he asked, raising his voice.

  The door opened.

  “I heard it,” said a dark, short Hispanic man with big ears. He came into the front room and stepped to the side so a birdlike man could exit.

  The second man moved swiftly and positioned himself a few feet behind Winkie.

  “Meet my friends La Matanza and Silencio,” Dietrich said. “Silencio is the one behind you, but La Matanza may have a few questions. They came all the way from California. Push one for English and two for Spanish.”

  “I don’t speak no Spanish,” Winkie said.

  Dietrich laughed, and said, “Don’t worry.”

  Dietrich then said to La Matanza, “So it wasn’t the bikers after all. They might have run your guy off the road, but they didn’t get his product. But my friend the Winkster seems to know who did.”

  La Matanza looked dangerous to Winkie just standing there. Part of it was his stillness. Unlike Dietrich, there was nothing manic about him. He looked at Winkie with what almost looked like sympathy or understanding.

  “I don’t want no trouble,” Winkie said.

  “There doesn’t have to be any trouble.”

  He spoke clear English with just a hint of an accent.

  “I can go talk to him,” Winkie said. “I’ll explain the situation to him. I’ll ask him to drive out here and work out the details with you guys. I don’t want no part of this anymore.”

  La Matanza nodded thoughtfully. He said to Dietrich, “We thought that guy last night was one tough hombre. It turns out he really didn’t know anything. But I think we can see here our message got through.”

  “Loud and fucking clear.” Dietrich laughed. It was a forced laugh, Winkie thought. Then he realized even Dietrich was a little scared himself of the two men in his house. Dietrich wasn’t in charge. They were.