by C. J. Box
“You did,” Cassie said, smiling.
“I need another drink,” Cheyenne said. And she ordered one.
“Are you going to be okay to drive?”
Cheyenne turned on a full-force grin. It was dazzling. It was her way of saying, I never have trouble getting a ride home.
“What about Franny?” Cassie asked. “Is there any chance I could talk with her? I promise to be very gentle and you can be in the room—”
“Fuck off,” Cheyenne said. It was just as harsh as the tone she’d used with the drunk fisherman. Her entire demeanor had changed.
“Look, I’m sorry if I—”
“I said fuck off. Can you even imagine what she’s gone through? And you want to bring it all back up to her?”
“Really,” Cassie said, “I just thought she might want to tell me her story.”
“She’s told it enough. What she needs is peace and normalcy. That’s why you’ll never find her.”
What did that mean? Cassie wondered.
Cheyenne leaned into Cassie so closely Cassie could smell the bourbon on her breath.
“We’re done here,” she said. “Leave Franny and me alone.”
fourteen
Disturbed and shaken by how the conversation with Cheyenne had turned, Cassie walked out into the cool and smoke-filled night air. Her hands were trembling and she shook her head as if to confirm what had just happened.
She sat in her Jeep for a moment and replayed the entire exchange over in her head. She’d rarely encountered a woman who could shut down and lash out so suddenly. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of all of those glasses of bourbon, she thought. But Cheyenne’s tone and demeanor absolutely changed when Cassie brought up the subject of her daughter.
Cassie would still need to try and find Lindy Glode although it sounded like Lindy’s condition and credibility might be dicey. She wondered if Cheyenne would ever talk to her again. And she dismissed the possibility of meeting Franny.
*
Cassie checked her phone to see that Ben had tried to call her while she was talking with Cheyenne. As usual, he didn’t leave a message. Isabel had not returned her call.
Cassie checked her mirrors and eased out of the parking lot onto Highway 93. There was no traffic.
When she reached cruising speed she punched the button on the steering wheel that activated the Bluetooth system.
“Hi, Mom.” He sounded jaunty, which pleased her.
“I see that you called. Did you get things worked out with Isabel? I tried to talk with her earlier but she didn’t pick up.”
“She’s still on strike,” Ben said. “That’s part of her strike, you know. She only takes calls from her weird hippie friends.”
“Ben, please don’t call your grandmother’s friends ‘weird hippies.’”
“That’s what they are and you know it,” he said. He still sounded happy.
“You seem to be in a good mood.”
“I am. I can do what I want now. I cooked a cheeseburger for dinner and I liked it so much I cooked another one. I hope she stays on strike forever.”
“Ben …”
“Oh, and something really wild happened today. It was crazy.”
Cassie braced herself for what would come next.
“I was walking to the Kum and Go …”
As she crossed the Lochsa County line, red and blue wigwag lights filled her vehicle and a siren whooped from behind.
“What was that?” Ben asked. “Was that a cop car? Are the cops after you?”
Cassie squinted into the rearview mirror to see the cruiser just a few feet from her bumper.
She glanced at her dashboard. Her lights were on and she was going four miles under the sixty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit.
“I’m being pulled over,” Cassie said.
“By the cops? What did you do?”
“I have no idea but I need to call you back.”
“Keep the phone on so I can hear,” he said. Ben seemed to be enjoying the situation a bit too much, she thought.
“Ben, I said I’d call you back,” she repeated.
“Don’t get thrown in the slammer, Mom! But if you do I’ll bring you a file in a cake so you can break out.”
She disconnected the call.
*
Cassie eased over to the shoulder of the highway until her passenger-side tires sunk into the loam. The cruiser stayed just a few feet from her Jeep, which went against her training as a young deputy sheriff. She’d been taught that when pulling over a driver she should maintain at least a car length distance away from the citizen. That way, the officer could clearly see the plates and call them in to find out if the vehicle was stolen or if she had any outstanding warrants. Also, if the offender decided to reverse his vehicle and ram her unit she’d have enough warning to take evasive action.
This cop, however, had apparently not received the same training. Or he’d chosen to disregard it.
She’d never been on the wrong side of a roadside situation before. It was embarrassing and intimidating. She also hoped that the reason she’d been pulled over was innocuous, that the officer had noted that her taillight was out or he was simply warning her that the fire had jumped the road ahead on the highway.
Cassie placed both of her hands on top of the steering wheel so they’d be in plain view. She didn’t want to give the cop any reason whatsoever to suspect her of anything.
So many things could go wrong, she knew. But she’d always experienced a situation like this from the viewpoint of the cop pulling someone over, not the other way around. Would the driver be belligerent? Would the subject pull a weapon or try to drive away? Was there a body in the trunk?
She could see the officer clearly in her rearview mirror. He was angular and young with a shaved head and eyes that were close together, which gave her the impression—likely undeserved—that he was petty and mean.
He was a sheriff’s deputy, she could tell by the uniform. Not a state trooper, not a Lolo city cop. He raised a microphone to his mouth, spoke briefly to someone, and reached onto the passenger seat for his jacket and hat.
Then he walked out of the angle of her rearview mirror as he got out.
She shifted her eyes to her side mirror as he closed his car door and approached. When his belt buckle filled the glass, she turned her head toward him and slowly reached down for the button to lower her window.
Cassie was blinded by his Maglite beam aimed squarely into her face.
“That flashlight wasn’t necessary, Officer,” she said as she looked away.
“It was if I wanted to see your eyes,” he said. “They look kind of glassy and unfocused to me.”
“They aren’t.”
“Here’s what you need to do for me,” he said. “You need to keep your hands on the wheel where I can see them. Do not make any sudden moves unless I ask you to do so.” She thought, Uh-oh, one of those. But she complied with his order. All she could see were two bright orange orbs from the beam. She tried to keep her anger in check.
“I saw you drift across the center line back there,” he said. “Have you been drinking?”
“I think you might be mistaken, Officer. I’ve been driving very carefully.” She kept her voice neutral and measured. “I had one glass of wine at the Hayloft. One.”
“It’s usually two,” he said. “Most folks say they only had two. Two can equal two or it can equal ten.”
“Well, I had one.”
“Are you under the influence of any other substances?” the cop asked. “Maybe prescription meds?”
“No.”
“Then why were you weaving all over the road, ma’am?”
“I don’t believe I was, Officer.”
“Then I’m sure you wouldn’t object to a Breathalyzer test.”
“Correct,” she said. “I wouldn’t object at all.”
Cassie knew she had the right to refuse to take the test because taking it was implied consent. But she also knew that ref
usal could result in additional charges and consequences such as suspension of her driver’s license or possible arrest. Plus, she knew she wasn’t inebriated or driving recklessly.
Her vision had finally been restored and she took him in. He was from Lochsa County, all right. His name badge said bryan “alf” grzegorczyk.
She asked, “How do I pronounce your name, Officer?”
“Why is that important?” he asked. “Do you plan to contest this?”
“No, sir. It’s just an unusual name.”
He said, “Greg-or-check. My buddies in the service couldn’t pronounce my name so they called me ‘Alf’ like in ‘alphabet.’ It’s Czech.”
“So I gathered.”
“Now that we’ve cleared that up,” he said, “I need you to stay there and don’t move. Keep your hands on the wheel at all times where I can see them.”
“Yes, sir.” She knew that some of the sarcasm she’d tried to hold in check had leaked out.
He paused on his way to his car. “What was that?”
“I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ I don’t object to a Breathalyzer test.”
“In the meantime, I need you to get out of your car. Let’s see you walk a straight line.”
“ Really?”
“Do I need to repeat myself? Are you having trouble responding to my requests?”
She knew the tactic. Claim the citizen pulled over didn’t comply with official police instructions. Then build from there.
“I’m getting out,” she said as she opened her door.
Deputy Grzegorczyk stood near his driver’s-side door with his hands on his hips.
“Walk toward me.”
She did. She placed one foot in front of the other and she fought the urge to look down at her shoes. A pickup coming from Lolo slowed on the highway as it passed and she saw the driver and his elderly wife looking at her with big eyes. It was humiliating.
As she neared him the officer suddenly shot out his hand. “Stop.”
She instinctively stepped back.
“Little wobbly there,” he said.
“I didn’t want your hand in my face.”
“Right,” he said with a mocking tone.
“Look, Deputy Grzegorczyk,” Cassie said, “I used to be a cop myself. I know how these things work. You can claim I was weaving down the road and you can claim I couldn’t walk a straight line, but neither is true. I can dispute it, but it’s your word against mine. I’m trying to cooperate in every way. So, let’s cut the crap and give me the test so I can be on my way.”
“You used to be a cop, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know you shouldn’t drink and drive,” he said with a smirk. “And you know you shouldn’t mouth off to a peace officer.”
She bit her tongue. As much as she had always despised fellow cops who used their badges to intimidate and harass citizens, she didn’t need to tell him that. She’d wait until the morning and file a complaint with Sheriff Wagy.
He opened his door and leaned inside. She waited and seethed.
After less than a minute, he stepped back onto the asphalt. “Looks like I left my Breathalyzer tester back at the department.”
She waited for more. Then asked, “What’s that mean?”
“I thought you said you used to be a cop. You know exactly what that means. It means I need to take you in so we can do it there.”
“Take me in?”
“Yes, ma’am. To that place with lots of desks and cells and prisoners and jail bars and stuff.”
He was being clearly provocative and sarcastic. He was, she concluded, trying very hard to bait her into a reaction.
She didn’t bite.
“Can I please follow you?” she asked. “I don’t want to leave my Jeep out here on the highway.”
“In your condition?” he said with a grin. “That’s fucking nuts. No wonder the cop shop you worked for let you go.”
“My name is Cassie Dewell,” she said. “I’m a licensed private investigator with the State of Montana.”
“Let’s hope you can keep that license after this,” he said.
“Believe me, I will. Look, I know Sheriff Wagy. I met with him just this morning. He knows I’m here on legitimate business.”
Grzegorczyk rolled his eyes. “You’re going to try and play that card on me? Act like you and my boss are best buds? Even if he knows you I doubt he’d approve of you driving drunk in Lochsa County, lady.”
Then he opened his back door and signaled for her to get in.
“Now I need you to take a seat in the cruiser. Try not to bump your head getting in.”
“Can I at least get my purse and lock up my car?” she asked.
“I’ll get it,” he said. The deputy placed his left hand on the Taser on his belt and his right hand on the grip of his service weapon.
His voice was chilling. “I need you to get into this car right now, ma’am.
“You’ll love our jail,” he said, stepping aside so she could crawl into his cruiser. “It’s really historic.”
*
Deputy Grzegorczyk turned back onto the highway and Cassie watched her Jeep slide by with its driver’s-side window and door closed but unlocked.
“So you’re a PI, huh?” he asked, eying her in the rearview mirror.
“Yes. License number seven, seven, seven, five.”
“Do you make a good living at it? It’s something I might be interested in doing some day is the reason I asked.”
“I do okay.” She sighed. His change in tone was curious to her.
“Good to know.”
As they drove toward Horston, she recalled something John Wayne Kleinsasser had asked her.
What are you driving so I’ll know it’s you?
Or had Cheyenne called a friend in the sheriff’s department known as Deputy Grzegorczyk?
fifteen
The truck driver chose a different place to park the second time he came to the high school building. There was no need to arouse suspicion, no need to create a situation where a resident could later recall that he or she saw the same vehicle idling in the middle of the night at the same location.
So instead of a side street, he chose a gravel two-track on the far east end of the campus near the football stadium. The driver would have preferred to get closer because of what he was about to do, but he was convinced his logic was solid in choosing another spot. Plus, with the exception of a single pole light on the west end of the stadium that illuminated a closed-up concession stand, he couldn’t be seen from the side streets.
He powered down the driver’s-side window, killed the engine, and pocketed the keys. He sat silently for ten minutes letting the cold night air envelop him. As he did so he waited and watched. The engine ticked as it cooled.
The stadium itself was no different than it used to be although there were some new guest boxes on the top level and artificial turf had been laid down to replace the old grass field. Unlike the landscape around him of brittle tufts of dried grass and cover, the new plastic field with its perfect white stripes looked phony and cheap to him. Just like the coaches and physical education teachers who used to give him such a hard time.
Being so close to the stadium dredged up uncomfortable recollections of doing laps around the track or running up and down the stairs as punishment. He could recall how his leg muscles burned, and how his lungs ached.
Those sadists.
*
He slipped out of the cab and slung a heavy duffel bag over his right shoulder by the strap and walked toward the high school building. The chain-link fence gate wasn’t locked—it never was during football season because players couldn’t be expected to wait for someone to unlock it before running through.
He chose a route between the fence and the cavernous back of the stadium itself. He kept in the shadows and moved from pillar to pillar. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could read the crude hand-lettered posters that were hung on the interior walls:
>
Hawk Power!
Bag the Bengals!
Red and Black—On the Attack!
He snorted and rolled his eyes. The cheerleaders who made the signs hadn’t come up with an original thought or slogan in the years since he’d been there. Obviously, they’d be hosting the Helena Bengals on Friday.
The smells from the stadium were still the same as well: stale popcorn, spilled soft drinks, sweat, athletic tape. It jerked him back to a place he didn’t want to go.
He remembered being told once that the sense of a familiar smell—called olfaction—could trigger intense recollections. It was true. He felt as if he was being jerked back in time.
He cursed and picked up his pace. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t get away from the stadium fast enough.
*
There were two vehicles in the teacher’s parking lot, but no lights on from inside the building. He puzzled over that for a moment, then thought: Of course. The cars belonged to coaches or advisors who had accompanied a team or group out of town. They’d left their cars for when they got back.
*
The truck driver paused behind a spruce and surveyed the exterior brick wall of the auto shop. The broken camera still hung by its wires above the closed garage door. They hadn’t even removed it yet. Typical.
He lowered the bag to the ground and grasped the door handle and tugged hard to the side. He heard the click and the door released.
After raising it two feet, he got on his hands and knees and crawled under it, then pulled the duffel bag inside behind him. He stepped on a steel rail and pushed the bottom of the door down within an inch of the concrete floor.
He turned and took in the room. Again, he was assaulted with familiar odors. Oil, gasoline, diesel fuel. There was a masking antiseptic sheen of floor-cleaning agent over the top of it, but the basic gearhead smells were still there.
That, he liked. At least some of the students were still learning something practical. It would only be a matter of time before the auto shop was replaced with a meditation room or multicultural studies area or overall safe space, he reckoned.
The shop was dimly lit by a row of amber emergency lights just below the high ceiling. It wasn’t enough light to throw shadows but it was enough to see where he was going. He had no need for the headlamp he’d brought along.