The Highway (19 page)

Cody nodded.

“They just opened I-90 again,” Legerski said. “I was up there helping out for a while. But before they opened it back up the patrol up there inventoried all the cars waiting in line. No red Ford Focus with Colorado plates.”

The bartender brought Cody a heavy mug and set a thermal carafe on the table for the both of them, then hovered. Cody read in Legerski’s expression he expected Cody to pay, which he did.

“Extra ten bucks in there,” Cody said to the bartender, “For keeping the place open.”

The bartender nodded in silence and clumped back over to the bar. By the way he started wiping down the counter and running water into a sink it was obvious he was closing down for the night. But his body language suggested he was listening in on them and trying not to be obvious about it.

Cody said, “I do appreciate you taking a run down to Gardiner and checking for that car. And getting out of bed to do it.”

“No problem.”

“Do you have any kids?” Cody asked.

Legerski shook his head. “Not technically,” he said. “My second wife had a couple of future wards of the state, but we’re divorced. But no, none of my own.”

Cody sipped the coffee. It was strong and bitter and hot and it burned the tip of his tongue. “Jesus,” he said.

“I should have warned you,” Legerski said. “Jimmy’s not known for his coffee.”

Legerski produced a detailed Montana Department of Transportation map, unfolded it, and spread it across the table. For the next few minutes he pointed out all the side roads and wrong turns the girls could have taken between where they last communicated as they entered the park to Livingston. Cody listened patiently but found the speculation to be of no value. He’d already gone over it all in his mind. Sure, they could be anywhere within the park or in Wyoming, Idaho, or Montana. But that wasn’t the point and it didn’t help explain why they’d stopped communicating or why their distinctive car hadn’t been located.

Cody put his cup in the saucer and lowered his voice. “When I talked to you earlier you said something about this not being the first time some girls came up missing around here. Care to expound on that topic a little?”

Legerski paused and looked into Cody with well-practiced, all-seeing cop eyes. Searching Cody for something. Cody just looked back, squinting through the smoke of his third cigarette since he’d walked in.

“First, some ground rules,” Legerski said. “Because I live here and I know everybody. Sometimes it’s a fine line between being in town and of town, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Cody said.

“I’m involved in civic organizations like Kiwanas and the Lions Club,” Legerski said. “I referee high school football and basketball. I see these folks from the valley every day. So I can’t let it get out there I’ve got a hate on for any of ’em.”

“Believe me,” Cody said, “I get it. Whatever you tell me stays with me. I’m good for my word.”

“I’ve heard that,” Legerski said. “But I’ve also heard some other things.”

“Those being?”

“That you can get out of control. That you’re a loose cannon at times. That you get drunk and shoot the county coroner at a crime scene.”

“All true,” Cody said, “but you knew that.”

“I also heard,” Legerski said, lowering his head while he lowered his voice, “you’re in a lot more shit than you let on when you told me you’d be back on the job within a week. Despite that sheriff’s department cap on your head. From what I heard, you’re out of the department. You might even face charges.”

Cody took a deep breath and sighed. “Yeah,” he said.

“So right now,” Legerski said, his eyes betraying embarrassment on Cody’s behalf, “You have no authority or jurisdiction here. This is just a conversation between an off-duty trooper and a regular citizen. We’re just two guys talking. Nothing more than that.”

Cody let it sink in. He nodded.

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Why do you ask?”

Legerski met his eyes straight on. “Just covering my ass. If you go off and do something stupid, I don’t want it coming back on me. I have a couple of years left until I retire with full benefits.”

“Spoken like a state employee.”

“That’s what I am.” Then he set his jaw. “I have no obligation to be here right now talking to you. I’m off shift.”

“I apologize,” Cody said. “I appreciate your help. And to answer your question, my wife and son know I’m here. The sheriff doesn’t know a thing.” He decided not to mention Cassie.

“No one else?”

“The Sullivan parents—one in Colorado and one in Nebraska. They’re worried. That’s why I asked if you had kids of your own. Then you’d understand the urgency. I know I’m not likely to find these girls tonight and you know it. We’ve got experience in these kinds of situations. But they’ve got to have some hope. My son does, too. At least if I’m down here, I’m doing something besides sitting on my butt waiting for a phone call.”

Legerski nodded and seemed to be thinking about it before proceeding. Then, with a what-the-hell grimace, he said, “How much do you know about the Church of Glory and Transcendence?”

Cody leaned in closer. “Some, I guess.”

“What? Tell me so I don’t have to cover familiar ground.”

Cody had been recalling what he knew on the drive down after being prompted by Legerski’s e-mail. He said, “The church was founded in the mid-1970s in California, I believe, by a woman named Stacy Smith. Smith claimed she’d been ordered to create the new movement from God himself. I don’t know a lot about what they believe, but I’ve heard it’s a mixture of New Age bullshit that includes Christianity, Buddhism, mysticism, and other stuff. Fairies, alchemy, all kinds of crap.”

Legerski chuckled but didn’t correct him.

Cody said, “Stacy Smith was a charismatic true believer, and her personal magnetism and fervor attracted hundreds of followers in a short time. Because one of the primary beliefs of the church was that the apocalypse was coming, she wanted to relocate the church and its crazy followers to someplace isolated and safe. Hence, Montana.”

“Why do they always think that?” Legerski asked rhetorically, and they both laughed.

“Anyway,” Cody said, “A big ranch resort was for sale just down the road on the other side of the Yellowstone River. It was perfect for the church so they bought it and moved everybody up here. When was that, 1980 or so?”

“Nineteen eight-one,” Legerski said. “Five thousand acres and twenty or so buildings. That was before they started big-time construction.”

“Okay, I was close. So hundreds of the true believers moved there, probably thinking it was a great location because they hadn’t lived through a winter yet. Lots of folks in the area were worried at first because a lot of people considered the church a cult. But the faithful turned out to be pretty nice neighbors overall, right?”

“Right, for the most part.”

Cody didn’t pursue the other part yet.

“They sold good pies and preserves,” Cody said. “I remember stopping at their outlet once. So even though people were suspicious, Stacy Smith kind of won everybody over. This is live and let live country, and even though more and more people showed up to move across the river on the church compound they pretty much stayed to themselves and didn’t bother anybody.”

Legerski nodded.

“But then some followers quit the church in the early nineties and they didn’t have much good to say about Stacy Smith and the practices of the church. Nothing horrible—no sex stuff or anything like that—but they did tell everyone that the church had been amassing quite a weapons cache in preparation for the apocalypse. That news got the feds worried, of course, and they raided the place. They found years worth of food stockpiles in underground shelters that was supposed to keep the members alive through a nuclear war, or whatever. And they
did
find a lot of guns. A whole shitload of them.”

“Right,” Legerski said.

“So as a result, the word got out that these peace and love religious folks were armed to the teeth. Stacy Smith started to be seen as a kook instead of a sweet inspirational leader. Then the feds started looking at their tax status and lowered the boom on ’em. Stacy Smith got old and sick and was forced to turn the reins over to other people in the church, and the new guys agreed to give up the weapons and sell some of the property to pay off tax bills. After that, I haven’t heard much about them for years. I’ve heard they don’t have many members anymore and that the place might come up for sale again.”

“Pretty good so far,” the trooper said.

Cody shook his head. “Why did the feds go after them the way they did? It isn’t illegal to own firearms. This is Montana. Most of the folks I know have plenty of guns in their own houses. Hell, I’ve got a whole room full of ’em, and I know it isn’t that unusual.”

“Remember the time,” Legerski said. “It was around Waco and Ruby Ridge. The feds were on a rampage. And even though the church had the right to store firearms, they knew they couldn’t fight the government and a P.R. war at the same time. Plus, the church was trying to hold on to a bunch of members who felt cheated because the world didn’t end like they were told it would.”

“But the church sort of got screwed,” Cody said.

Legerski said, “It depends on your point of view. The feds were pretty pleased they got the church to agree to give up all the weapons and no one got shot or killed. And when the apocalypse didn’t show up when it was supposed to, a lot of the members lost faith and moved on. Stacy Smith was moved to an assisted living facility in Bozeman and she passed away quietly a few years ago. The news didn’t even raise a ripple. But that church is still there and there are a couple hundred hard-core members.”

“So…” Cody said, lighting another cigarette off the end of his old one.

“Those things will kill you,” Legerski said.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Legerski said, “Have you ever heard the name Bill Edwards? Aka William J. Edwards?”

“No.”

“Not many have. But he’s the new leader of the church. He’s not like Stacy Smith. He keeps to himself and doesn’t give speeches or circulate around Livingston and Bozeman making friends. I’d guess there are very few people around here who’ve ever heard his name. But he’s a serious man, and his goal is to build the numbers of the church up again. He wants to make it bigger than it ever was, and he has a plan to do it.”

Cody saw where Legerski was going.

“The rumor I’ve heard is that Edwards thinks the key to building the membership back up is young attractive girls. If he can persuade them to join, men will follow. It isn’t exactly an original strategy—think ladies’ night—but it works better than anything else in the world.”

Cody sat back. “So you think it’s possible the church nabbed the Sullivan girls when they came through here?”

“Keep your voice down,” Legerski whispered, shooting a look toward the bartender. Then to Cody, “I can’t prove it. But it makes me think. There have been a few teenage runaways—I can think of three, one in Livingston, one in Bozeman, one in Big Timber—in the last year who just vanished. Three is a lot in this area. People are starting to talk, is what I’m saying. And that’s
all
I’m saying.”

With that, Legerski pushed away from the table. “Got to get rid of some coffee,” he said, and he turned for the men’s room which was designated by the sign,
COWPOKES
.

Cody mulled it over while he checked his phone. There was a single text from Justin five minutes before that read, “Nothing.” There were two more e-mails from Cassie with links to news stories about the church, and one about the funeral for Stacy Smith the previous year in Bozeman. Either she was thinking along the same lines as Legerski, or Legerski’s initial e-mail had put her squarely on the path.

He wasn’t good at texting, but he asked Cassie to check the FBI’s ViCap (The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) databases for
Missing Persons
,
Unidentified Persons
, and
Homicides and Sexual Assaults
of young women in southern Montana. He wanted to confirm Legerski’s story about the three missing girls as well as to see what else was out there. He also asked her to check out one William J. Edwards.

She responded quickly, “Will do.”

*   *   *

While he waited for Legerski to return, another man entered the First National Bar. He was large, lumbering, fleshy, with light wavy red hair sprinkled with silver and a flat Slavic face. He wore grease-stained jeans, a pilled thick chamois guide shirt, and lace-up boots with heels like truckers wore. He seemed to make a point to approach the bar the most circuitous route possible from where Cody sat.

The big man sat heavily on a stool at the bar with his back to Cody and without acknowledging him. He ordered from Jimmy with no pleasantries, simply, “Coors Light.”

Cody looked him over. The man seemed determined not to look back at him, which to Cody seemed odd, given the empty bar and the late hour.

Legerski didn’t acknowledge the big man either when he returned from the bathroom. Cody’s antennae went up. In a small rural community, everybody knew everybody. He wondered why Legerski didn’t say hello.

The trooper sat down heavily with a serious look on his face, as if he were thinking hard about something.

Cody made sure the big man wasn’t looking at them in the mirror and nodded toward the newcomer and arched his eyebrows, as if to say, “Who is that guy?”

“Not now,” Legerski mouthed. He seemed to Cody to be a little nervous, or a little scared.

Cody changed the subject and leaned forward.

“Let’s go out there and look around for the car,” he whispered.

“The church compound?” Legerski whispered back.

“We should do it now. Before they get a chance to hide the car or change the plates.”

“
Now?
What about a warrant?”

“Don’t you know a friendly judge?”

“I do. But we need probable cause. We don’t have jack shit at this point.”

“Then let’s go anyway.”

“They’ve got a gate across the entrance on the other side of the bridge. If it’s locked, we have to ask them to come on their property. And it’s always locked.”