C. Box - The Highway

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.