The Missing Place (31 page)

Colleen slowly nodded. She took the paper back and wrote
abusive/protective father
underneath. “So really, we don't know anything about her.”

“Except the ring.”

Colleen wrote
Mom's ring
on a fresh sheet and slapped it down on the fact pile.

“Now, the Indian angle.” On another piece of paper she wrote
Reservation, mineral rights/lease.

“This is really just part of this one,” Colleen said, tapping the paper marked
Hunter-Cole.
“Hunter-Cole is only at risk of losing their rights if their safety record is exposed. We haven't come up with any proof that the boys had anything to do with the reservation.”

“Okay, one more,” Shay said. “If we're thinking outside the box. Kristine wanted you to come exactly at twelve twenty—”

“Because of Elizabeth's schedule—that way she'd be sure Elizabeth could come without anyone missing her at school.”

“What if we're thinking about the wrong girl?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if this all started with
Taylor
? Remember I told you that when he was home over Christmas, he was talking about a girl. That she was special—he hadn't ever known anyone like her. Told me she looked like Dakota Fanning.”

“Kristine? Is that what you're thinking?”

“No, her roommate. Chastity. That's how they all met. I thought her name sounded familiar. She and Taylor party, they all get to know each other. Chastity introduces Taylor and Paul to Kristine. She and Elizabeth are close, right? Close enough to cover for each other. Kristine was willing to pretend she was dating Paul, for Elizabeth's sake. But then today, you said that she was impatient with her. When she was telling the story, right? What if she was upset because Elizabeth was screwing it up?”

“I don't get it.”

“Elizabeth screwed up by actually falling for Paul. That wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to be easy to manipulate because she was young and—sorry—Paul was gullible. No wonder Kristine put the two of them together.”

“I'm way lost, Shay.”

Shay grabbed a clean piece of paper off the pad. “Okay, let's look at this another way. Think about Nora. She has coffee with one guy from the rig, tells him which guys are complaining to Roland in the break room, and he gives her an envelope full of cash. What do you think they would pay to find out about something potentially way more serious? Guys with the brains and the determination to make
real
trouble for them?”

“So you're saying . . . Kristine was doing the same thing? Selling information she got from men she dated?”

“Worse than that. What if she's not the only one? What if she and Chastity specifically targeted guys they thought they could get information from?”

Colleen was silent for a moment. “You're saying these girls have a whole scam going where they spy on workers and sell information for money.” She thought about it for a moment, the pieces falling into place. “Hunter-Cole has a problem—they've got safety issues that are getting out of hand, and these leases are coming under challenge. They stand to lose their whole stake on the reservation. The next council meeting is coming up. They know they've got potential troublemakers on the inside, guys making noise about reporting them, and they're trying to control it the old-fashioned way. Like with Roland. He makes a complaint, next thing he knows, he's demoted. But they know it's a ticking bomb. The way they handled it was the stupidest thing they could have done, because they've taught the
workers not to come to management with their complaints. Which means they'll collect data and take it not to their supervisors, where it can be contained—”

“But to people that Hunter-Cole
can't
control. Just like Scott said. Their biggest fear is that someone gets the media involved, calls in CNN or even the Bismarck news stations, they wouldn't be able to resist a story like that.”

“But they know it's only a matter of time before someone comes along whose conscience is bigger than his fear of losing his job. Or even just someone who doesn't need the money that bad.”

The women stared at each other.

“Taylor didn't blow off his friend to go fishing that day because he didn't want to get in trouble,” Shay said slowly. “He did it because he didn't want to get his
friend
in trouble. So he took Paul. Because he knew Paul would land on his feet if he lost his job.”

Colleen pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound under her palm. “And meanwhile, Elizabeth is no good to Kristine anymore because she's fallen for Paul . . . but at least Elizabeth tells her everything. Because she's young, and dumb, and in love. So she accidentally gives Kristine the information she needs. She knows what the boys were going to do, and when.”

“And when she let Hunter-Cole know they were about to blow the whistle, someone made sure that they never got there.”

“Oh, God,” Colleen said. She felt like she'd been punched in the gut. “How are we going to get her to admit all of this?”

“Not her. Think. We need the weakest link. We need Elizabeth.”

“She'll never talk to us. She'd never turn against Kristine . . . that's her cousin. Her
family.
”

“But so are you. Colleen, think about it, she can't depend on her parents. She's afraid of them. She was in love with Paul. And
now you're the only person who can protect her and this baby. She
needs
you.”

IT WAS AS
easy as Shay had predicted it would be. When Colleen called Elizabeth after school, Elizabeth burst into tears. Colleen asked questions until it was clear that she was overwhelming the girl: no, she didn't know she was supposed to take prenatal vitamins; no, there wasn't a doctor anywhere in the county she could trust; no, she had no idea how she would support herself when she started to show, because she was positive her parents wouldn't let her stay in the house around her younger sisters.

When Colleen suggested they talk about finding somewhere safe for her to go to wait out the pregnancy, she hadn't meant to bring up Boston. She didn't want to scare the girl off. But when she blurted out that she and Andy would take care of her, Elizabeth seized on the thin hope she offered.“I'm just so scared, Mrs. Mitchell,” Elizabeth whispered into the phone. “I don't know how much longer I can keep all these secrets from everyone.”

“I'm not going to let you down,” Colleen said. She explained that her husband would be arriving in three days, that they would all figure it out together. “Can we meet tonight? Just to talk?”

“There's no way. Mom's already upset because I got a tardy in fourth period because I was late to class after lunch, and the office called her. I told her I was at Taco Bell with friends but she didn't believe me.”

Colleen tried to hide her dismay. She had to cement this bond, make sure Elizabeth trusted her enough to confide in her, before Kristine had a chance to intimidate her into silence. “Is there any other way for us to get together?”

“I could see you tomorrow at lunch,” Elizabeth said. “We just have to be really careful that I get back in time.”

It wasn't ideal; Colleen didn't like the idea of being constrained by the short lunch period. She was sure Elizabeth had no idea of the danger Kristine was putting workers in by reporting them to Hunter-Cole, but it was delicate; if the girl sensed that Shay and Colleen were threatening Kristine, she might not be willing to speak to them at all.

“I don't like that she's by herself tonight,” Shay said. “Now that we've made Kristine nervous, she's going to try to keep tabs on Elizabeth. She could easily decide to go to see her, make up some excuse about studying or visiting or . . . or anything. When Elizabeth talked to you, all she was thinking about was Paul. But what if Kristine manages to get her thinking that her loyalty is to
her
?”

“But if Elizabeth thinks that Paul is really gone—”

“Kristine won't let her think that. The only thing keeping Elizabeth from telling someone about Kristine's little scam now is that she doesn't know who to tell, because her dad's the chief of police. So Kristine is probably doing everything she can to reassure her that Paul's okay, that he got nervous and left on his own. And that's another way she might talk Elizabeth out of telling us any more—by convincing her it would be endangering Paul.”

“Well, we're not doing anything else tonight,” Colleen said. “I guess we could go over to the apartment building and keep an eye on Kristine.”

“No. Better if we watch the Weyants' house instead. That way, anyone comes to see Elizabeth
or
the chief—someone from Hunter-Cole, Kristine, whoever—we know about it. If we feel like there's any threat, we're right there.”

“You're suggesting we do . . . a
stakeout
? On a
cop
? Have you forgotten that we're a couple of middle-aged women with absolutely no experience?”

“That's exactly why this has to work. They'll never guess we'd do anything so stupid.”

RIG TRAFFIC NEVER
changed: weekday, weekend, holiday, it was always the same. Hitches ended and new guys came on, and the trucks rolled back and forth all day, every day.

There wasn't a lot of reservation traffic in the store because the Lucky Six, on Central Street half a block from the old folks' home, sold everything Myron stocked, cheaper in most cases. And most people planned ahead, bought their handles of rum and vodka and their cases of beer and soda at the Costco in Minot. Right now, as another moonless, cold night settled in, they were putting together dinner and turning on their TVs and preparing to get their numb on.

T.L. tried to get through his physics homework between customers, but after a while he gave up and settled for flipping through the newest ink and gaming magazines that Myron stocked. Around seven thirty a couple guys came in, headed back home after their twelve-hour shift, coveralls streaked with drilling mud. One of the men bore the imprint of his hard hat on his wiry hair. The other was much younger, with a long, bushy brown beard like some of them grew. The older one interrupted their conversation to slap down a bill on the glass counter and say, “Pack of Newports. You got any Tylenol? Just the single serve, not the bottle?”

“The one's from Massachusetts, is what I heard,” the other one said as T.L. got the items from the racks. “I ain't ever met anyone from out east up here.”

“I met the other one,” the wiry-haired man said. He was old enough to be his friend's father. “When I was on the Hunter-Cole job. California boy. Nice kid.”

“Can't figure where the fuck they went. I mean . . . sure, you think about it. Ditching. Like, if he didn't have anyone?”

T.L.'s fingers tightened on the pack of Newports, denting the cardboard. He forced himself to relax his grip and smoothed out the dent while his heart thudded in his chest.

“Everybody's got someone somewhere,” the older man said. “Eventually, people notice when you don't come home.”

“What do you think happened?”

There was a tremor in his voice, and—beard or no—he suddenly seemed even younger, too young to be so far from home, wherever home was. T.L. pushed the cigarettes across the counter and rang up the purchase. He fished two quarters and two pennies from the cash register, not looking at their faces.

The older man shrugged. “Pissed off the wrong guys on the job,” he said, ticking off the options on his fingers. “Took off for Mexico for an early spring break. Or maybe they run into a couple of radishes up here and got scalped.”

T.L. froze, hand extended across the counter with the man's change. As slurs went,
radish
—red on the outside, white on the inside—was hardly the worst. The man looked past him in the direction of the road, then back. “Hey,” he said. “Hey.”

T.L. dropped the coins into the man's hand, laid two dollar bills on top.

“I didn't mean nothin'.” The young kid was snickering, headed for the doors. But his friend stood his ground, clearing his throat and looking at his change like he was going to give it back.

T.L. shrugged. He could feel the heat on his face and didn't trust
himself to speak. A memory came to him, one that had escaped him before: the taller one—he'd had something around his neck that glinted in the sun.

“Look, I'm sorry,” the man insisted. “That was . . . I had no call.”

“It's okay,” T.L. managed.

“I mean, I got no issues with you people. Guy on my rig . . . maybe you know him. David Youngbird. He's from here, right? Good guy.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” T.L. just needed the guy to go. He'd get Myron's folding chair, the one he kept around for when his back was acting up, and he'd sit down until the next customer came in. Maybe watch the little TV Myron kept under the counter. Pretend to watch it, anyway.