The Highway (26 page)

“Go,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

He glared at her. “Don’t think this doesn’t change everything, Dewell. You’re on my list now, just like Cody Hoyt was. And you know what happened to him.”

As he said it, he lifted his nonexistent chin.

“Try it,” she said. “But remember you aren’t the only person who can talk to the press.”

He started to smile, but suddenly cut it off when he realized what she was saying.

“You made me the hero because I’m a fat single mother you hired personally to add diversity to the department,” she said. “They ate it up. Now, if you try to destroy me, you’re the one who loses. Think about it.”

Tubman inadvertently dropped the newspaper near his slipper. He feinted to pick it back up, but rethought it and stood up to face her. But he looked whipped, she thought.

“I’ll check in,” she said. “But you need to call out the cavalry.”

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” Tubman said. “A whole lot of folks are going out of town for four days.”

“I know it. That’s why we need to find them today.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak. No doubt, she thought, he was thinking of the next election. So far, he was unopposed except for the lunatic county coroner, Skeeter Kerley. But if one of his own ran, a female who looked and acted like a normal female, who would attract the housewives and liberals and voters who already didn’t like him for one reason or other, a female who had been praised as a tough investigator by the sheriff himself …

“Keep me posted,” Tubman said. “I’ll do all I can to help find those girls.”

“And Cody,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said sourly. “Him, too.”

30.

7:26
A.M.
, Wednesday, November 21

R
ONALD
P
ERGRAM DROVE
his mother’s white 1986 Buick Riviera past the unmanned National Park Service window at the north entrance to Yellowstone and goosed it on the straightaway before beginning the switchback climb to Mammoth Hot Springs. The car, like his mother, was repulsive. It was low-slung and underpowered and its 3,300 lbs of steel rocked atop a mushy suspension that gave him the feeling of driving a car with four flat tires. The top of the coupe was peeling tonguelike strips of faux leather and the paint job looked sandblasted. The windows were cloudy with grime. The backseat was filled with garbage bags and newspapers and he’d had to clear the front seat of empty Big Gulp containers just to squeeze inside. The trunk contained two dead bodies wrapped in plastic, one on top of the other.

Although there was a CCTV camera mounted on the side of the entrance station, he knew there was no reason to worry about being identified. The NPS operated on banker’s hours during the off-season, and they rarely had a ranger on duty to collect entrance fees before eight in the morning, much less someone viewing the monitor at park headquarters. As long as he entered the park before eight or after five, America’s first national park belonged to the Lizard King.

He kept a wary eye out, though, in front and behind him. There was always the chance—although remote—that an overeager park ranger would pull him over for speeding or simply note his presence in the park if questioned later. But like the entrance booth personnel, traffic rangers seemed to vanish from existence once the hotels and visitor amenities inside the park closed for the season.

That was one of the reasons he liked to use his mother’s old car. If the camera caught the license plate and some ranger had the gumption to check out the owner, Pergram couldn’t imagine them going after a sixty-eight-year-old local widow who didn’t look like she even had the money for a day pass. Plus, he simply liked the idea of driving that old bat’s car with the bodies of two women in the trunk.

The body of the gimp was wrapped in plastic and wedged around the spare tire. It weighed next to nothing and wouldn’t even provide ballast on icy roads.

He’d made this trek more times than he could recall.

*   *   *

Pergram deliberately drove right by the small battered sign on the side of the road that read
POISON SPRING TRAILHEAD
. The sign was so low to the ground it was partially obscured by tall grass, and the area itself was dark with nearly constant shadows because of the tall and close walls of lodgepole pine on both sides of the road. There was no pullout at the trailhead to park but a quarter of a mile farther was a single concrete picnic table virtually hidden from passing cars. He slowed and turned into the campsite and drove as far into the small clearing as he could. Pergram turned off the motor and got out. He could hear the tinkle of a tiny creek through the trees in front of him, and there was a low rush of cold wind in the crowns of the lodgepole pines, enough to rock the trees back and forth slightly.

He stood still and listened. There was no road traffic. He wanted to make sure no one was coming and could catch a glimpse of what he was doing as they passed by.

When he was sure he was alone, Pergram unlocked the trunk and slung the body of the gimp over his shoulder and took it fifteen feet into the timber and let it drop with a thud.

The dead lot lizard underneath was stiff as a board. Out of curiosity, he’d unwrapped the plastic around her head to see what she looked like. Her face was wan and emaciated and frozen into a leering grimace. Her eyes were open but filmy, and they seemed to stare right into his heart. So he wiped that leer off her face with a jack handle, then wrapped the plastic back over what was left and put the body into the backseat. It was like carrying a bundle of branches, it was so stiff and bony.

Then he returned to the Riviera and inspected the plastic-lined interior of the trunk for spots of blood. It was clean. He stripped the plastic out and balled it tight and shoved it inside his coat. Then he closed the trunk lid and went back for the bodies.

*   *   *

Even though the gimp weighed no more than a hundred and ten pounds, he was sweating by the time he reached Poison Springs because he’d already carried the body of the lot lizard. As always, he eschewed the old trail to get there that began at the road and wound through the timber, instead cutting directly through the trees from the picnic table to approach it from the side.

Someday, he thought, he would surprise a bear. Or the bear would surprise him. And that would be that. The park service would have a hell of a time figuring it out, he thought.

He smelled it before he saw it. Poison Spring had a particular sulfur and steam odor that could tear his eyes if the wind was just right.

As always, he stopped and paused and got his breath back. He’d never seen hikers at Poison Spring, even during tourist season, but he couldn’t let himself get complacent. But it was silent all around.

The spring looked deceptively enticing. The opening in the ground was twelve feet by twenty feet and it was filled with clear water that appeared sapphire blue and lapped gently at the crusty edge of the opening. Steam and fumes wafted from the surface and always reminded him of hot bathwater. When the light was right, as it was now, he could see deeply into the cavern. The sides were uneven and coral-like, with shelves of built-up mineral deposits jutting out here and there. On one of the shelves, through the steam and undulating water, he could clearly see a femur bone. That bone had been there on that ledge for two years. He wished there was a way to reach down and knock it off. Luckily, he thought, it looked enough like a bone from a deer or elk that anyone else glimpsing it wouldn’t be alarmed.

It was called Poison Spring because it was. The pure water contained large amounts of natural sulfuric acid.

Pergram was no chemist. He didn’t know how long it took for the sulfuric acid in Poison Spring to dissolve a human body, or two in this situation. He didn’t know what was left after a month or two deep in the depths of the spring. All he knew was that it suited his needs and it had worked so far.

*   *   *

After he’d unwrapped the gimp’s body and weighted it down with heavy rocks, he rolled it toward Poison Spring until it was balanced on the crust of the edge. This next part always scared him a little, because he had no idea how thick and strong the crust was and if it might break under his own weight and burn his own skin. Once he had the body poised near the opening, he found a stout pole in the timber and used it to lever the body in.

There was no splash and it sunk out of sight so quickly he didn’t get a good last look. There was no foaming or agitation in the spring from the arrival of the new carcass. He went through the same procedure with the lot lizard.

He stood there, watching and listening, then balled the plastic he’d wrapped it in with the plastic from the trunk around another rock and tossed it in.

*   *   *

The entrance gate had a ranger in it as he drove out of the park, but he simply waved. The ranger, a decent-looking young woman with red hair, green eyes, and a pug nose and freckles, waved back. He felt a stir when he looked at her, and noted her for a future possibility. Seasonable rangers and temporary workers in the park often hitchhiked to and from work along the highway. He’d not yet given any of them a ride. But it was something to consider …

*   *   *

Pergram slowed down as he approached Emigrant en route to his house. There were two vehicles parked in front of the First National—Legerski’s cruiser and a black Ford Expedition with Lewis and Clark County plates. The realization hit him that at that moment, inside the building, Legerski was having breakfast with the cop who’d texted:
I’M ON MY WAY
.

He was momentarily torn. Should he stop and go inside and see what they were talking about? Sit at the bar and order some eggs and bacon and eavesdrop on the conversation as he had the night before?

He didn’t trust Legerski not to give him up. The man was a sociopath and would do anything to save himself. Sure, he’d said he’d take care of everything. But what if the lady cop was smart? What if she saw through Legerski’s lies?

If that happened, Pergram had no doubt the trooper would turn on him. Jimmy was harder to figure out, but because he was friends with Legerski—Legerski had brought him in—he guessed the bartender would sell him out as well.

Pergram cursed and drove on. It was his fault he’d let them in. He regretted it, although at the time it seemed his only choice.

*   *   *

As he drove on, he recalled how the scheme had taken shape, when it had changed from his own personal secret world into something he was forced to share.

Two and a half years earlier, he’d been returning to Livingston from delivering a load in the Pacific Northwest. It was dusk and less than ten miles out of town when he saw the light bar of wigwag lights in his side mirrors. He checked his speed—he was two miles under the limit—and wondered why the trooper was behind him. Why the cop wanted to pull him over in the first place. Pergram felt absolute terror for the first time in years, and thought his life would be over.

He’d eased his Freightliner to the side—it was before he bought his Peterbilt—and waited. The trooper probably wanted to check his papers, he thought. Sometimes they did that; random harassment checks of truckers to make sure they’d done the proper paperwork at the last weigh station. Later, he recalled that he should have noted that the trooper didn’t sit in his cruiser and run his plates before exiting his car. That should have been a clue. But at the time, all he could think of was that he was caught. And what he might have to do to get out of it.

The lot lizard was bound and gagged in the bunk of his sleeper, just a few feet away from him. She was still under the influence of the roofies he’d injected into her, but her breathing was ragged. He’d planned to take her to that shack by the river where he always took them. Then, when he was done, to Poison Springs.

He had no excuse if the trooper saw or heard her. And no explanation.

Pergram watched as the Montana State Highway Patrolman walked up alongside his trailer. The man moved slowly and deliberately, his right hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. Pergram reached down and opened the console between the seats and touched the butt of his .357 Magnum revolver. He knew that he might have to kill a cop, right there on the side of Interstate 90. Cars and trucks sizzled by in the eastbound lane. A couple of the drivers slowed to rubberneck before continuing.

The trooper approached the driver’s side door and knocked on it. Pergram took a deep breath, tried to act inconvenienced, and opened his door.

Legerski’s face stared up at him, probing with his hard cop eyes.

“Something wrong?” Pergram asked. “I know I wasn’t speeding. Do I have a light out or something?”

“Operator’s license, registration, and bill of lading, sir,” Legerski said with false courtesy.

Pergram wanted it over as fast as he could so he didn’t argue. He handed the documents down and sighed. “Everything’s there,” he said.

“Are you deadheading it back?” the trooper asked, checking the papers.

“This time. I always try to bring back a load but the dispatcher was an idiot and didn’t hook me up. So yeah, I’m deadheading it back.”

The trooper nodded, then handed the papers back. For a brief moment, Pergram thought he was in the clear.

Then Legerski said, “You’ve been around here for a long time but you spend most of the time on the road. So tell me, do you have a girl in there now with you?”

Pergram was too shocked to answer. His right hand twitched on his lap. Eighteen inches to the right was the butt of the Ruger .357. It was double-action, he wouldn’t even need to cock it, just aim and pull the trigger.

Pergram tried to swallow but couldn’t. “What?” he asked, and his voice cracked.

“I asked you if you had a girl in there.”

Pergram couldn’t speak.

“Are you all right?” Legerski asked. “You act like something’s wrong.”

“I’m coming down with something,” Pergram said in a croak. “Something I ate, I guess.”

“That damned trucker food,” Legerski said, shaking his head.

“What was it you asked me about a girl?” Pergram said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lame.