by C. J. Box
KYLE HAD THOUGHT about what he should do. Should he writhe around on the cushion until he was in a sitting position where someone might see a hooded boy in the back of a truck and call the police? Or would the person who saw him turn out to be Ron?
Both Raheem and Tiffany were moving around and grunting on the floor. They seemed to realize Ron was gone and they were trying to get up.
He hadn’t heard the sounds that would have resulted in the truck being fueled—the gas cap being opened, the gasoline pumping into the tank—so Kyle assumed they were parked elsewhere.
But where?
Before he could make up his mind to try and sit up he heard the familiar bass of Ron’s voice not far from the truck. Tiffany and Raheem heard it, too, and both became still.
The truck doors opened and Kyle could sense both Amanda and Ron climbing in.
“That man might wonder why you’re buying two shock collars at once,” Amanda said.
“People around here train their dogs to hunt birds. He only saw cash,” Ron said back. “Now shut up, please. You talk too much. I don’t need your help or advice.”
Later, when Kyle thought about it, that had been the only real chance in the past month he’d had to draw attention to his situation and possibly escape. He might have been able to tug hard enough on the wire that it became unfastened, or he could have started shouting with the hope that someone outside would hear him. But he hadn’t acted.
Since then, he, like Amanda and Tiffany, had gotten used to a new and terrible way of life. He heard Amanda say it had been four weeks, but it seemed much longer. So much longer that when he recalled pushing out on the river with Raheem on that glorious day it now seemed like a dream.
Raheem would have hated this new life, Kyle thought, but at least it was life.
* * *
IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, Kyle heard labored breathing outside and he turned his head toward the door. Both Amanda and Tiffany clammed up.
The lock clicked and a bolt was thrown and the door opened.
Ron stood in the threshold covered with blood. It was on his face and hands as well as his clothing. He peered inside because it was dark and let his eyes adjust. A rifle was slung over his shoulder, the muzzle behind his back pointed up in the air.
“There you all are,” he said, slightly out of breath. “I was gone longer than I planned to be.”
“We’re just fine,” Amanda said. She always felt she had to say something, Kyle thought. Unlike him.
“Good, ’cause I hope you know how to butcher a deer,” Ron said to Amanda. “I field dressed it already so you don’t need to worry about that.”
Kyle let his eyes drop from Ron in the doorway. A two-point gray buck deer was slumped behind Ron. The buck’s eyes were open but dried out and its tongue lolled out of the side of its mouth like the deer was smoking a swelled-up pink cigar. Ron had dragged it from far enough away that he was obviously worn out from the exertion.
“I’ve cooked venison,” Amanda said cautiously. “But I’ve never actually skinned out a deer or cut one up.”
Ron nodded in that way that meant he could care less what she said. He reached behind him and produced a small bone saw designed for big game. He reversed it and pointed the handle toward her to grasp.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll show you how.”
As an aside, Ron winked at Kyle and said, “It’s the first time this saw’s been used on a game animal.”
Then he grinned as if sharing a joke.
PART THREE
EKALAKA
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
CASSIE KEPT A CLOSE EYE on the gas gauge of her Escape as she got within five miles of Ekalaka, Montana, on State Highway 7. She regretted not stopping back in Baker for fuel fifteen minutes earlier. A gaggle of men standing around in coveralls surrounding the only open pump had convinced her to keep going.
The digital display on the dashboard had gone from 12 MILES REMAINING to LOW FUEL.
If she ran out of gas—which was very possible—she didn’t know how long it might be before someone came by to help her. Since she’d passed through Wibaux fifty miles north of where she was, she’d not encountered a single car on the road.
The terrain was as flat as it had been in North Dakota but even more desolate. There were ponderosa pine–covered buttes every few miles, and weather-beaten signs for distant ranches, but no place to stop for fuel.
Thanks to Jon Kirkbride she had the cell phone number for Carter County Sheriff (and Coroner) Bebe Verplank entered into her phone. Kirkbride and Verplank were both officers of the Western States Sheriffs Association and knew each other well. Cassie knew she could call Verplank if she ran out of gas and was stranded—but what an inauspicious way to meet, she thought.
People in small towns loved to talk about knuckleheads like her—city types who didn’t have the sense not to run out of gas in the most remote and least populated corner of the entire state. Her North Dakota license plates would work against her as well. Montanans, as she knew, loved to make fun of North Dakotans. That Montana was her home until two years before would only muck up the narrative.
She’d checked a map before she’d departed that morning. Ekalaka—pronounced Eek-ah-lack-uh—seemed to be the dead center of Nowhere. It was twenty-six miles from the North Dakota border, twenty-four miles from the South Dakota border, sixty miles from Wyoming, and one hundred miles from the nearest town in Montana of any size: Miles City.
Everybody growing up in Montana had heard of Ekalaka because the name kind of rolled off the tongue. Few actually knew where it was. Fewer still had ever been there.
She’d concluded there was no logical explanation for Kyle and Raheem to push off on the Missouri River in Grimstad and wind up hundreds of miles away and upstream in Ekalaka.
Yet, here she was.
And she had an appointment with Sheriff Verplank at 5 P.M.
* * *
SHE PULLED OFF THE HIGHWAY at the first gas station she saw a half-mile north of town. It was a tiny A-frame building she assumed was open because there was a light on inside. A hand-painted sign on the side of the building read WE ASSASSINATE DRIVE-AWAYS.
When she climbed out of her car and stretched she blew out a long breath. It had been nerve-wracking driving on fumes.
The pumps were old-fashioned and instead of a digital display that showed the cost and the volume of fuel dispensed, there were spinning dials and no way to use a credit card.
She cursed and grabbed her purse from the front seat and walked across the gravel to the office. She could see a man’s face peering at her through a cloudy window.
Inside it was dark and musty. The small space was crowded with shelving with very few items for sale outside of .22 shells, beaded jewelry from what was no doubt a local artisan, and used paperback books. Dust-covered mule deer heads looked down at her from the walls.
“I need to fill up,” she said to the man seated behind the cash register. The top of his head barely cleared the top of the counter.
“Well, go ahead.”
He had a large bald head and owl-like eyes. She wondered why he didn’t stand up until she got closer and realized he was in a wheelchair.
“Here’s my credit card,” she said, offering it to him. That’s when she saw the large caliber revolver in his lap.
“Just pay for it when you’re done,” the man said. “But this isn’t full-serve. You have to pump it yourself.”
“That’s fine.”
“And we don’t take credit cards. Cash only.”
“I see,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time I paid cash for gasoline. Probably high school.”
The man shrugged. “You can always go on into town, I guess.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said, thinking of the envelope of cash Dottie had given her and refused to take back. She had only twenty dollars herself. “Is the women’s bathroom open?”
He handed her a key.
When she brought it back he asked, �
��What brings you to town? Here to see the dinosaur museum? This is dino country, you know. Bones everywhere.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s so.”
“Do you always keep that gun on your lap?”
He paused as if the question confused him. Finally, he said, “Yep, I do.”
“I’ll be back,” she said.
“Yep.”
* * *
SHE ALMOST DROVE OUT the other side of Ekalaka before she realized there was no more Ekalaka, only one short main commercial street and unpaved roads to scattered homes. She did a U-turn and parked on the shoulder of the highway. The tiny community was in an oasis of trees in the high desert landscape. The whole of the town spanned her windshield.
Cassie punched in the number Kirkbride had given her.
“Yullo?” A man’s deep voice.
“Is this the Carter County Sheriff’s Department?” she asked.
He chuckled and said, “This is Sheriff Verplank. You’re calling my cell phone.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Cassie Dewell from North Dakota. I made an appointment with your receptionist this morning.”
“That was my wife, but yeah. You want to meet at the Old Stand Saloon?”
“Sure,” she said. “Where is it?”
He laughed again and said, “You can’t miss it. Are you in town?” Then the sheriff said, “Oh yeah, I see you.”
She looked up. A stocky man in a beige uniform had stepped out the side door of the only three-story building in town. It was a square wooden structure with a cupola on top.
He waved. “You’re looking at the Carter County Justice Center. We’re on Pine Street. The Old Stand is on Main Street,” he said, indicating the area on the other side of the building. “Everything,” he added, “is on Main Street.”
“I’ll see you there,” she said.
“If it’s open,” he said cautiously.
* * *
OVER THE PAST FEW DAYS Cassie had gone to the office supply store to replicate the things she had on her desk at the Law Enforcement Center—stapler, paper clips, highlight pens, and other items. She fell back on her police training and assembled a case file. It included printouts from the databases, copies of her interview notes thus far, photos of Kyle and Raheem, and the missing persons reports filed by Lottie and Raheem’s father. Both reports were public records although she’d received them more quickly than usual because Judy Banister made sure she did.
She constructed a timeline of what had happened so far: the disappearance, the initial contact with law enforcement, the follow-up—and lack thereof—up to when Lottie cornered her in the lobby of the Law Enforcement Center. The list of contacts for the case was short.
She assembled the file meticulously with the thought in mind that when her investigation was complete—one way or other—she could turn the entire thing over to law enforcement.
Cassie was grateful for the distraction the work provided, and whenever she hit another dead end she thought about Lottie. And the work kept her at arm’s length from her mother, who would pop in and out of the house at any time depending on her activities.
The day before she’d purchased a used .40 Glock 27 at the Work Wearhouse in Grimstad that was just like the piece she’d turned in after her suspension. Cassie was used to carrying that particular weapon—nine rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber—and it was perfectly legitimate to do so. She still had her Concealed Carry permit from Montana, and North Dakota offered reciprocity.
While waiting for her background check to clear to take possession of the weapon, she pushed a cart around the store and added items from the shelves: three-cell Maglite flashlight, a handheld radio with a police scanner frequency, binoculars, a Swiss Army knife, and plastic bindings for fencing that could conceivably be used as flexible handcuffs.
Because she’d heard Lottie’s version of events Cassie thought it important to talk to the other complainant as well.
She tracked down Raheem’s father in Minneapolis via a law enforcement database she still had access to on her home computer.
He answered his cell phone on the second ring.
* * *
“MR. JOHNSON? MR. CLYDE JOHNSON?”
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“My name is Cassie Dewell. I’m calling from Grimstad to follow up on the case of your missing son Raheem.”
She could hear him take a sharp breath.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“No, no—that’s not why I’m calling. I’m investigating the disappearance of Raheem and Kyle Westergaard. I’m trying to find out what happened to them.”
“You with the police?” His tone was aggressive.
“No. It’s a private investigation on behalf of Lottie Westergaard. I’m not a member of law enforcement.”
“Well, you couldn’t do much worse than those fools, that’s for sure. I went into the sheriff’s department four times before I left town and nobody could give me any answers at all. I understand why they didn’t do much that first day,” he said. “That was the morning that truck blew up in town and killed them cops. You know about that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Some woman cop was responsible is what I heard.”
“There is a dispute about that,” she said. “But go on.”
“Anyway, there’s no damned excuse for why they didn’t do anything the second, third, and fourth time I went in there to see ’em. They weren’t doing nothing to find him I could see.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Johnson. I really am. But I’ve got the missing person’s report you filed and I’m trying to find out everything I can. I hope you’ll spare me a few minutes.”
“I got time,” he said. “I’m at my brother’s place in the Twin Cities trying to find a job. There isn’t any work in North Dakota no more.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“Yeah, the bottom fell out. I didn’t want to leave with Raheem still gone. I feel bad about that. But I sat around for three weeks waiting to hear from either Raheem or the cops and the rent came due. I had to clear out.”
“So Raheem has made no attempt to contact you since he went missing on September fifteenth?”
“I don’t know if he made an attempt or not but he didn’t contact me if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Okay then. I did leave a message on the house phone where I was at if he tried. I think he’d try my cell phone anyway, though. Man, every morning I wake up and look at it to see if he called or texted me.”
“And nothing so far,” she said.
“Nothing so far. I’ve heard as much from Raheem as I have from the damn cops.”
“I know you and Mrs. Johnson are divorced but did you check with her to see if Raheem had been in touch?”
“I did,” he said wearily. “She said she hadn’t heard from him. All she did was ream me out and say what a shitty dad I must be if Raheem felt he had to run away. This from the woman who left with a salesman and moved to Texas when Raheem was four.”
She nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“We assume that Raheem and Kyle left Grimstad in a drift boat on the morning of September fifteenth. But that’s just what it is—an assumption. Do you recall Raheem ever saying he wanted to visit a special place?”
There was a long pause. “Are you asking me if I think Raheem and Kyle faked leaving in the boat and went somewhere else?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Hmmm, that’s a weird one. I guess I never really thought about it that way.”
“I’ve got no reason to suggest it, Mr. Johnson. I’m just trying to rule everything out.”
“Yeah.”
“So shall we move on?”
“Yeah, next question.”
“I’m looking at your report and I don’t see that you list any identifying marks o
n Raheem. Is it possible you left something out?”
“New Orleans,” he said suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“Raheem used to say he’d like to go to New Orleans so he could see women take their shirts off, you know? I always laughed about that. Even his favorite team is the Saints. So maybe New Orleans.”
She wrote that down. New Orleans, she knew, could be the end of their journey if they were somehow still on the river.
“About those marks. Anything?”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously. “Did someone find a body?”
“I can’t confirm that,” she said.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Well, when he was nine he fell out of a damned tree! Climbed to the top and fell down through the branches like a dumbass. I thought he might have broken his neck but he’s like a cat—he doesn’t get hurt. He jumped right back up on his feet. I think all he needed was stitches on his leg. That’s it.”
“Where on his leg?”
“His ankle.”
“Which ankle?”
“Right. It was his right ankle.”
She glanced over at the RIMN printout. The body supposedly had a scar on the inside left ankle.
“No, I’m wrong,” he said. “I was thinking that when I looked at him head-on the scar was on the right. But it was my right. The scar was actually on his left ankle.”
“Where on the ankle?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even and professional.
“On the inside. Why you asking me about his ankle?”
“Like I said—I’m trying to gather as much information as possible as well as rule things out.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “You’ve already asked me more questions than the damned cops ever did. Maybe you ought to be a cop.”
She let that go.
* * *
WHEN SHE’D CALLED EX-SHERIFF Jon Kirkbride at home and told him what she was doing, he’d laughed and said, “What are you, a private detective?”
“Kind of,” she admitted.
“You know what I think of private detectives,” he said.
“I remember,” she said. “You said, ‘TSA agents are folks who were too dumb to pass the test for a job at the post office, and private investigators were folks too dumb to qualify for the TSA.’”