The Highway Girls

by Matt Lockhart

  The man reaches his car, plunks down and looks more frail than last he'd seen him.

  “Are you not eating? You look horrible,” says Nate, and he offers Russ a bottle of water he pulls off the floor from behind the passenger seat. Russ doesn't take it.

  “Man, let's move this along, for sure somebody else is out here.”

  This is exactly what Grady was like.

  “You sound like Barnes,” Nate says. “He was scared as hell last I saw him.”

  “Yeah, and they sure as shit got him didn't they?”

  “The police?”

  “Who else? He didn't do sweet fuck all to those girls. That was something else entirely.”

  “You sound like you know.”

  Russ looks at him like he's stupid. “I don't know how many different ways I have to tell you I didn't have nothing to do with what happened to them.”

  “Relax, Russ, it's not why I've asked you to come out here.”

  “So why did you then?”

  “It's the other thing. The thing Grady talked about.”

  Russ snaps his head around. Thinks he hears something.

  “Jesus,” says Nate, “it's a goose or something. Over there in the grass.”

  “Fuck, man.” Russ rubs his sweaty palms on his black jeans. “I'm so tired of this shit.”

  “So tell me about it.”

  “I mean, there's just-” Again he keeps looking around the car.

  “Stop looking out there, and look at me. Look, I can help you-”

  Russ laughs. “You're shittin' me, right? Help? You ain't a cop.”

  “No, but I know the game. If there's something jamming you up, you should let me help you out with it.”

  “This is a jam no one can help no one with.”

  “Try me.”

  Duck wings fluttering over a pond a short distance away cause him to nearly jump out of his skin.

  “I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on.”

  “You had to pick a fuckin' noisy wildlife park or some shit to meet in?”

  “Hey, man, focus. Alright? Try to relax.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Now, both you and Grady, and probably Bryce as well… you're all sitting on something. I know it. It's fairly obvious.”

  “Yeah, these local cops know it too.”

  “The RCMP here in town?”

  “Yeah. In it up to their fuckin' necks. FBI, the whole deal.”

  “Okay, so tell me about it. I spoke with another guy, told me about police stealing children from Buffalo Pass.”

  “Man, you got a death wish or something?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I'm talking about murder, genius. They're gonna kill Grady if they ain't already. Gonna kill my ass too, you watch. And you wanna get yourself in the same kind of trouble you just keep pulling away and asking these type of questions. They'd kill you as much as look at you and think nothin' of it.”

  Nate frowns. “Who's going to kill you? Who's going to kill Grady?”

  “I just told you.”

  “The cops?”

  “You catch on slow don't ya?”

  He swallows some water, takes a moment to soak in some sun. Feels good on his forearm resting on the driver's side door. He looks back over at Russ, sees a bead of sweat running down the man's temple. “You really don't look very good.”

  “I ain't been very good. I'm scared as hell is what I am. You knew half what I know you'd be in the same spot. But, I'm too broke to go anywhere, so...”

  “Grady said something about the FBI, how they weren't just here for the girls.”

  Russ nods slowly. “Yeah, it's the truth.”

  “So, tell me about it.”

  “Fuck man, I'm not here to draw you a road map, alright? It's shit that's beyond. Way beyond. I shouldn't even be here. Can I have some of that water now?”

  Nate reaches behind the seat for the bottle when a flock of geese blast suddenly from the tall grass near the front of the car. Russ gasps and in an instant blows out of the car and scurries up the dirt lane.

  “Russ, wait!”

  The man doesn't answer him, and Nate watches in his side mirror as Russ disappears over the crest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Well past sunset, Nate hopes to use the cover of night to slip onto the reserve and up to Romero Loonskin's property without rifle fire being thrown back his way. Lena, against her better judgment, has come through for him again, gives him Romy's house number on the Buffalo Pass reserve, shows him on a map she photo'd on the detachment wall, telling him how to get there. He's already put the bug in Jamarcus and Clint's ears, and they definitely reacted pretty strong for mere trailer thieves. Maybe Romero would have more to say. Hopefully he's a night owl. Might not crack Raina's case, but it'll crack something.

  One thing Nate knew about Buffalo Pass from his time back in uniform, people there keep all hours. Most of the residents party. It used to be a dry reserve. No alcohol permitted. Good luck enforcing that. Anyone who couldn't afford booze would make their own anyway. Brew, they call it. Fermented raisins and sugar in a vat made from tarp and wooden stakes, sitting in the middle of your living room floor. You come over with your two liter soda bottle for a dip, twenty bucks, cash only.

  Brew has a distinct smell, one you can't shake, one you'll always remember. You arrest someone drunk off their ass on Brew, and it stinks up the whole cells area of the detachment.

  Nate glances at the passenger seat, flicks on his dome light, keeps an eye out on the highway for signs of deer, glowing eyes. There on the seat beside him lays his piece, loaded and ready. His mini Mag-lite, a box of ammo, and zip-ties.

  He pulls his Ford Taurus off the pavement onto a dirt road. He's in Buffalo Pass now. He can't see them, but on either side he knows there's houses with outdoor lights that have been smashed if they ever worked at all. As he drives up the dirt rise, deeper into the forested community, he shudders to think of what's happening in some of these places. Maybe some of the elders are sleeping. Maybe some of the babies too. If they can. Probably a lot of drinking, some drugs. Punches, kicks, full-on brawls, people making out, people brazenly fucking in front of a crowd, in front of their kids. He'd seen and heard a lot about life there from back in his uniform days.

  Houses, small bungalows mind you, with 20, 30 inhabitants. Partying non-stop. Small children sleeping cover-less on stained mattresses in the center of the room while the place swells with adults getting shit-faced and carousing to loud gangster rap. Dirt and mold everywhere. No indoor plumbing, or completely broken indoor plumbing.

  Weapons everywhere. Hunting rifles. Illegal handguns. No safe storage of anything. Some cops would refuse to go to calls on the reserve without significant backup. You go to a house party on a reserve, you never knew what you could be walking into.

  Nate checks the clock on the dash. Just past midnight. He thinks back to the old man at the corner store in Franklin.

  Taken by wolves.

  He reaches the house. Is this where the wolf lives?

  Or would that be a shark?

  There's one light shining off the front of Romero's house. One dim light inside the place. Other than that it's dark everywhere and completely silent. Nate has this immediate feeling of dread wash over him. Out here alone, suddenly seems like a bad idea. He's conscious of every foot fall on the dirt driveway. There's three vehicles parked there. Two trucks and a van. Not one of them is Leland's white pickup. Maybe that's a good thing.

  He keeps his eyes trained on the windows. Romero's got a long deck built on the side of his place same as Jamarcus, and Nate walks the length of it until he's near the back of the house. There's enough moonlight, he can see the outline of a small building about fifty feet to the rear of the house. A shed maybe. Or an outhouse.

  The night air is cool, but a line of sweat descends from the back of his neck down his spine in a pocket of air under his shirt. Fuck, what's the play here? He's go
t cold feet about walking up and knocking on the door. You come out here this time of night, it's for no good reason.

  Dogs. You're an idiot, Nate thinks. You didn't even think about if Romero had dogs. A lot of people on the reserve have them, usually outdoor 24/7 type dogs. The kind who would bark immediately if they detected so much as a hummingbird in their vicinity. But the stillness reigns. An eerie stillness. Not even a breath of wind. And no dogs, thankfully. What if there had been? You'd have been fucked.

  He walks back farther from the house, a bit aimless, unsure of what to do. He wants to talk to Romero, but regrets his decision to come out here so late. Should I use the flashlight or not. He can tell he's still stepping on dirt, but he's far enough away from the light on the house he can't see his feet at all. You spark up that Mag-lite, whoever's inside will know you're here. If they're even paying attention. If there's even anyone home. It's so painfully quiet. Three rides in the drive though. There has to be someone around.

  He steps over something jutting up from the soil. Roots maybe. Far enough from the house he thinks it's safe and he snaps on his flashlight. He walks a good hundred yards back away from the house. The property's pretty big. Bigger than most in this community, Nate thinks, not that there's property lines in particular. His flashlight catches something.

  A chunk of red. It's sticking up from a small mound in the dirt. He walks over for closer inspection. As he nears the mound, he can tell the red object is actually cloth.

  Oh my God.

  That's a body.

  He scampers up to the mound, squats next to it. His mind explodes with possibility. His heart pulsates so hard he can hear it in his throat. With the Mag-lite between his teeth, he reaches down to the decaying remains and recognizes some denim and the red cloth which is a rotting T-shirt. The light catches a glint from just beneath the skull. He leans down to touch the reflective object. The thing comes loose in his hand and he brings it up in front of his face.

  There in cursive writing at the end of a necklace, carved in gold: Raina.

  The stolen trailer nothing that turned into something.

  His blood runs hot, the high from the Cream is gone and has been replaced by raw, unfiltered adrenaline boiling within. His hands shaky, he pulls his cell phone from his pocket. Before he can dial, a brilliant light blinds him.

  “Hey, motherfucker!”

  Has to be Romy.

  Okay, keep your wits about you, maybe you go home tonight.

  Nate puts his hands up. He can't see it, but he feels it's a given Romero is armed. Then he detects two others are with him.

  “That's the asshole there,” he recognizes that as white boy Clint's voice.

  Then Jamarcus speaks. “The fuck you doing out here, man?”

  “You wanna take that light out of my face?” Nate says.

  “No I don't.”

  Nate thinks about reaching into his waistband for his pistol. You're still quick enough, right? You could get one of them without looking? No. They've got you dead to rights.

  “Grab him,” Romero says.

  The other two come forward and each take an arm.

  “What do you think you've found?” Romero asks.

  “Enough,” Nate says, and he decides not to resist right away. As Romero shines the light on him, he can see Jamarcus and Clint clearly on either side.

  “What the fuck did you do to her?” He says to them.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Nate digs his feet into the dirt. When Clint moves his hand farther down Nate's forearm, Nate kicks him just below the knee. Instinctual. Something from his training days.

  Clint's leg bends awkwardly and he screams out in pain. Nate shuffles to his left, swiftly has a set of zip-ties out from his back pocket and swoops it over Clint's right hand. When Jamarcus charges forward at him, he slips the other tie over Jamarcus's left wrist and pulls hard. Clint and Jamarcus join together wrist-to-wrist, and it throws them off long enough, Nate lands a hard right hand to Jamarcus's face. Romero doesn't fire as the three kick up dust in the scuffle and he can't see what's what.

  Then he feels Romero at his back. The big man drops his shotgun and bear hugs Nate, attempts to tackle him to the ground. He gets Nate down, and Nate feels a kick to his shoulder. It's Jamarcus kicking him while he and Clint try and wriggle themselves free of the zip-tie holding them together. Nate throws a backwards elbow into Romero's mid-section, but it's too soft to cause the bigger man to get off. Romero reaches around Nate's waist, trying to grab for his weapon. Nate rolls onto his back as he feels Romero's hand brush the pistol.

  “Help!” Nate bellows into the cold night air.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  He and Romero wrestle in the dirt, while Nate tries to avoid repeated kicks from Jamarcus and Clint. A pair of flashlights roll around beneath the scrum, barely providing enough light for Nate to make out flying fists and flying feet. He can feel Romero's hot breath on his neck. Landmarks where the big man's face is, and he reaches up and plants a thumb into his eye. Romero screams and Nate pushes hard as he can, hard as his racing adrenaline allows, until he can feel a wetness running down to his wrist. Tears? Blood? Who could say, and he didn't care. He pushes and pushes until he feels a pop in the big man's soft tissue. Hollering like a wounded animal, Romero rolls off him. Then Clint lands a solid kick to Nate's ribs and Nate falls on his side before he can stand up.

  Jamarcus drops down and with his free right hand plants a hard jab on Nate's chin. The impact stuns him. He knows he's in mortal danger. Adrenaline keeps him conscious, but barely.

  “Help!” He screams out again. Back to that sickening feeling of an officer in need of assistance.

  Jamarcus throws another shot, but Nate rolls slightly and absorbs it on the shoulder. He hears Clint running his hands in the dirt. He's going for the shotgun. Nate shoves a hand towards one of the flashlights. He picks up the light and blinds Jamarcus before he can land another punch.

  Romero rolls on the ground hands at his bloody face. Out of commission. Nate's pretty sure he's entirely gouged out the big man's eye.

  Using the flashlight he sees his pistol nearby and he goes for it as Clint pulls the trigger on the shotgun. Wherever he was aiming, he didn't hit him. Nate throws a shot back at the other two, misses and scrambles off into the trees.

  Another crack comes sailing through from farther away. Gunfire, from a rifle maybe, someone else.

  “Hello?” Comes an unfamiliar voice, shouting from a distance.

  Nate hears the action from the shotgun closer by. Then someone pulls the trigger. The shot wasn't in his direction. It's farther away, back towards the house. Nate hides behind a tree, pistol at his side.

  “Hey! Hey!” He hears a male voice.

  Another shotgun blast.

  “What's going on?”

  “John?” Nate hears Jamarcus say. “It's Jamarcus.”

  “What's happening out here?”

  “Hey!” Nate hollers. “I need help! They're trying to kill me!”

  “Who's that?”

  Nate hears footsteps running in his direction. He flashes a beam of light in front of him and sees Clint and Jamarcus. Clint holds the shotgun loosely. Then he hears someone else running up behind them.

  “Don't you move,” Nate says to the two men zip-tied together. “I'll shoot you where you stand.”

  The man runs up behind them holding a flashlight. “What's going on out here?” He shines the light down to Romero who's still wriggling on the ground in immense pain. “Romy,” he says, “what happened?”

  “John,” Jamarcus says, “you should go home.”

  John shines his light on the pair standing in front of him.

  “They murders those girls,” Nate says.

  Clint fires haphazardly in Nate's direction. Some buckshot ricochets off the tree in front of him and causes him to duck down.

  “Hey!” The other man calls out. Clint wheels and fires in his direction and John falls to the dirt. Dead be
fore he hits the ground.

  Nate steps from behind the tree, he puts two bullets into Clint, center mass. As Clint falls, Jamarcus reaches to pull the shotgun from his dying friend and Nate plugs him in the left cheek, just beneath his eye. He puts another shot into him, just to be sure.

  Feeling numb, he walks up to the two men. They're gone. Then he hears Romero call over to him. “My fuckin' eye, man. My fuckin' eye!”

  Nate walks over and shines the light on him. “You'll live.”

  Then he steps past him towards the house and dials the police on his cell phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  With the Crown deciding not to prosecute, Nate avoids going to trial on the possession charge for a Schedule 1 narcotic. At least the Crown recognizes well enough a bullshit charge when they see one. He even manages to receive somewhat of a thank you from their office for breaking open the case of Carly Lewis, Zoe Myles, and Raina Smith. Not that it does Grady Barnes much good, found dead in his cell of an apparent hanging. And not that he receives much gratitude from Sam Gray, just the opposite in fact. He seems more annoyed with Nate than ever.

  Regardless, with all that mess behind him, it allows him to get on a plane and head for West Virginia.

  It's during the flight, reading the Rocky Mountain News, an article pops up about a young man found dead on the outskirts of town. Russell Camuner. The article says: “Local RCMP have ruled it a suicide.”

  Just reading the words gives Nate the chills.

  As instructed by the nurse at the reception desk, he follows the yellow line on the floor until he reaches the Intensive Care Unit.

  A small waiting area sits just outside the unit, and Nate finds Stephen sitting in a padded chair, his head down as he scrolls on his phone. The young man looks up and recognizes Nate, gives him a warm smile, shakes his hand.