C. Box - The Highway

“Hold still, you little bitch,” he croaked and she saw him for the first time-huge, rough, flushed, fleshy-lips curled back to reveal crooked yellow doglike teeth, fresh blood from his forehead or scalp coursing down-and got a glimpse of the electrical device he had poised over her face and plunged into her neck.

The sensation was sudden and massive and debilitating. She no longer had control of her body, which stiffened, and she had an image of lightninglike electricity firing out from the tips of her fingers and toes. Every muscle and sinew seemed fused together with steel and she felt welded into a single mass of flesh.

* * *

But she was still conscious. She had no concept of time or motion, but she could hear the sound of his boots scraping gravel outside the car.

And she could feel the sharp prick of a needle through the fabric of her jeans into her inner thigh.

8:40 P.M., Tuesday, November 20

The Lizard King reached up and grasped the stitched nylon strap through the loop and leaned back on his boot heels and pulled it down hard. The trailer door slid down on its dual tracks with the sound of rolling thunder, but in the instant before it sealed he got a last look at the three still bundles of limbs and clothing inside, looking like oversized dolls tossed aside. There was a glimpse of thick dark hair from the older one and the soles of splayed running shoes from the other. They weren’t secured to the bare metal floor or the walls of the container and they’d no doubt flop around when he made turns or sudden stops. Unlike the third bundle that wasn’t going anywhere.

But they were both breathing when he lifted them inside, and they’d likely be alive-if bruised-when he got them to his destination. When the bottom of the door fitted into the channel he reached across his body and yanked the handle of the locking mechanism over so the upturned steel arm slipped snugly under the outside bolt of the bed. He threaded the hasp of a combination lock through the eyebolts of the mechanism and snapped it shut. The trailer was now locked securely from the outside. There was no way to open it from the inside. The trailer had vents in it so they wouldn’t suffocate, and he adjusted the reefer unit to sixty-eight degrees so they wouldn’t freeze to death.

His heart was beating madly and pulses of blood whumped in his ears but he was methodical in his movements and actions. All his work had taken place in the open on the side of the highway. His headlights were still off so they wouldn’t light up the little Ford he’d parked behind, but anybody driving by might recall seeing the huge Peterbilt pulled up tight to the car on the shoulder. It would look, he hoped, like he’d stopped to help out the occupants of the car. Since the smashed driver’s window could be seen from the road, he carefully pushed all of the remaining broken glass inside so it wouldn’t draw attention. He realized while he was working how visible his white Tyvek overalls were. The material seemed to absorb what little light there was and it could draw attention he didn’t welcome.

It was a miracle, he thought, that no one had driven by on either side of the highway since he’d stopped. In the back of his head a clock ticked, and he knew his odds worsened by the second. He’d accomplished his task within five minutes of stopping and the hard part was already done, but everything could be ruined if someone passed by and saw him. Or stopped to see what was going on. In that case, he’d have a decision to make. Involuntarily, he reached down and touched the heft of his.380 in his overalls pocket.

He lumbered out onto the asphalt of the highway to assess his situation. The Yellowstone River roared on the other side of the road. He could see white water lace streak the black surface of the water below. There were no houses or lights on either side of the canyon yet. The canyon walls were dark and high on both sides and the stars were oppressive in their silent intensity. The air smelled of juniper from the brush leading down to the river and diesel fumes from his idling truck. He looked both ways on the highway, knowing he would see headlights long before he heard a vehicle approaching. The road was empty.

The Ford couldn’t have broken down at a more perfect location, and he reveled in his luck. Gardiner was miles behind and out of view. Ahead on the highway, two miles north after the walls narrowed precipitously for a while, the canyon opened up on the opposite side across the river into a wide bench. That’s where the religious compound was located, where there were people and a smattering of lights and a clear view of the highway. Those members always seemed acutely aware of vehicles and traffic, and if the Ford had broken down there he would have kept on driving. But it didn’t.

He took a deep breath and walked back to the Ford. He noted an odor he hadn’t noticed before: the acrid smell of hot burnt oil that wafted up from beneath the hood. He wondered how it was the girls couldn’t have recognized the odor while they were driving. Maybe, he thought, they smelled it and had no idea what it was. That didn’t surprise him. Teenagers weren’t like they used to be when it came to cars or car care. They just got in them and drove off; he’d seen it. As long as the stereo system worked-that was all that concerned them. As a young driver so many years ago, the Lizard King treasured and babied his first used car, a 1978 Chevy half-ton pickup. He knew everything about it and he spent nights and weekends tuning the engine and keeping it in prime running condition. It disgusted him how little kids cared anymore, as if their cars were an entitlement and driving their right.

Unlike him. He’d parlayed his love and competence for wrenching and driving to truck driving school, where he’d paid $3,000 to earn his first commercial driver’s license (CDL), then hired on with Swift Trucking on their “Train, Lease, Drive” program that eventually paid for his first rig. That was four trucks and three million miles ago.

* * *

He threw open the driver’s side door of the Ford. The dome light came on but it was muted and weak-the sign of a dying battery. He rooted through his cargo pockets past the stun gun and the pistol and withdrew a mini-Maglite flashlight and twisted it on. With the flashlight clamped between his teeth, he leaned into the car. It was a mess, which confirmed his disgust. The floors and dash were littered with junk but he found what he was looking for: their two cell phones. He knew from experience that there was no service inside the canyon where they were located but that there would be a signal within two miles when the canyon walls receded and the Paradise Valley opened up to reveal the compound. He was blessed with luck! It was meant to be!

The phones, he knew, might contain GPS capability. But no matter. He grasped a phone in each hand as he backed out of the car and turned and fast-stepped across the road.

The phone in his right hand came to life and he nearly dropped it out of surprise. He lifted it and saw the call was coming from someone named Justin. Surprisingly, there seemed to be sections of the canyon where there was spotty cell service, and this appeared to be one of them. He refused the call and quickly powered the phone off and threw it toward the river.

As he reared back to throw the second phone there was a pinprick of light in his right eye. Someone was coming from the north. He threw the phone anyway, heard a second distant splash far below, and jogged back toward his truck trying to assess how much time he’d have before the vehicle arrived. The road to the north paralleled the serpentine river, so the oncoming car was temporarily tucked out of view. He figured he had two minutes until it arrived.