The Highway (38 page)

“Gracie and Danielle Sullivan?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Danielle replied softly.

“God, yes!” Gracie squealed, both at the voice outside and Danielle’s reaction to it.

“I’m Investigator Cassie Dewell of the Lewis and Clark Sheriff’s Department. Trooper Legerski is dead. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Gracie said.

“Did he hurt you?” Dewell asked.

Danielle said, tossing the tin aside, “He took our clothes and our phones and put us in this room…”

“But did he
hurt
you?”

“No,” Gracie said, understanding the meaning if Danielle didn’t. “Not yet,” she added.

“Thank God,” Dewell said with genuine emotion. “Is Cody in there with you?”

Gracie and Danielle exchanged puzzled glances and looked back.

“Is that the name of the dead guy in here?” Danielle asked.

The only Cody Gracie knew was Justin’s dad.

“Let me get this door open,” the woman said, dropping her eyes from the slot.

The door opened and she swung it out. She was short and solid with an open face and large eyes. There was a gun in her hand. Gracie ran to her and Cassie wrapped her arms around her in a firm hug. “It’ll be okay,” Cassie said into her hair, “it’ll be okay now.”

Gracie didn’t want to let go but Cassie gently pried her arms away. Gracie watched as Cassie approached the body in the corner and produced a small flashlight. She twisted it on, revealing the man’s face. There was a gaping red hole from an exit wound where the man’s right eye should have been. Gracie looked away and Danielle closed her eyes. Cassie stood and said, “Jimmy.”

“We never heard his name,” Gracie said.

“Maybe that means Cody is still alive,” Cassie said. “Do you girls know of anyone else who might be down here?”

Gracie shook her head, and said, “There was a girl named Krystyl. I think he killed her.”

“But no Cody Hoyt?” Cassie asked.

“Justin’s dad?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he be here?” Danielle asked.

Cassie shot Danielle a look that was a little accusatory. “He was looking for
you
.”

“No,” Gracie said, “we never saw or heard about Mr. Hoyt.”

Cassie nodded, then smiled. “Let’s get you two out of here and get you some clothes.”

“Thank you,” Gracie said.

Cassie nodded.

*   *   *

As they reached the top of the stairwell with blankets from the shelter draped over Gracie and Danielle, Cassie looked up to see a stream of law enforcement vehicles, lights flashing, pour down the road toward them.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22

The act is unjustifiable that either begs for a blessing, or, having succeeded, gives no thanksgiving.

—Francis Quarles

42.

3:15
P.M.
, Thursday, November 22

B
Y THE TIME
C
ASSIE TOPPED
the sagebrush hill to return to the Schweitzer place it was almost unrecognizable. In the small valley below, backhoes, earthmovers, tractors, dump trucks, and law enforcement vehicles were all over the meadow. She could see huge mounds of black soil next to excavated holes, muddy and dented vehicles parked in a loose row, and county workers walking from hole to hole with shovels. A large forensics tent had been put up over the concrete abutment that led to the underground shelter, obscuring it from view. There were at least two dozen local, county, and state cruisers as well as unmarked cars and SUVs parked around the old ranch home.

A uniformed Park County deputy sheriff held out his hand, palm up, to stop her before she descended into the mountain valley. He walked from his cruiser to Cassie’s Ford Expedition and crossed across the front and indicated she should roll down her window by twirling his finger. She did. He was painfully young, red-haired, and lean. His uniform looked too big for him, she thought.

She reached in her purse for her badge and wallet before remembering she no longer had them.

He said, “Crime scene. There’s no unauthorized entry—” then he stopped.

She looked up from her purse to find him staring at her, his young face a picture of awe.

“You’re her, aren’t you?”

“I’m Investigator Dewell.”

“You’re the one,” he said, and stepped closer and removed his hat.

She couldn’t help herself from flushing. She looked away.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” the man said. “What you did was unbelievable.”

“Can I get through?” she asked, embarrassed. She wished he hadn’t used the word
unbelievable,
although it was meant as a compliment.

“Absolutely,” he said, stepping aside.

*   *   *

Sheriff Bryan Pedersen looked grim as she entered the tent, and he glanced up at her with haunted eyes. One by one the twenty or so people inside the huge tent stopped what they were doing and stared until she felt like her face would melt away.

Finally, after an uncomfortable ten seconds, someone applauded. It was Alexa Manning, the evidence tech from Lewis and Clark County. Others joined in. Cassie blinked away tears and was both angry and surprised at her reaction. She mouthed, “Thank you,” and made her way toward Pedersen.

As she passed Alexa, Cassie said, “I thought you were on vacation.”

She shrugged, “I was halfway to the airport when they called me back on duty. And I’m not the only one.”

Cassie nodded, now seeing that the people inside the tent were a mixture from Lewis and Clark County, Park County, the state patrol, and a few she’d never seen before. Several of the men wore heavy gray shirts with
PARK COUNTY MAINTENANCE
embroidered over their breast pockets.

Sheriff Pedersen held a clipboard with one hand and a portable radio with the other. He nodded at Cassie as she approached, then gestured with his chin for her to follow him outside. As she did, she noticed a tech behind a plastic evidence table dutifully logging her ten ejected .40 casings with evidence tags.

When they were outside, he said, “Walk with me.”

Bryan Pedersen was tall with broad shoulders, long legs, and had pinched brown eyes and a drooping gunfighter’s mustache. She thought he might be handsome in a different set of circumstances, and she instinctively looked down at his big hands and saw the wedding band.

“Inquest go okay?” he asked.

She nodded. For most of the previous evening and all morning, Cassie had given statement after statement to state Division of Criminal Investigation officers who were called in whenever there was an officer-involved shooting. They’d impounded her gun and badge and she’d given her statement a half-dozen times and answered the same questions over and over.

I didn’t wait for the sheriff’s team to arrive because I was convinced the Sullivan girls were there and were in imminent danger …

He was coming up the stairwell and I saw him pull out his weapon and fire twice, so I started firing back in self-defense …

I didn’t count as I pulled the trigger. I didn’t realize I’d emptied the magazine until after …

Never once did she regret killing the monster Legerski. Her only concern during the inquest was getting tripped up over the details of the shooting and somehow incriminating herself. She’d learned from the best, though, and never wavered.

Then, as if he’d just thought of it, Pederson said, “I was hoping you could clear something up for me regarding the shooting of Legerski.”

She felt her legs get weak but she said, “What’s that?”

“The Sullivan girls said they heard a series of rapid shots then two more afterward. Does that make any sense to you?”

Cassie shook her head. The state inquest team had asked the same question.

“It was just the opposite,” Cassie said. “Legerski fired first, and I returned fire. It’s understandable they got the order wrong, given the circumstances and the stress they were under. The girls must have been confused by the sequence.”

Pederson held his gaze for a moment, seeing if she would waver. She didn’t.

“Good enough for me,” he said. She wasn’t sure she’d convinced him, but she was sure by his manner that it no longer mattered.

*   *   *

“We took a look at those DVDs,” he said.

She didn’t comment.

“Worse thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “There are four different women—girls—altogether. They all end the same way. There’s no way somebody faked all that to frame Legerski. No way in hell. It’s him. Luckily, we’ve identified two of the victims so far and we’re putting their images out nationwide. We’ll figure out who the other two are.”

Pedersen shook his head slowly. “I’ve never seen anything like it before and I hope I never do again,” he said.

“Four,” she said. “Any possibility he killed more?”

“I’d bet a million dollars there were a hell of a lot more than four victims,” Pedersen said. “Maybe he didn’t record them all or maybe we just haven’t found the other disks yet. But when you look at that horror chamber he’s got down there, and the scratch marks on the walls of that room—there were more than four.”

She nodded, and felt a chill worm up her spine as she recalled the room. “I know,” she said. “I was in there. So did you dig up the bodies?”

“No,” he said, “And that’s the thing. We haven’t even found the four. We don’t know where he buried them, or burned their remains, or what. I’ve made a request to the feds for body-sniffing dogs and imaging technology so we can go over this little ranch inch by inch. I’m scared as hell to find out how many there are.

“I wonder how high the count will be,” Pedersen said, “Think about it. This is a damned human slaughterhouse. Two of those girls on the CDs aren’t local, so who knows where they came from or how many there will turn out to be? We’re going over that bunker with a fine-tooth comb finding hair and fiber evidence, blood, DNA … we’ll get an idea,” he said.

“We know that he didn’t bury them with the cars we’ve recovered out there,” he said, gesturing toward the roaring backhoes and heavy equipment working in the meadow.

She said, “You’ve found entire buried
cars?
”

“We’ve dug up eight vehicles so far. A couple look like they’ve been buried for three or four years. He didn’t even bother to take the plates off, so we’ll figure out who owned them soon enough. But the scale of it just blows me away, Deputy Dew”—he corrected himself in midword and finished with—“Investigator.”

“Eight buried cars?” she said, now knowing exactly what had been beneath those churned-up rectangles she’d seen the day before.

“The thing that just pisses me off is he used county backhoes, right from our shop,” Pedersen said. “It looks like he checked them out under a fake name and drove them out here. Our own equipment! Legerski was running this thing right under our noses using our own resources.”

All Cassie could think about was if she’d waited, if she hadn’t killed Legerski, the trooper might confess his crimes and identify the victims.

*   *   *

Cassie said, “How long do you think he’s been doing it?”

Pedersen shrugged. “Years, I’d guess. But he wasn’t alone.”

“You mean there were more involved than Legerski and Jimmy? Is that what you’re saying?”

Pedersen looked hard at her. “You mean you don’t know? The Sullivan girls said there were at least three of them.”

Cassie shook her head. “I haven’t talked to the girls since we were separated on the top of the stairs yesterday. All I’ve done is interview after interview.”

“Oh. Well, yes, they say there were three.”

“Who is number three?”

“They say he was a truck driver. He was the one who pulled them out of their car.”

The news pummeled her. “I can’t help but assume the truck driver is the same one who gave me the evidence.”

“That’s what we’re thinking. And we’ve got a suspect.”

“Who?”

“A local named Ronald Pergram. He’s a weirdo, all right. He’s got a place near here but it burned down yesterday. That’s what led us to think it might be him. His body might be inside, but we don’t know yet. His truck wasn’t there, but we don’t know if it might be garaged somewhere or getting tuned up, or what. Just in case he’s running, though, we’ve got an APB out on his truck but no hits yet. We’ll find him, though, one way or the other.”

“I hope so.”

“It’s not like you can just hide an 80,000-pound truck.”

Something dark passed over Pedersen’s face. He said, “You need to see something. That’s why I brought you out here.”

“See what?” she asked, her insides still knotted.

He gestured with his chin toward one of the huge fresh mounds of dirt in the pasture.

*   *   *

She knew before she saw the entirety of the pickup partially hidden by the excavated dirt. Cody Hoyt’s battered old Dodge, listing to the side due to a flattened tire. The bed was filled with loose dirt and the windows were broken out. The top of the cab was dented in, probably by the ton of dirt dropped on it to fill the hole.

Pedersen put his hand on her shoulder. “We dug up a fresh excavation and he was inside,” he said. “The only body we’ve found. It looks like Legerski or somebody shot him at close range. Powder burns on his face, that I could see for sure.”

Cassie closed her eyes and felt her knees get weak again. She was grateful when Pedersen stepped over and put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him.

“I notified Sheriff Tubman, who called his ex-wife,” he said. “I’m damn sorry. It’s hell to lose a partner.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t believe he killed him.”

“He would have done the same to you if you’d let him. But you got the guy who pulled the trigger,” Pedersen said. “There’s that.”

*   *   *

As he walked her back to the tent she saw Sheriff Tubman’s SUV swing into the makeshift parking lot. He was out of uniform but wearing his Stetson with the factory curl, and appeared to be doing his best to look grave. But by his bearing and step, she could tell he was practically ecstatic.

“I’ll leave you two,” Pedersen said, releasing her. “I’ve got to get back to the tent.”