C. Box - The Highway

He looked up to confirm he’d heard her correctly and she smiled. She was sweet, cute, and available, he thought. Danielle would make mincemeat out of her if they were ever in the same room.

* * *

He waited ten minutes, then called both numbers again. Same result. He was getting worried. If they’d had car trouble, or had been in an accident …

Justin stood, closed his laptop, and shoved his phone into the pocket of his hoodie.

“I’m out of here,” he said to Christian.

Kelsie sat back, hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But if they show up at my house and I’m not there…”

She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared at him.

* * *

He went out into the night with his laptop under his arm and his cell phone in his hand. He climbed into the older model Toyota Camry his father had somehow obtained the year before from the county impound lot, and sighed deeply as it warmed up.

He wondered if Danielle was gaming him, making him worry so he’d be more grateful to see her. She was capable of it, he knew. But if Gracie was along, Danielle couldn’t get away with that, he thought.

It didn’t feel right to have a girl, even one as smoking hot as Danielle, so determined to be with him that she’d drive hundreds of miles herself. It should be the other way around, he thought. Maybe the whole thing was a ruse? Maybe Danielle had been in Denver or Omaha the entire time and the long drive was something she made up to shame him, to make him remember how close they’d been and how much he’d miss her if she was gone?

Involving Gracie was the kicker, though, and pushed him back over the line. He’d seen how tough and resourceful her sister could be. Gracie wouldn’t get involved in a deception.

Justin thought about the sequence of calls and texts earlier. She’s been in constant contact with him, seemed thrilled to hear back from him, and then … nothing. He could think of no reason she’d simply turn off her phone. And if her phone had run out of battery power, she would use Gracie’s or call from a pay phone to check in. Danielle hated a vacuum and felt obligated to fill it.

He thought he knew what to do next, but he hesitated. He kept looking at his phone, willing it to ring and for Danielle to be on the other end. He sent three texts, one after the other, asking if she was okay, asking her to call. He copied Gracie in each time. When neither responded, he once again tried to call and once again got the message.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do that night was to tell his mom what was going on. She didn’t like Danielle and didn’t approve of him pledging himself to a girl in another state throughout high school. Danielle had been clingy and proprietary. His mom would go ballistic if Danielle simply showed up for Thanksgiving. And she might not believe that Justin wasn’t in on it.

Should he call Danielle’s mother? He barely knew her.

He did know Ted Sullivan quite well. But what he knew of him didn’t fill Justin with any confidence. Ted would likely get hysterical and create problems that didn’t yet exist.

Then there was his dad. He wouldn’t be as emotional or judgmental about the situation. After all, he’d saved all their lives. But his dad was at best unpredictable. When Cody Hoyt had his fuse lit, anything could happen. Justin wasn’t sure he wanted to be the one holding the match.

9:01 P.M., Tuesday, November 20

At the table in the back corner of Jester’s Bar, Cody leaned toward Cassie, bared his teeth, and said, “That’s right. Tubman owns sapphire mines. Three of ’em. He leases them out with a contingency agreement. Tubman gets forty percent of the proceeds if the miners hit it big.”

Cody’s face was close enough to Cassie so that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Two shots of Jim Beam, two bottles of Coors Light. Certain words- sapphire, contingency -were strung out and loopy when he used them. His once clear eyes were now slits. A veiny bloom of tiny red blood vessels had appeared on his nose and cheeks.

Since they’d been there, Cassie had counted thirteen people who’d entered the bar, seen them in the corner, and left without buying a drink. Thirteen people who had either had encounters with Cody Hoyt or knew of him by reputation and didn’t want to be in the same room with him. The bartender glared at them every time the door shut. Cody was either oblivious to what was happening, or didn’t care.

“I don’t get it,” she said, barely sipping on her third glass of wine. She was feeling it. But she wanted the dirt on the sheriff and in order to keep Cody talking, she needed to play along-even if there was no way she could keep up. She said, “So what if he has some mineral leases. There’s no rule against it that I know of.”

“There isn’t,” Cody said. “And from what I understand, he married into it. His wife Dixie’s family has lived in the county for years. The mines are in her name, but you know how that goes.”

Cassie shook her head, not understanding.

Cody rolled his eyes, apparently annoyed that she couldn’t connect the dots.

“There are a few legit miners,” Cody said. “Some of them are as honest and hardworking as the day is long. But think about some of ’em we’ve dealt with like Tokely and that fucking B. G. We know they use the mines as cover for dealing, right?”

“We suspect it,” Cassie corrected.

“We know it,” Cody said. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“Two of the mines Tubman owns are worked by Tokely and B. G.”

“Oh,” she said.

“That’s right. So haven’t you ever wondered why-as a department policy-we take it easy on those people up there? Haven’t you ever wondered why we don’t do any surveillance in the Big Belts? Haven’t you ever wondered why Mr. Law-and-Order Tubman hasn’t done a high-profile raid up there and hauled their asses in?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” she said. “I haven’t been here that long.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I don’t give a shit about them either. Live and let live, I say. I don’t care if they’re high on weed all the time or even if they shoot each other, as long as they keep it to themselves and don’t involve any civilians. But you’d think our sheriff might care, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not sure where this is going,” she said.

“Where it’s going,” Cody said, “goes back to that contingency agreement I mentioned. Tubman gets forty percent of the gem revenue. But it seems to be an all-cash business, just like dope. So how do we know that forty percent comes from the sale of sapphires?”

She sat back. “You’re saying Tubman is involved in drug dealing?”

“Nope,” Cody said. “I’m saying he gets payments from those people. I doubt he asks for copies of receipts from gem sales, is what I’m saying. Guys like B. G.-do you think he keeps good records? Do you think B. G. keeps one set of books for gem sales and one set for drug sales? Hell no, he doesn’t. He commingles all his cash and he pays Tubman a percentage overall. Tubman probably never asks where the money came from, and B. G. probably couldn’t tell him anyway. But I’ve done some snooping. Tubman has a nice house worth three-quarters of a million, plus a property up on Flathead Lake. That’s a highbrow place. He’s got snow machines and four-wheelers and who knows what else. You think he was able to afford all those things on his sheriff’s salary?”

She nodded her head. “So how do you know you’re right about this? If the mines are in his wife’s name, how can you really say the sheriff is doing something crooked? It could be her money.”

Cody simply grinned at her. “Think what the newspaper would do with that info come election time?” he said. “All they have to do is report the facts. Voters might not look too kindly on a sheriff who appears to be getting rich doing his job. And you can bet anyone running against him would bring it up. If Tubman spends all his time defending himself, he looks tainted. And in local politics, perception is reality.”