The Highway (34 page)

Cassie opened her phone again and speed-dialed Edna’s cell phone back in Helena. She didn’t want to talk to the chief dispatcher over the radio where anyone listening could hear.

After recapping what had happened and where she was, Cassie asked, “Didn’t you say your sister still lives in Gardiner?”

“Yes, hon. Sally. She owns the little quilt shop there. Yellowstone Quilt Shop.”

Cassie nodded. “I have a little time. I might just drop by and see her.”

“I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming. I’ll bet she’ll do a twenty percent discount for you if I ask.”

“Edna,” Cassie said sharply, “please don’t call her. I’ll just drop by. I want to ask her a couple of questions about her ex-husband Rick Legerski. I’d rather she didn’t know that before I got there.”

Edna paused and said, “She’s a private person. But if she trusts you she has plenty to tell. Okay, I won’t call her.”

“Thanks, Edna.”

38.

11:10
A.M.
, Wednesday, November 21

T
HE SNOW SQUALL HAD STOPPED
for the time being but the storm clouds to the north looked to be gathering, bunching, closing their fists to deliver a much harder blow later in the day. Pergram bounced the old Buick down the rutted private road toward his home, a sense of black calm in his head and heart.

Although he did poorly in school and barely graduated, he’d always had an innate ability to plan and figure, to think several steps ahead. If he was ever called to write his formulas down on paper he couldn’t do it. But he had learned over the years from trucking that he could outthink and outmaneuver his fellow drivers and keep himself ahead of the game. He was
superior
to them. That’s why he kept his load just under the 80,000 pounds gross vehicle weight by not filling both 125-gallon tanks all the way and adding the extra weight of fuel. When he ran he never used cruise control but used his gears to avoid unnecessary stress on the motor, and he kept it below the speed limit between sixty-two and sixty-four miles an hour, optimal speed for fuel savings. He knew his truck would get 6.2 miles per gallon in the summer and 5.5 in the winter and he planned accordingly; putting on more fuel in low-tax or rebate states like Illinois and driving across high-tax hard-ass Minnesota without stopping at all. He ate and slept in his cab and didn’t waste money at truck stops unless he could help it. He perfected the art of shifting his load slightly from the front of the trailer to the rear and vice versa by applying pneumatic air to different parts of the trailer as he drove over scales.

All those strategies gained him time, saved him money, and ended up on his bottom line every month. Over the years, he’d earned tens of thousands by not being stupid, not being brash, just trucking along thinking a hundred miles in front of him while the scenery rolled by.

He did that now, as he drove to his house. He could see a hundred miles ahead of him and he knew what he needed to do.

The “Oh Shit” box sat on the passenger seat next to him.

*   *   *

The flimsy old curtain in the living room opened a few inches as he noted the scarred foot of a cane holding the fabric back. That’s how she looked outside these days without actually standing up. She leaned forward in her chair and parted the curtains with her cane. He pretended not to notice her.

Pergram didn’t go straight into the house. Instead, he carried the “Oh Shit” box to his Peterbilt, hoisted himself up, and climbed inside. The box went between the seats. Then he shut the door and leaned on the coil and started up the Cat 15 motor. It was cold at first and he sat quietly and feathered the fuel until the racketing of the diesel motor smoothed into a familiar hum. He checked the stacks and observed them until the exhaust turned from oily black to chalky to clear.

He checked his gauges, fuel level, air pressure, temperature, fluid levels. Everything was beautiful. It felt good to be back inside his cab. It felt
right
, a warrior mounting his warhorse, he thought. His foray onto solid ground this time had been a disaster.

He left the truck idling and swung out of the cab and clambered down the steps to the dirt. He knew she hated it when he left his truck running outside so close to the house.

*   *   *

Pergram went in through the front door and shinnied his way through the tunnel toward his bedroom door. As he passed her she was still in her chair where she’d been when he left. She shook her cane at him and her mouth moved and sounds came out. He didn’t even look over.

He unlocked his bedroom door and strode inside. Within a minute, he’d packed his laptop, video camera, digital cameras, and VHS to DVD converter into a hard-sided case. Standing on top of his bed, he reached up through the cheap paneling squares and grasped a grocery bag containing copies of all the original discs and tapes he’d delivered to Legerski. The bag had so many video sessions preserved he could barely fit it into the case. But he managed, and he clicked the hasps shut.

The door remained open as he left the room. No need to lock it, he thought.

The droning, cackling sound he heard as an irritating soundtrack came into focus because he let it. He paused a few feet short of the alcove of stacked treasures where she still sat.

“Ronald! You know how I feel about that truck running right outside my window. I can’t hear myself think it’s so loud. It’s like somebody is shaking me. I can feel the whole house shake. I can smell the fumes and they make me sick. What have I asked you about leaving that truck running?”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there.

“Ronald, I know you’re there. I know you can hear me, you rude son of a buck. I know you’re right there.”

He nodded to himself as if answering.

“Did you fill my car up with gas like you promised? If we’re going to have a nice Thanksgiving I need to go into town and stock up. I don’t want to run out of gas, Ronald.”

Then, “Are you going on another run? Is that why you started that truck? Does that mean you won’t even be here to share Thanksgiving with your old ma? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Pergram reached out with his free hand and placed it on a column of newspapers, magazines, and folded empty brown grocery sacks that rose from floor to ceiling. He put some weight into it, and it leaned a little. Dust motes floated down from the top level into the shaft of light from the front-room window. He leaned the stack toward the open aisle that led to her chair in the alcove of debris.

“Ronald, what are you doing? You be careful there.”

“What did I say about all this shit?” he said finally.

“I’ll clean it out. I told you I’d get rid of it.”

He sighed.

“What about Thanksgiving, Ronald?”

“I guess you’ll be able to spend it with JoBeth.”

She paused.

“
What did you say?
”

“I said I guess you’ll be able to spend this Thanksgiving with JoBeth, Ma.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“Tell her I never could stand her.”

She gasped, speechless for once.

“Tell her I couldn’t stand her friends, neither.”

“Ronald, don’t say that. Don’t say it.”

He put more weight behind his hand against the stack. A few of the newspapers from the top fell off into the aisle.

“This place is a fire hazard,” he said. “
How many times have I told you that
?” Mimicking her tone and cadence.

“Ronald, be careful. That ain’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” he said as an aside. Then, “You told that highway trooper you thought there was something wrong with me. That I was up to something.”

“What highway trooper?”

“The one who pulled you over a few years ago. Legerski.”

“I don’t even remember, I really don’t.”

“That being the case,” he said, “I wonder how many other folks you talked to about me you can’t remember, either? Just because what you say doesn’t mean nothing to me, that doesn’t mean other people might not listen to you. Ever think about that?”

He shoved hard and the column collapsed, sealing the aisle.

“Ronald!”

All he could see of her back there among the garbage was the top of her silver head. It rocked back and forth as she yelled.

“Ronald, I told you that would happen. Now you’ve got to help dig me out of here. Some of them things fell on my legs.”

He stepped back and reached into his breast pocket with his free hand and withdrew a book of matches that read
JUBITZ TRUCK STOP/PORTLAND OREGON
. That was one of the good ones, he thought. No lot lizards there.

He opened the cover, fingered back a match, and rubbed it across the strike strip. The smell of sulfur was sharp and a curl of smoke hung in the stagnant air.

“What are you doing, Ronald?” she asked, finally scared.

He tipped the book so the flame spread to all the matches. It flared and he nearly dropped it because the heat singed the tips of his fingers. Then he flicked it toward the fallen stack.

“Ronald…”

He backed out the door and could already feel the heat on his face.

*   *   *

He checked his side mirrors as he ran through the low gears and the Peterbilt pulled away. The mirrors were filled with flame and roiling black curls of smoke coming out through the windows and doors of the old house. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before the Buick went up with it and rendered any hair or fiber evidence to ash. Already, the dense Russian olive bushes on the side of the house were crackling with flame.

*   *   *

Pergram slowed as he approached the junction to the highway, checking both lanes. He took the turn wide as he had hundreds of times, careful not to let the end of his trailer clip a delineator post, and pointed the snub nose of the Peterbilt south toward Gardiner.

Looking for that fat lady cop from Helena.

39.

11:46
A.M.
, Wednesday November 21

T
HE
Y
ELLOWSTONE
Q
UILT
S
HOP
was a former residence on Scott Street, the main road through town. It stood between a white-water raft outfitter company closed for the winter and a pawn shop with a sign that read
GUNS!
It was a neat Victorian, narrow with a steep roof of wooden shingles and a covered wooden porch on the front. A hanging sign made of quilt squares hung in the window and indicated it was open.

Cassie parked the Expedition along Scott Street in front of the shop and climbed out and brushed crumbs from her lap and the front of her coat. She’d filled the tank and eaten a half-dozen miniature chocolate donuts at a convenience store near the bridge that crossed the Yellowstone River. The clerk behind the counter, a bald man with a full beard who wore suspenders, said he’d never heard of the quilt shop. A woman customer behind her chewed the man out for being oblivious and gave Cassie directions.

She could hear the roar of the river behind the row of shops. It was far below them in the canyon, but the sound of rushing water carried.

White lace curtains on the inside gave it a homey, quaint feel, Cassie thought. It stood out from the elk antler look of the rest of the town. The shop, like all the buildings on the block, was close to the street. Only a narrow strip of brown grass behind the white picket fence separated if from the sidewalk.

A small bell rang as she pushed through the door. The shop was small and filled with fabrics on tables and displayed on the walls. A slim dark-haired woman looked up and smiled shyly from behind a sewing machine at an antique desk at the front. The machine she was working with went silent.

“Good thing you made it,” the woman said. “I was planning to close at noon today for the holiday. But not to worry. You can browse as long as you like. The fabric on the tables is marked twenty percent off, and I’m running a nice special on fat quarters.”

Cassie was embarrassed not to know what a fat quarter was and didn’t ask. She always felt guilty about knowing so little about quilting and other sewing crafts. Instead, she squared her shoulders and said, “Are you the owner?”

“Yes.”

Sally Legerski looked gentle and almost elegant, Cassie thought. She had high cheekbones, a wide mouth, and large blue eyes and she was slim and petite. Cassie could see very little of Edna in her facial features or build. Although she guessed Sally to be in her late forties, it wasn’t hard to imagine that she’d been quite a beauty in her teens and twenties. Quite the contrast with Edna.

Cassie dug into her purse and withdrew her wallet badge and let it flop open.

“Mrs. Legerski, I’m Investigator Cassandra Dewell from the Lewis and Clark County Sheriff’s Department. I’m in the area investigating the disappearance of two teenage girls last night and I hope you can answer a couple of questions.”

“Oh, dear.” Cassie could tell it was an expression of concern for the girls, not alarm that Sally was being questioned. Cassie had deliberately not mentioned Cody. For some reason, she didn’t think that would help her.

“Two girls from Colorado on their way to Helena were last heard from after they passed through town. Since then, we’ve not been able to locate them or their vehicle. It’s been over eighteen hours.”

“I see,” Sally said, obviously puzzled where the line of inquiry would go from there. After a beat, she asked, “Are you wondering if I saw them?”

Cassie raised her eyebrows. “Did you?”

“I don’t think so,” Sally said. “It’s possible, though. There is quite a lot of traffic that passes down that street out there right outside my window. You know, people going to and from the park. Right now it’s very quiet, but in the summer it gets kind of ridiculous. It gets noisy and I tend to just tune it out. What time did you say they came through town?”

Cassie checked her notes. “After nine.”

“
P.M.
?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m sure I didn’t see them. I was home by then. I live up on the hill where I can’t see the road. I hope someone saw them, though, and you’re able to find them. This whole town is dead by that time in the winter. I get so worried about young girls driving alone on the highway. Are you asking me because they were quilters or something?”