The Highway Girls

by Matt Lockhart

  He only manages to pump about fifteen dollars worth of gas into his car when a beefy, indigenous man walks to the truck, gets in and drives away. Nate follows, but keeps a healthy distance between them. His adrenaline spikes as the man drives out of Nordegg and onto reserve land, into deeply forested territory, a thick cloud of dust trailing behind his old truck.

  Nate slows down to let the dust dissipate a bit, but not so much that he loses sight of where the guy's going.

  Come on, asshole, Nate says to himself. Lead me to her. His thoughts turn to Belinda, clinging to life in a hospital bed. You can't fuck this up. You just can't.

  The dust cloud floats around a bend in the road, and then it grows lighter and more faint as Nate winds his way between the narrowing evergreen trees crowding the sides of the road. The dust then seems to disappear completely, and Nate worries he's allowed the man to get too far ahead. But, he sees a break in the trees fifty yards off, and he slows his car to crawl. Sure enough, there's a short driveway there, next to a ramshackle house with peeling white paint. A faded Beware of Dog sign sticks to the front window.

  Nate parks just down the road, and he consults his notepad where Brian Caldwell had written down the two brands of tires he thought might've left the impressions photographed on Roger Dolomski's property. Nate squints at Brian's chicken scratches, and believes he understands what it says. He visualizes delicately approaching the white pickup in the man's yard and inspecting the tires to see if there's a match.

  He walks slowly towards the driveway and reaches the tailgate of the white pickup. Please, no one drive by here in this moment. The last thing I want is to be noticed.

  Son of a bitch, Goodyears. The tire's model number matches Brian's guess too. Holy hell, this could be the truck that was used to take Roger's trailer. But, what did it have to do with Raina? Most police, Constable Sam Gray especially, would tell him nothing. But, for some reason the stubborn idea that there was a connection just would not leave him.

  He held a mini celebration in his head for all of two seconds upon noticing the match in tire descriptions to what he had written down, and then a loud pop, and the tell-tale clang of metal on metal. Someone was shooting at him and hitting the old truck instead.

  Shit!

  Nate dives behind the back of the truck, skins his elbow on a jutting rock. As he lays on his side, he sees two feet out through the other side of the pickup. Without hesitating, Nate grabs a palm-sized rock from the dirt, he pops up in a flash and nails the man with it in the side of his neck. The man, holding a .22 rifle, droops his shoulders slightly upon being hit by the rock. Nate uses the few seconds of distraction and bursts from behind the truck to tackle the guy into the gravel. The man reaches up to grab at Nate's throat and Nate nails him with a solid punch to the cheek. He grabs for the rifle and can't wrestle it from the man's grip. Then he gets off his knees and kicks at the gun and sends it tumbling away from the guy.

  A split second of indecision causes Nate to run away instead of going for the weapon. He runs like hell for his car out on the road, half expecting to be cut down by a bullet. It doesn't come.

  He reaches his Taurus and fires up the engine, spins around and takes off down the dirt road. The man who'd been firing at him, gets into his truck and gives chase. Nate makes a right turn and punches the accelerator to the floor, dirt road be damned. Please tell me this is the right way. He notices the truck gaining on him in his mirror.

  Nate makes a left. I don't remember going this way. But, sure enough the pavement returns, and he pulls off the reserve land onto Highway 11. He makes it maybe a hundred yards down the road to the east when he sees the pickup truck has given up the chase and turns back.

  By God, Nate slams his hand against the wheel and pushes his speed to thirty over the limit. That was too close.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Look, Gray,” Nate yells into his phone, still doing well over the speed limit and far from caring, “I know I'm about the last person you want to hear from right now. But, can you please just have a look anyway?”

  “I don't care what happens, alright?” Gray says, “I'm not risking my ass to run a plate for you. Every attempt is cataloged. I'd be questioned.”

  Nate repeats the plate number from the white pickup truck anyway. “No one's gonna care. For Pete's sake, Gray, the bastard just took a shot at me. More than one. How much of a reason do you need?”

  “Well, what the hell were you doing on his property in the first place?”

  “What? Hello? Is this the police I'm talking to here? We were always the first to tell people vigilantism isn't something we advocate, and here you're defending the guy for throwing shots at me because I happened to be in his driveway?”

  “Where are you calling from anyway?”

  “I'm driving, about thirty miles out of Rocky, why? You gonna have another one of your goons pull me over, try to get me on some other bullshit charge? On the phone while driving or some other shit?”

  “Knock it off, Striker. Get off your high horse.”

  “Sorry, Constable, I was only just fucking shot at, and you're not doing jack shit about it.”

  Gray sighs. He recognizes he does have to look into something this serious, but it's Nate and so he really doesn't want to. “Fine,” he says, “give me a description of the vehicle again.”

  “See?” Nate says, “I knew you weren't listening the first time I told you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “It's a white Ford F-150. Older model. I'm thinking early to mid-90s. Small cab, two doors, red bench seat. Long box, eight feet.”

  He gives him the plate once again too.

  There's a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Gray? You still there?”

  “Damn, you know what? I think I know whose truck that is,” the constable says. “It's Leland Auger's.”

  “Leland Auger. That name supposed to mean something to me?” Nate asks.

  “I don't know, does it? You never dealt with him back when you were in?”

  “Hell if I can remember. Why? Are they known?”

  “You could say that,” says Gray. “Leland's a shitrat. Been one his whole life. His cousin too, they run together a lot of the time. Always getting into things.”

  “What's his cousin's name?”

  “Jamarcus. Total piece of shit. If you're still looking into that stolen trailer thing, wouldn't shock me if he had something to do with it. Sounds like you've already shaken the tree out there enough to get 'em stirred up.”

  “So that was Leland then probably taking shots at me.”

  “Probably,” Gray says. “Leland definitely would. You may want to think about staying off the reserve out there. Not exactly safe.”

  You think?

  “I'm fine,” Nate says. “Gonna go home, have a long, hot shower and regroup.”

  “Alright, and listen, I'm not making any promises, but I'll talk to Leland about the gunfire.”

  Canada's finest, Nate thinks. I'll talk to him? How about putting him in bracelets and hauling his ass off to jail, Gray?

  “Okay,” Nate says, giving up on Gray doing any actual police work. “I'll talk to you later.”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh! Wait!”

  “What is it, Striker? I'm busy.”

  “Sorry, yeah, just wanted to ask, do you have Jamarcus's house number out on the reserve? And same question for a fella named Romero Loonskin.”

  “Striker, I've helped you enough in terms of feeding you information. I'll tell you though, be careful around these guys. They're bad news. I mean, the worst of the worst, alright? They shouldn't even be walking the streets.”

  “You want me to be safe you could give me their house numbers.”

  “Goodbye, Striker.”

  “Fine, whatever.”

  Gray hangs up. The constable's hot and cold routine has gotten old, Nate thinks.

  Two hours later, fresh from the shower and laying on his bed, a simple text mes
sage arrives on Nate's phone. He's surprised to see it's from Gray:

  “58”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  House Number 58, home of Jamarcus Auger, is the smallest trailer on the reserve, nearest Nate can tell. He walks from his car, waits for his chest to get barbecued by gunfire. He's certain word's gotten around from his run in with Jamarcus's cousin, Leland.

  Nate walks around the side of the trailer which is spanned by an L-shaped deck built onto its side. The main door to the residence appears to be on that side, so Nate steps up onto the deck and knocks. He hears a large dog bark inside, and keeps his body out of the door frame and slightly off to the side.

  A skinny woman with hair to her waist answers. More like, she opens the door and says nothing, simply stares at Nate waiting for him to initiate the conversation.

  “I'm looking for Jamarcus.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend of his.”

  “I've never seen you.”

  “Is he home?”

  “He's with Clint.”

  Great, another name of someone I've never heard of before. “Clint?”

  “Yeah. He's staying there right now.”

  “But this is his house?”

  The woman goes to close the door.

  “Hang on,” says Nate. “Can you tell me where I can find Clint?”

  “Lives in Rocky. On, uh, Sunset.”

  Excellent, I drove all this way, only to find out he's in town. Of course.

  Back in town, Nate decides to pick Sunset Drive first as opposed to Sunset Avenue which is further south in town nearer to the North Saskatchewan River where the nicer properties are. Nate had his doubts this Clint character would live in a house larger than the size of three outhouses put together. It's a judgmental call, but he's rattled enough to no longer care.

  Sunset Drive proves to be the right choice. And, he walks up to the first run down house on the block and knocks on the door. A woman in her fifties answers.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Looking for Clint,” Nate says, “he home?”

  “Clint?” She squints at him. “Clint Morris? Afraid you've got the wrong house. He lives in that blue one over there.”

  She points to the dilapidated structure three houses down and across the street.

  “Thank you.”

  Clint's house, easily the worst, is ringed by a rusted fence and has weeds sprouting from the front yard taller than Nate. A silver Chevy Cavalier with tinted windows and missing rims sits parked in front on the curb. Of course that's his car. It all fits.

  Nate pushes the busted metal gate and it creaks. He swishes through the mini-jungle in the front yard and knocks on the front door which is wood framed and mostly screen and is barely holding its position on rusted hinges. Again, he knocks on the wooden frame at the side of the screen. He can hear reggae music echoing from somewhere deep inside the house, probably the basement.

  “Hello?” Nate calls through the screen.

  This causes some movement inside, and he can hear footsteps coming in his direction.

  A white guy in his 20s comes into the light. He's wiry and has close cropped black hair. He's wearing a white tank top and black sweat pants. The guy narrows his eyes giving Nate a once over through the screen door.

  “I know you?” The young man says.

  “Are you Clint?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I'm looking for Jamarcus.”

  “He ain't here.”

  “You know where I can find him?”

  “I look like Information to you?”

  “Do you know where he is or not?”

  The man purses his lips. A look that says this is all a waste of my time. But, he answers Nate anyway. “He stays with his girl a lot.”

  “Where abouts?”

  “Hinton.”

  Hinton? Jesus. That's a haul. Great.

  “That's where he is?” Nate says. “Hinton?”

  “It's what I said. What do you want him for anyway?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Bruh, you're standing on my porch.”

  “And?”

  He just wants to rattle this young guy's chain a little. Has to. Old habits die hard.

  The young guy flings his arm out in front of him. “Man, get the fuck outta here.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Nate walks back to his car. Drives back to the Red Line.

  No way in hell that kid's telling the truth. There's no way Jamarcus is in Hinton.

  Three Cream in a short period of time. Bad idea.

  Nate drifts in and out of consciousness laying flat on his back on his bed. He's got the one lamp in the corner turned on, and it's providing the only light in his unit. It's the way he prefers it… dim. Subdued.

  He lays there and his mind drifts to Raina. Then the other girls. Carly Lewis, Zoe Myles. What happened to them? He hopes against hope they were killed swiftly, as painlessly as possible, and that nothing else was done to them. At the same time, he's worn the badge, he knows what people are like. What they really are. What the worst of us is capable of.

  There's a bang. Pretty loud.

  The only noises Nate counts on late at night at the motel almost always come from Bug's unit. Poor Bug. This time though, it sounds like it's coming from right outside his door.

  Bam!

  There it is again.

  Nate rolls off the bed and gets to his feet. The Cream makes him feel like he doesn't even need feet. He glides like an apparition to the peep hole. Hard to make them out, but he sees the blurry guise of two figures hunched outside his door. Are they trying to break in here?

  Grab your piece.

  No, wait, you are higher than high. That's a bad idea. An unhappy ending.

  Another loud bang, this one directly against his door. Do I dare open the damned thing, let these assholes infect my apartment with their viral assholery?

  It'd be nice if my head stopped spinning first so I could think.

  Thinking time is over. His door busts open, and the two young men bursting into his place waste no time.

  “Hey, what the hell you think you're doing?”

  “Remember me?” Said one of the men.

  “Yeah, Clint,” Nate said. “And this must be Jamarcus.” He's impressed by the indigenous man's muscular physique.

  “Why you coming around asking for me? Me and Romero?” Jamarcus asks.

  Clint grabs Nate and holds his arms down. Jamarcus throws his fist into Nate's ribs and Nate slumps to the floor, coughing.

  Nate regains his breath. “Who told you I was looking for you?”

  “You think I'm fucking stupid? I know that you were.”

  Before Jamarcus can wind up to deliver another punch, both he and Clint freeze at the sound of someone racking the action on a shotgun. Unmistakable, and in this moment, pure poetry.

  “What the fuck is this?” Hisses a pissed off female. It's Tammy.

  Jesus, what a sight for sore eyes. “Tammy,” Nate says. “Watch yourself.”

  “Yeah, lady,” Jamarcus says, backing away slowly towards the patio in front of the unit, closer to Tammy who kept her gun trained on the two young men. They have to inch by her, like it or not. It's their only means of escape. “Listen to this guy,” Jamarcus tells her. “Watch what you're doing with that thing.”

  She points the barrel at Jamarcus's groin. “I know exactly what I'm doing.”

  “Okay, lady, chill, chill.”

  “Both of you, get lost.”

  “We're going, we're going.”

  Jamarcus disappears down the stairs. Clint points at Nate before he runs off. “We're coming back,” he threatens.

  “Just you try it,” Tammy says. “I'll put one in you, no problem.”

  With both of the men gone, Nate breathes a sigh of relief. “I really owe you,” he says.

  “Yeah, you do. In more ways than one. You gotta give me that d
amned rent already, Nate. I push things too much for you as it is.”

  “I know.”

  “And I'm gonna have to report this break-in with the cops. Won't that be fun?”

  Nate rolls his eyes. “Tammy, are you sure you really need to do that? We can just replace the door.”

  “And I will. Or you will. But, we have to tell them about the break-in, the threats.”

  “I appreciate that, Tammy. I do. And under normal circumstances, I'd tend to agree with you.”

  “But?”

  “But, I'd rather you not report this, please.”

  “What the hell, Striker. Why? This is serious, those guys could come back here and do something really bad.”

  “I know. But, I'm working a case and these guys are part of it, and I just really need to not have the police involved right now. You understand?”

  Tammy nods. “I guess.”

  “So, can we just keep all this to ourselves then?”

  “I can't speak for the other residents though.”

  Nate knows no one else will say anything. The Red Line is ground zero for all kinds of fucked up activity that never gets reported. As long as the Property Manager lets it slide, the police will never have to know.

  “So, no reporting it then, right?”

  “Fine, Striker, have it your way.”

  “Thank you, Tammy. I'll have the rent for you next week. And I'll chip in for the door as well.”

  “You damn well better.”

  She rests the shotgun on her shoulder like she's the hero in a Western, and walks out of Nate's unit, careful not to step directly on the busted-in door laying flat on Nate's floor.

  Nate picks up the red door and rests it in the frame so it looks mostly functional to anyone not really paying attention. He knows Tammy will have a repair person there in the morning to replace the whole thing.

  As long as there's no wind, this'll do.

  Confident the door won't fall down for the next several hours, Nate collapses onto his bed, spent both emotionally and physically.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nate rattles the oval pill in his palm for a few seconds letting the chalky coating melt against his skin. Then he takes the pill down and squints against the sun's glare in his rear view while he watches the long lost Russ Camuner amble cautious and slow towards his car. He's picked a more secluded spot than when he'd met with Grady, a dirt trail past the wastewater treatment plant for their meeting, and he was stunned when Russ not only answered his phone finally, but had agreed to get together.