by C. J. Box
Like everywhere in Montana, small white crosses designated highway deaths on the side of the road. Some were decorated with plastic flowers, ribbons, and totems from their loved ones. Others weren’t. Cassie always felt sorry for those souls that were bare of remembrance.
Both sides of the road were heavily timbered with ponderosa and spruce. The mountains and the trees kept the highway heavily shadowed, and this is what she remembered about the area: that instead of the infinite views and big Montana sky she’d grown up with, it seemed as if the rough villages were linked by narrow tunnels through the forest.
A dead cow elk, freshly killed and abandoned by a motorist, lay sprawled across the northbound lane of the highway. Shards from broken headlights sparkled around the carcass as well as pieces from a shattered front grille.
Cassie winced and drove around it.
*
Hamilton, like so many small towns in Montana, was in the process of being gentrified. There were espresso bars, clothing stores, brewpubs, hipsters, and more stoplights than she recalled. The timber, hunting, and ranching culture of the valley was being transformed.
As she sat at one traffic light, she noted several men emerge from one of the brewpubs and approach an SUV with California plates. To a man, they wore colorful fly-fishing shirts with lots of pockets, zip-off trousers, floppy hats, and river sandals. It used to be, she thought, that these tourists would no doubt be dedicated fly fishermen. These days, though, it could just as easily mean they were parishioners from the Church of Trout, a religion coined by her mentor, Cody Hoyt.
The Church of Trout, Cody claimed facetiously, was made up of hundreds of thousands of members who looked the part, dressed the part, and never went near a river. Montana was now filled with them.
*
She drove past a series of custom log home building companies north out of Hamilton, and within several miles she noted that commercial buildings and private homes along the roadside became fewer.
Cassie filled her Jeep with gasoline in Stevensville (“Home of the Fighting Yellowjackets”) and breathed in thin mountain air colored by the fragrances of pine and woodsmoke. The border of Lochsa County was ten miles away.
*
It was after five when she took the highway exit into Horston and she cursed under her breath. She’d hoped to get there at least an hour earlier so she could meet the sheriff of Lochsa County before the close of the county building. She checked her email on her phone to see if he’d replied to her inquiry. He hadn’t. She hoped he hadn’t been put off by the 3:47 a.m. time stamp on her message and concluded that she was a crazy woman to be avoided.
Downtown Horston consisted of three blocks on Main Street. Unlike Hamilton, the cool people hadn’t yet discovered it. The storefronts looked almost deliberately retrograde and there were few people out on the sidewalks. The town, she thought, could serve as the location for a movie set in the 1950s or ’60s and she got the distinct feeling that the place was barely hanging on despite the growth north and south of it.
Horston was what Hamilton used to be, she thought. Before the Church of Trout discovered it.
It was notable, she thought, that the only retail businesses that appeared to be open were three saloons that stood shoulder to shoulder. Two other saloons were spaced out on the other side of the street.
She recalled something she’d learned when she visited the tiny town of Ekalaka in eastern Montana, which was six hundred miles and ten and a half hours away: any location in Montana is a good place for a bar.
*
Although there were two ubiquitous brand-name chain motels on the outskirts of Horston, Cassie had made online reservations at an aging motel called the Whispering Pines in the middle of town. It was located on the next block from the small herd of saloons.
The neon tubing on the motel sign out front quivered with electric light but formed three tall pine trees. A red vacancy notice hummed beneath it. The lot was shaded with mature ponderosas that gave the facility the appearance of a mountain oasis right off Main Street.
For investigative work, Cassie opted for older motels rather than modern facilities. In newer hotels, it was always necessary to enter and exit through the lobby and encounter the employees behind the front desk. Older motels like the Whispering Pines had individual units at street level with no central hallway and separate doors opening out into the parking lot. That way, she could come and go at odd hours and no one could inquire where she was going or why.
She pulled under an overhang next to an attached structure with a sign outside that read office. There was something familiar about it, she thought. She wondered if perhaps her high school team had stayed there, but she didn’t think so.
*
Cassie was still trying to recall if and when she’d been there before as a bell sounded when she opened the door to the office and went inside. She was immediately greeted by the smell of cooking meat emanating from an open door behind the worn front desk. The office obviously served as living quarters for the manager as well.
“Coming,” a deep male voice said from beyond the door.
“No worries,” Cassie replied.
She looked around while she waited. The lobby was dark and close. Faded Charles M. Russell prints were hung on the walls as well as a framed notice that spelled out we love our guests in what she first thought were small white seashells but on closer inspection turned out to be ivory elk teeth. Since every elk had only two ivory teeth—called “whistlers” or “buglers”—that meant eight animals had died to make the greeting.
“How nice,” she grumbled to herself. Cassie had no issue with hunting and she’d grown up with it. But removing the ivory teeth with pliers and displaying them this way repulsed her. Always had.
The manager was a large bald man with a full beard. He wore a flowing open flannel shirt over a green T-shirt that stretched across his belly. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin as he approached the counter.
“Sorry,” he said. “You caught me at dinnertime.”
“Smells good. I’m Cassie Dewell. I have a reservation.”
The manager nodded with recognition and lit up the monitor of his ancient computer. He stabbed at the screen with a stubby finger.
“Four nights, right?”
“It may be less than that. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Not a problem,” the man said. “We’re between tourists and hunting season. I don’t guess there will be a big run on the rooms.”
She anticipated his next request and slid her driver’s license and credit card across the counter.
While he punched in the numbers on his keyboard, it hit her. She thought she knew why the motel seemed familiar.
*
From the photos she’d reviewed the night before she recognized the mature trees in the parking lot and the layout of the individual units in the background. It was the same motel Blake Kleinsasser had been in when he was arrested.
The manager stopped typing. When he looked up his expression was inscrutable.
*
“Unit number eleven,” the man said. “That’s the one on the far end. It’s a little larger than the other units and very comfortable.” In fact, she thought, it was the same room Blake had been in. The photos had clearly shown that it was the last unit in the complex.
She hesitated. Staying in the same room as a rapist repelled her at first. She didn’t want to say why that was to the manager. Then she thought staying in Blake’s room might turn out to be an advantage in her investigation. Being in the same space might give an insight to his state of mind. There could possibly still be evidence of him in it as well.
“Yes, that’s fine,” she said.
He hesitated for a moment before giving back her company credit card. “Dewell Investigations,” he said. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Are you investigating something?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,”
she said, wishing she’d lied.
“And you’re from Bozeman?”
She nodded.
“Bozeman ain’t how I remember it anymore,” he said. “Too many newcomers. It’s hardly Montana in my mind anymore. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Well, welcome to God’s country. I like to think of this place as what Montana used to be before the folks from California moved here to ruin it.”
Cassie had heard similar sentiments from Bull Mitchell, Rachel’s crusty father.
He said, “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with while you’re here.”
“I’d like to get a good steak and glass of wine. Is there someplace you’d recommend?”
“France.” Then he guffawed. “I’m just kidding. I don’t know anything about wine, but if a place doesn’t serve good steak it doesn’t last around here. I’d suggest the Hayloft up in Lolo.”
“Is there any place within walking distance? I’ve been in my car all day.”
“Stumpy’s,” the manager said. “Right at the end of the block. Tell ’em I sent you.”
“And you are?”
“Glen Steele,” the man said. “I own this place. It’s been in my family for years.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Steele.”
He did a well-rehearsed oration on the location of the ice machine, the Wi-Fi password, and where the bell was outside the office in case she came in late and forgot her key.
As she turned to leave he said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with that Kleinsasser thing, does it?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said again. She thought Glen Steele asked too many questions for a motel owner.
*
Room number eleven was the corner room, the last one of the wings. She parked in front of the door and noted that there was only one other vehicle in the lot in front of room number three. It was a green Subaru wagon with Oregon plates.
She threw her duffel and gear bag on the bed inside. The room was dark, clean, and stuffy. On the walls were the same Russell prints as in the office. Steele must have bought them in bulk, she thought.
The room was paneled with knotty pine and the heater and air-conditioning unit was mounted under the front window. She turned it on and set the thermostat at sixty-eight degrees. It awoke and filled the room with cool air.
She closed the door and noticed that the wall shook when she did. The room was cheaply constructed, she observed. Thin walls, cheap carpeting, exposed plumbing under the sink counter. She looked around. There was no telling—although Steele could probably figure it out—how many guests had stayed in the room since Blake Kleinsasser had been hauled out of it by the cops. She looked at the bed and envisioned him passed out on it, and she looked at the plastic garbage can under the sink and imagined it overflowing with empty liquor bottles.
Although the room had been cleaned and disinfected, she thought she could even smell him.
Before unpacking, Cassie dropped to her hands and knees and looked under the bed. There were dust balls, a lone balled-up sock, and an empty condom packet. There was no telling how long any of the detritus had been there, and she made a note to herself to tell Steele his housekeeper needed to do a better job as a courtesy for future guests. But she’d save that advice until she was checking out, she decided. No need to antagonize the man.
Because he had offered her that particular unit, she was a little suspicious of him. As she’d done countless times before, Cassie did a thorough sweep of the room for cameras or listening devices. She unscrewed the light fixtures and heating vents using the screwdriver tool on her Swiss army knife, and checked out the table lamps and hardwired phone near the bed. The single overhead light was out of reach and the desk chair looked too rickety to hold her weight, so she made a note to herself to borrow or buy a small stepladder to check it out later.
Cassie keyed the Wi-Fi password into her phone and laptop and sent Rachel a quick message.
She wrote, Made it to Horston and will start tomorrow. I’m staying in Blake’s motel room.
A balloon filled with pulsing dots appeared on the screen. Rachel was responding right away.
Rachel: That’s interesting and a little creepy. Have you connected with Sheriff Wagy?
Cassie: Tomorrow, I hope.
Rachel: Please ask for a copy of the DNA report and a sample we can test ourselves.
Cassie: Will do.
Then she checked in by text with Ben and Isabel. She did so separately.
Ben replied that he was fine but completely bored.
Isabel reported that she was already feeling stifled and she looked forward to having her liberty back.
For Cassie, it was good news. They weren’t at each other’s throats yet.
eight
At a small table in the corner at Stumpy’s, Cassie placed a Denise Mina novel on the table and sat down. The novel, although interesting and well-written, was also a prop she kept handy for work. It meant: yes, I’m a single woman traveling alone. But I’m busy.
A young blond waitress with floral tattoos on her neck and forearms seated her and slid a laminated one-page menu on the tabletop.
“Would you like to start with a cocktail?”
“Absolutely.”
She ordered a glass of red wine and put her handbag on an empty chair at the table. It clunked as she lowered it due to the weight of the .40 Glock she’d slipped into it before she left Whispering Pines.
Stumpy’s was decorated with a Church of Trout motif: fly rods and nets attached to the walls, fly-fishing prints, framed posters with sayings including TIE ONE ON; IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, TRY ANOTHER FLY; A TROUT IS A MOMENT OF BEAUTY KNOWN ONLY TO THOSE WHO SEEK IT; and MANY MEN GO FISHING ALL OF THEIR LIVES WITHOUT KNOWING THAT IT IS NOT FISH THEY ARE AFTER—HENRY DAVID THOREAU.
There was a small bar and lounge adjacent to the dining room where several loud men drank craft beers and chided each other about the fish they’d failed to catch that day on the Bitterroot River.
The only other customers in the restaurant itself was an older couple obviously passing through. The man had an aluminum-colored flattop haircut and he wore cargo shorts, a baggy Detroit Lions T-shirt, and sandals with black socks. He was talking loudly on his cell phone.
“Yellowstone’s on fire, Glacier’s on fire,” he complained to someone. “The whole damned place is on fire. It’s ridiculous. I’m not sure where the hell we’re going to go.”
His wife was a tiny woman wearing a surgical mask. Cassie guessed it was because of the smoke in the air. The woman tugged the mask down for each dainty forkful of meat loaf.
*
Cassie ordered a second glass of wine when her steak arrived. She was cutting into it when she heard a disturbance in the lounge.
A door banged open and an angry male voice said, “Somebody in here blocked my truck outside. That means somebody driving a GMC with Colorado plates has to get off their ass and move their fucking car.”
Cassie leaned over in her chair to get a better angle to see into the bar. The three fishermen had gone quiet and had swiveled on their stools toward the angry man.
“I think that’s my Yukon,” the middle man said.
“Then I’d suggest you move it,” the angry man said. “Like right now.”
He was wiry and compact and he exuded menace. He wore tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a big hat with the brim folded up tight to the crown. His arms were pressed to his sides and his fists were clenched. His face was flushed red and he reminded Cassie of an aggravated rodent.
“I’ll take care of it,” the fisherman said.
“Goddamn right you will. Or I’ll smash the hell out of it getting out.”
“Just calm down, mister.”
“Goddamn out-of-state fishermen,” the cowboy said, his voice rising. “You come up here and act like you own the goddamn place. Can’t you see when you park and block a vehicle from getting out of the goddamn lot?”
/> “I said I’d take care of it,” the fisherman said.
“Calm down, buddy,” one of the other fishermen said.
“I am calm,” the cowboy said with a bloodless smile. “You should see me when I’m pissed, you asshole.”
Cassie flinched. The older man in the dining room threw cash on the table and helped his wife up. They quickly exited Stumpy’s.
“You’re all assholes,” the cowboy added.
She noted that rather than intervene, the bartender busied himself looking down and cleaning beer glasses.
The middle fisherman slid off his stool and walked tentatively toward the saloon doorway where the cowboy stood. He was a head taller and broader at the shoulders than the cowboy, but he seemed smaller.
“Excuse me,” the fisherman said.
After a beat, the cowboy stepped aside so the man could go out. As the fisherman passed beside him, the cowboy wheeled and kicked the man in the buttocks with enough force to send him flying through the door.
At that moment, the waitress emerged from the kitchen with Cassie’s wine. She paused near Cassie’s table and shook her head at the scene in the saloon.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Do any of you other assholes want to make a statement?” the cowboy asked the two remaining fishermen.
“I don’t think he meant anything bad,” one of them said. “We just parked and got out.”
“And you failed to notice a Ford F-250 sitting in the corner of the parking lot?” the cowboy asked. “That’s a big damned rig to not even see.”
“Sorry,” the third fisherman said. “We didn’t mean anything by it. We were just ready for a beer after a long day.”
“What are you drinking?” the cowboy asked.
Cassie took a deep breath, presuming the confrontation was just about over. She noticed that she’d instinctively placed her hand on her bag with the gun in it just in case.
“I’m having a Bitter Root IPA,” the fisherman said. “Tad here’s having a Huckleberry Honey. They’re both local, I believe.”
“Let me try ’em,” the cowboy said.
Cassie noticed how the two remaining fishermen drew back a little when the cowboy walked up between them to the bar.