White Out: A Thriller (Badlands Thriller)

by Danielle Girard

  Kylie rang the bell one last time and heard the sound of someone hushing the dog. The door cracked open, and a petite blonde with big blue eyes peered out, wearing enough makeup to work behind a counter in one of those Sephora places. She was beautiful and perhaps a little too thin, the kind of thin that came from not eating. Under her arm was a black-and-white dog about the size of a football.

  “Yes?”

  “Sarah Ollman?”

  “Yes,” the girl said uneasily.

  Kylie introduced herself and showed her badge. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “My parents aren’t home. You should probably come back w—”

  “I have questions about Wednesday night, when you were at Skål. I suspect you’d rather I not ask these questions in front of your parents.”

  Sarah’s eyes grew wide, and she shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “I know you were there,” Kylie said.

  “I’m not old eno—”

  Kylie put up a hand. “I know that, too.”

  Sarah folded her lips into her mouth and seemed to chew on them a moment.

  “Can I come in?”

  Sarah hesitated. “I don’t know. My mom just went to the store, and my dad usually gets home around now.”

  “The sooner I get my answers, the sooner I leave.”

  Suddenly breathless, Sarah opened the door. “Fine, but hurry.”

  The door closed behind them, and Sarah led Kylie to the darkened living room, where she sat in the center of a floral couch.

  Kylie sat opposite her. “You want to start by telling me how you got into the bar?”

  Sarah offered nothing.

  “Did one of the bartenders let you in?”

  Still, she said nothing.

  Kylie glanced at the screen on her phone. “What time do you think your folks will be home?”

  “Fine,” Sarah said. “I snuck by when the bouncer was dealing with something in the parking lot.”

  “What was the something?” Kylie asked.

  “Some guy was acting all nuts, shouting.” Sarah sat upright. “But I was never there. My dad can’t find out. In three months, I turn eighteen, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  “‘We’?” Kylie asked.

  Sarah’s mouth shut.

  “I understand you might have some pictures from the bar last night, ones that weren’t posted on social media.”

  “We never post bar pictures,” Sarah said like Kylie was an idiot. “Obviously, we can’t.”

  Kylie took note of the “we” again. “But you have some.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  “Really? No group shots? No selfies? No Snapchat story?”

  Sarah studied the top of the dog’s head.

  “I know you took pictures last night, and I need them. Every single one.”

  The dog squirmed in Sarah’s arms, but she held him tightly.

  “A woman was killed.”

  “What will you do with the pictures?” Her voice was small, child-like.

  “Look at who was in the bar, try to locate a suspect.”

  Sarah chewed her lips again.

  “A murder suspect,” Kylie said.

  “I can’t. If they got out . . .”

  Kylie stood. “You don’t have a choice. Either you give them to me willingly, or I’ll come back with a warrant.”

  “I’ll just delete them,” Sarah said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Kylie cracked the knuckles on one hand like she had all the time in the world. When she was done, she shrugged at Sarah Ollman. “We’ll retrieve them. You’d be amazed at what the tech guys can do.” Kylie didn’t mention that Hagen didn’t have any tech guys. “And I’d have to speak to your parents, which means they would know you were at the bar. Seems like they won’t be too happy—especially your dad, what with him being the head of the church and all. Might make these last months before you turn eighteen pretty rough.”

  The dog finally broke free and jumped off the couch. Sarah looked around as though something had been stolen from her.

  Kylie gave Sarah a moment to weigh her choices. She tried to imagine Sarah and her friends in Skål. It was unlikely that none of the bartenders had noticed the underage girls, which meant the girls had probably had inside help. Kylie couldn’t imagine that the bar’s female servers were helping Sarah Ollman and her friends. But one of the male bartenders . . . Kylie could see that.

  Sarah sat unmoving on the couch.

  “I only need to see them,” Kylie said. “Doesn’t mean they’ll get out, not if you’re smart.”

  Sarah swiped an angry tear off her cheek. “Fine. I’ll send them to you. But only you.”

  “The guy in the parking lot?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You get a picture of him?” Kylie asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Kylie took out a business card and held it out to the girl. “Send me every single picture. Today. In the next three hours.”

  Instead of taking the card, Sarah smoothed her hands on her pants and nodded.

  “If I find out you withheld a single picture—from your phone and from any of your friends who were there with you—if I don’t get every picture, I’ll make sure your father has enough evidence to send you to a nunnery. Understand?”

  Tears streamed down Sarah’s face, tracking little lines in her makeup.

  “Sarah?”

  “I understand,” she said through gritted teeth before snatching the business card from Kylie. She wiped her tears and sniffed hard, lifting her little dimpled chin in defiance.

  Kylie wanted to laugh but didn’t. She might have been the same at seventeen. Of course cell phones hadn’t been as prevalent then. Thank God.

  Just then, the front door opened, and Pastor and Mrs. Ollman entered together. Mrs. Ollman, shopping bags in both arms, stopped short when she saw the two women. “What’s happening? Sarah, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing at all,” Kylie said, walking toward the Ollmans to give Sarah an extra minute to pull herself together. “Sarah is putting together a school group to do roadside cleanup on the 1804 this spring. I was just stopping by to make sure she has my contact information so I can help her organize.” Kylie smiled. “And to thank her.”

  “Yeah.” Sarah joined them, suddenly looking more like a seventeen-year-old than the almost woman she’d been at the door.

  “You’ve got my email address.” Kylie turned to Sarah Ollman’s parents. “It’s great when young people get involved in the community.”

  “It certainly is,” the pastor said proudly. “That’s our girl.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Ollman agreed, looking almost as nervous as her daughter.

  The pastor took Sarah under one arm and reached out his free hand to shake Kylie’s. “Thanks for coming by, Officer.”

  Kylie gave them a smile and let herself out of the house. Glancing down at her phone, she saw a text from DA Vogel.

  Any updates on Nolan?

  She pocketed her phone and returned to her car. She hadn’t done any follow-up after going to the scene of the accident with Gary Ross. Highway patrol had ruled it an accident. Maybe he’d been having an affair. What difference did it make now?

  She wanted to focus on Jensen’s murder.

  Her phone buzzed again. Gilbert.

  Vogel and Davis want an update on Nolan and Jensen. Where are we?

  She longed to find a quiet place to read the coroner’s preliminary autopsy report on Jensen, harass Alvin Tanner for the footage he still hadn’t sent her, and wait for the photos from Sarah Ollman. But she knew better than to fight this battle over text.

  Hold your damn horses, she thought.

  Instead she wrote, Be at the station in ten.

  CHAPTER 32

  LILY

  As soon as the detective was gone, Lily Baker grabbed a jacket from the hall closet and headed toward Iver’s. The snow had stopped, and the sun, low in th
e sky, broke through a bank of clouds. The tenderness in her ankle slowed her down, while the battle in her head escalated to a new level. She should trust the detective, but what questions would follow once Lily admitted how little she remembered of her own life? She would have to confess that she’d been there when Brent had gone over the edge—that instead of staying in her seat and keeping that car on top of the overpass, she had bailed. And Brent Nolan had died.

  Could she have prevented the car from going over? There was no way of knowing now. She hadn’t even told Iver that piece, but she had to come clean with someone. Two survivors were dead, which meant someone was almost certainly coming after her. Maybe letting the police arrest her for fleeing the scene of an accident was the smartest thing she could do. At least she’d be safe inside the Hagen jail.

  She sensed a car following her and wheeled around, terrified at the thought that it might be Tim Bailey. Instead, it was a patrol car. The officer rolled his window down. “I’ve got to follow you,” he said, with a flash of shame. “You want a ride?”

  She should have accepted the ride, given her ankle a rest, but she shook her head. “I’m just walking a few blocks.”

  “I still have to follow you.”

  She shivered and nodded. “Okay.”

  She kept her head down and made her way to Iver’s. The cold radiated to her bones despite the jacket, which chafed against the spots on her arms that were tender from Tim’s grip. She was light headed and shaky. She had used drugs with him. That much was clear. How much? How often? The hospital staff had treated her as a member of their team. Surely she wasn’t an addict. But Tim, too, seemed to hold a job there, and he was clearly a regular user. Where were the drugs coming from? Did he steal them from the hospital? Did she?

  Before she realized, she was standing in front of Iver’s house. She started up the stairs, noticing the front door was ajar. Maybe she’d caught him coming home . . . or leaving. Cal emerged from the house, barking. She paused and called out, “Iver?”

  Cal stopped barking as she reached him and made a small circle on the porch.

  There was no answer from inside.

  Cal began to whine. She recalled his whining from the night before, when she’d been in the bathroom, in the dark. She froze and looked into the front entryway, not daring to step inside. “Iver?”

  Cal barked again, and Lily jumped, startled. Her heart was racing now, thumping in her ears and drowning out sounds. She looked back at the street. The patrol car had parked on the opposite curb.

  She waved at the officer, suddenly frantic.

  He cracked his door and stood.

  “I think something’s wrong,” she told him. “The dog is whining—” She stopped, realizing she sounded insane. “Iver’s not answering, but the door is open.”

  The patrol officer crossed the street.

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” she said.

  “It’s okay. Let me check it out.”

  She waited until he reached the half-open door and hovered behind him as he knocked.

  “Iver?” she called.

  “Mr. Larson?” the officer shouted inside.

  Cal nuzzled against her leg and whined.

  The officer stepped into the entryway and drew his gun, aiming the barrel down. “Mr. Larson?”

  Lily took a step after him.

  “Oh, shit,” the officer said, holstering his gun.

  Lily felt her knees buckle beneath her. Dread washed over her like a red-hot wave. Stumbling into the house, she imagined Iver dead on the floor. The officer dropped to his knees beside the couch. Lily caught up. Iver lay on the floor, not dead at all. Instead, his arms and legs thrashed, thumping against the hardwood.

  He was having a seizure. His hand struck the coffee table as the officer reached for him.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  The officer looked up at her.

  “I’m a nurse,” she said. “Move the table so he doesn’t strike it.”

  The officer dragged the coffee table away.

  “Call for an ambulance. I’ve got him.” She knew the rules for this. Don’t try to hold him down. Make sure he can’t hurt himself. Watch for fluid in the mouth so he doesn’t choke.

  Within ten or fifteen seconds, he stopped flailing. The shaking grew tighter, more controlled, and she moved instinctively. Kneeling at his side, she slid her palms under him. Her right went under his neck and her left at the bottom edge of his rib cage. With a slow heave, she rolled him gently away from her, onto his right side. She edged her knees closer, using them to help hold his body in place. Her face hovered only inches from his.

  His breathing sounded labored, as though he were choking on his own tongue. She reached across and put pressure on his cheeks to try to open his mouth, careful not to get her fingers too close to his teeth. His lips fell open, and a bit of drool slid from his mouth. Not much. Not enough to choke him.

  She held tight, bowed her head, and whispered to him, “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

  His eyes opened. She saw fear and pain. She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re okay.”

  “Washum vunze,” he muttered. Blood trickled from his mouth.

  She pressed her shirtsleeve to the blood. “Don’t try to talk. You bit your tongue.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing the only motion now. When he opened his eyes, a single tear slid down his cheek. “Heard praying,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  “The ambulance is on the way,” the police officer told her. “Is he okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, as Iver closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 33

  KYLIE

  Kylie Milliard sat in the conference room beside DA Vogel and across from Sheriff Davis and Gary Ross. Carl Gilbert was at the head of the table—or the foot. From the papers on the table and the notes on the whiteboard, they’d been there awhile. Two columns on the whiteboard, titled Nolan and Jensen, headed up a series of bullet points.

  “We thought it would be smart to get our heads together and see where we are on these cases,” Davis said, rubbing his palms together like a caveman starting a fire. “But I think we’re damn close on Jensen.”

  Kylie sat up. “Close? Have we gotten lab results on the glass and the fiber back?” The state lab was remarkably efficient, but a two-day turnaround would be unusual.

  “Not yet,” Gilbert said. “Their office said it would be late next week at the soonest. Even later for the official autopsy report.”

  “Then how are we close?” she asked.

  Vogel smiled. “We’ll get to that. Why don’t you start us off?”

  Davis wasn’t one to get excited over nothing. Still, she’d play it their way.

  “I emailed you about Jenna Hitchcock, the third victim,” she said. “Pete McIntosh, the deputy sheriff over in Glendive, will keep us apprised if they discover anything at the scene there, but so far there’s nothing to help us identify a suspect.”

  Vogel made a note and nodded.

  Kylie updated them on the Alvin Tanner footage.

  “That’s good thinking, Milliard,” Davis said. “Have you got the footage yet?”

  Kylie checked her email on her phone and sighed. “No. Tanner hasn’t sent it yet.” She’d thought she’d scared him enough to comply.

  “Well, let’s follow up with him,” Davis said.

  “I can do it,” Gilbert offered.

  “I—” Kylie started to say she would do it. But it turned out maybe Tanner wasn’t going to deal with a woman after all.

  “Do you have any other leads?” Davis asked Kylie.

  “I do. I found out Sarah Ollman was in Skål the night that Jensen was killed. She took some pictures.”

  “Sarah Ollman?” Vogel asked.

  Kylie nodded. “Pastor Ollman’s seventeen-year-ol
d daughter.”

  Sheriff Davis frowned. “How the hell did she get into the bar?”

  “That’s a question we need to ask Iver Larson.”

  “She took pictures?” Vogel asked, sitting up in his chair with some effort.

  “Yes. And I should have them any minute.” As though Sarah Ollman had been listening, an email popped into her inbox. “I’ve just got them now.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Davis said. “Can you bring them up on your computer?”

  “Sure.” She opened her computer screen as a text buzzed on her phone. Amber. Did u no Lily B. @ hosp Thurs am. Lkd like had accdnt.

  “What is it?” Davis asked.

  Kylie took a moment to decipher Amber’s code. “Nothing,” she lied and put the phone in her pocket, the heat rising in her face. She had believed Lily Baker when she’d said she hadn’t been with Brent Nolan the night he’d died. But Baker had been at the hospital Thursday morning, looking like she’d been in an accident. Was she in the same accident as Brent Nolan? Surely, if she’d gone off the overpass, she’d be in way worse shape than she was.

  “Detective?”

  Kylie looked up and saw Davis watching her. He motioned to the computer. “The images?”

  “Of course.” Kylie keyed in her password and launched her email. She double-clicked on the email from SassySarah and waited as the images loaded. “This might take a minute.” She looked up at the men. “Any other updates on Jensen?”

  “Coroner’s report came in,” Ross commented, like he was part of the team.

  “I saw it but haven’t read it yet.”

  “Not much to learn there,” Davis said. “Jensen hit her head before she was strangled.”

  “Glendive police said Hitchcock was strangled also,” she said, thinking. “What about Derek Hudson? Did he strangle his victims?”