C. Box - The Highway

He looked down. He could see the top of his pickup from above, the bed of his truck which was empty except for a crumpled fast-food wrapper in the corner, then the rusted metal roof of the First National Bar. The windows of his pickup strobed three more times but there was no sound and he felt nothing.

Cody’s life didn’t pass before his eyes, but he clearly saw the photo of Justin in his football uniform and a vision of Jenny sleeping in bed from years before they separated the first time and he rose until he could see the river and the ribbon of highway through the valley and Jimmy and the truck driver emerge from the bar and stand on the porch and he knew what happened to those poor girls and he felt both cheated and angry at the same time and he wished he could do it all over again, everything.

Especially the last five minutes.

Then nothing. No sound, smell, or sight.

Peace.

3:53 A.M., Wednesday, November 21

Cassie Dewell sat at her kitchen table in worn sweats and slippers with her laptop open in front of her. Although she’d switched to decaffeinated coffee two hours after she’d returned home from Cody Hoyt’s house, she was still wired. And unsettled. Her stomach growled and burbled and sounded loud in the sleeping house, and each time it happened she found herself placing her hand over her middle with the same reflexive instinct she’d once used when she was pregnant with Ben.

She’d tried to sleep but couldn’t, and thought she’d work herself into exhaustion. Instead, though, she found her mind racing.

She considered eating something but nothing sounded good except cake. There was some in the refrigerator-German chocolate-left there by her passive-aggressive mother for the sole reason, Cassie thought, to keep her fat. So instead of eating it, she drank decaf and her stomach growled as if she’d swallowed a wolverine.

Cassie sat back and tapped out another e-mail on her phone and sent it to Cody. This one, from the Bozeman Chronicle the previous winter, was entitled WITH DEATH OF CHARISMATIC LEADER THE FUTURE OF DOOMSDAY CULT IN DOUBT. She found it of interest because, at the time, the reporter stated there was no clear plan of succession for the church and several factions were stepping forward to claim it. According to the article, the leadership of the Church of Glory and Transcendence would likely fall to Stacy Smith’s son Wayne, but no one was sure he either wanted the role or was up for it. There was a brief mention of someone named William Edwards, who represented a competing effort. There was no other information about Edwards in the article, and Cassie failed to find any other published information about him in her searches. The only reference she found to him was on the Web site of the church itself, which referred to him as “Terrestrial Caretaker.” Wayne Smith wasn’t listed at all, which she took to mean that Stacy Smith’s son had either not stepped forward or had been defeated for leadership. As far as Edwards went, there was no photo, no biography. She pointed out that fact in a note accompanying the link she sent to Cody’s phone, and wrote, “He seems to be the guy you’ll want to interview.”

Not that Cody replied. In fact, he hadn’t acknowledged even receiving any of the texts or e-mails she’d sent in the past hour. She speculated that he was out of cell phone range, busy with something, or simply unresponsive and rude. All three were distinct possibilities. She began to understand why Larry Olson, Cody’s former partner, became so frustrated with him.

She wasn’t supposed to access the ViCAP database from anywhere other than an official departmental computer in the sheriff’s department, but she justified it to herself by noting the laptop actually belonged to Lewis and Clark County, so what did it matter? Cassie had no intention of claiming the overtime on her sheet because she wanted to avoid problems and questions from Sheriff Tubman. Questions like why she was assisting a suspended deputy in his investigation of two missing teenage girls in the middle of the night with no formal complaint or referral-and outside their jurisdiction.

She didn’t know how she would answer that question if it came up, other than it seemed like the right thing to do despite policy and protocol. That she felt unclean and guilty for being responsible for the suspension itself. That she didn’t want to be regarded by her colleagues around the office as the sheriff’s tool.

Cassie sat back in her chair and knuckled at her eyes with both hands. Her spine cracked and her stomach burbled again. The house was cold for sleeping-her mother insisted on turning the temperature down to sixty-two at night to “save energy”-and Cassie’s feet were cold. But she didn’t want to risk turning the thermostat up. The rumble of the furnace and the whoosh of forced air might awake her mother, who would ask what she was doing and why she was doing it so late. Cassie didn’t want to deal with the questions now. Although Cassie was in her midthirties and had a son, her mother had a way of phrasing things-with a certain tone-that always made Cassie act guilty, like she was still twelve and trying to get away with something.

Although she was grateful her mother lived with her and watched over Ben and cared for him while she was at work, the situation was difficult and becoming worse. While Cassie had aged and changed, her mother hadn’t. The quirks and passions her mother displayed when Cassie had lived at home seemed more pronounced, more set, more rigid. Cassie looked on helplessly, for example, when her mother patrolled the house turning off lights and unplugging electronics that weren’t being used at the time. Cassie was afraid Ben would take to heart her mother’s leftist rants and genuine hatred of business, all Republicans, the military, and the police. The police! Didn’t her mother know what she did every day? Didn’t she know or care that Ben’s father had been in the army?

She swallowed the last of her cup of decaf and leaned forward to her laptop and keyed in the passwords for ViCAP-one for the department, one for her personally-and followed the prompts and she was in.

* * *

It took five minutes to narrow down the search. There were actually twelve missing women from southern Montana, but only four in their teens at the time of their disappearance. Of the four, one case had been open for five years, so she discounted it with a pang of guilt and the recognition that missing Jessica Lowry, age seventeen, Bozeman, history of drug abuse and emotional problems-would for now remain shoved aside and forgotten. She didn’t even want to look beyond the area, or statewide. Even in a state with a low population like Montana, the sheer number of missing people was overwhelming and depressing. Instead, Cassie keyed on the three girls she presumed Cody had asked about, and read up on each of them. She opened a document window aside from the Web pages so she could cut and paste relevant information to share with Cody, provided there was anything of note.

Erin Hill, Livingston, eighteen, white, brown hair (although possibly colored red), green eyes, five foot two, 160 pounds, reported missing by stepmother in July two years prior. Disappeared after being arrested for possession of meth, presumed a runaway. Divorced parents, lived with mother. An unconfirmed sighting of her was reported by a convenience store cashier at a truck stop on I-90 west of Billings. The cashier reported that a girl matching Hill’s description had used the ATM in the store and lingered for an hour inside, but the cashier didn’t speak to her or see her depart the store. The internal ATM video malfunctioned during the transaction and didn’t get a shot of the user, but the subject had used Hill’s PIN number to withdraw the last $120 from her savings account in a Livingston bank.