Badlands (26 page)

“My son would love to see this,” she said. “He loves trains.”

“You have a son?” Davis asked.

“Yes.”

“Does that mean there's a husband in the picture as well?”

“No.” She didn't want to explain. But she found it intriguing he had asked.

*   *   *

MEN IN
bulky fire suits climbed the sides of tanker cars and others swarmed the cab of the engine.

“No fire,” Davis said with relief. “Yet.”

Then he pointed and said, “Uh-oh.”

Cassie followed his gesture. Wrapped around the front of the massive engine like a flattened aluminum beer can was what was left of a departmental Yukon. She could even see the logo on the side door.

“One of ours,” Davis said.

*   *   *

THERE WAS
a scrum of sheriff's department deputies huddled behind their units and Davis drove toward them. As he did, she saw Sheriff Kirkbride emerge from the gathering, shaking his head.

When Kirkbride saw them coming he signaled to Davis, who pulled alongside the sheriff and powered down his window. Kirkbride walked over and thrust his arms through the opening so he could rest his chin on them. He looked stricken.

Davis said, “We got here as soon as we could. Is it going to explode?”

Kirkbride shook his head. “The company troubleshooters say they don't think so. But for a few minutes there, we thought it would. And as long as there are no external sparks, we should be okay.”

“Anybody hurt?” Davis asked.

“The train engineers got knocked around pretty good, but they looked okay. They're on the way to the hospital for evaluation.”

“What about the driver?” Davis asked.

“It was Cam,” Kirkbride said. “He's deader than dead. He got into the yard and drove head-on into that engine.”

“Cam?” Davis asked. “Why would…”

Cassie didn't respond with the obvious answer and Kirkbride just glared at him.

“Oh,” Davis said, going pale.

“I called him to come in and see me after our meeting,” Kirkbride said. “He never picked up. But I'm thinking he knew what I wanted to talk to him about. Why the son of a bitch didn't eat his gun instead of going out in a blaze of glory shows you what kind of sick individual he was inside. If that train went up who knows how many people—our friends and neighbors—would have gone up with it?”

Davis threw his head back and moaned, “Oh, man.”

As the three of them thought about what had happened in silence, another deputy rolled up.

Kirkbride noticed the late-arriving officer and his eyes narrowed in anger.

When Lance Foster climbed out of his Yukon, Kirkbride said, “Nice you could make it, Surfer Dude. Too bad the party's over.”

Foster held up his hands, palms up, and shrugged before joining the rest of the deputies.

*   *   *

SEVERAL HOURS
later, the all-clear was given by the railroad emergency team. The engine had been decoupled and the full tanker cars were being towed back to the distant yard. Firemen and emergency personnel were monitoring the long process and company track engineers were assembling temporary rails at the front to remove the damaged engine.

Cassie watched as Sheriff Kirkbride was inundated with calls from county, state, and federal officials as well as the press. She felt sorry for him. Oil train derailments were obviously a hot-button issue, and the fact that it had apparently been caused by one of his employees made the explanation even more difficult. When asked what had motivated Cam Tollefsen to do what he did, Kirkbride said it was under investigation.

She said to Davis, “There's nothing we can do here. Let's go find that boy on the bike.”

“I think we should go back to Willie's place first,” Davis said, putting the SUV in gear.

Cassie said, “You've forgotten I'm the chief investigator here.”

Davis blanched. He said, “You know what, I did. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

“Happens a lot around here,” Cassie snapped. Then said, “Okay, let's drive out and roust Willie first. We're pretty sure he's in the middle of this and if he isn't he might know who is. But on the way out there I want to run my theory by you and I want your honest take on it. Deal?”

Davis nodded. He said, “Really, I'm sorry. I was out of line.”

“You were.”

“I guess with all the shit that's been going on around here I—”

“Quit digging and drive,” Cassie said, fighting back a smile. “And quit saying you're sorry.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ALTHOUGH HE'D
nearly been hit on Main Street by the sheriff's department SUV with its lights and sirens going as well as a company pickup truck that pulled off the road to let the emergency vehicles by, Kyle didn't slow down or look side to side as he weaved his bike in and out of traffic. The sirens and the scream of tires and air brakes couldn't penetrate his mission to catch up with the pickup truck with his mom inside.

He got glimpses of it in traffic ahead of him as he rode but it was still about a mile ahead. The pickup was hard to keep track of because of all the cop cars racing north on the road and all the trucks and other vehicles pulling to the side to let them pass.

The nightmare vision that hung out there ahead of him was of his mom's face appearing suddenly in the back window of a pickup and the splash of blood across the glass before her head was shoved back down out of view. It was like she spit the blood out on the glass. There was a look of pure terror in her eyes but also recognition: she'd seen him and he'd seen her and it was almost as if she'd cried out,
Kyle.

His tears froze into rivulets on his face as he rode. Every time he saw that the pickup with his mom in it had pulled over again and he thought he could catch it, it moved again and rejoined the flow of traffic. The men inside didn't seem to realize he was trying to follow them. But despite the number of stops and starts, the pickup pulled too far ahead. The snow and ice on the shoulder of the road slowed him down, and twice he had to brake to a complete stop to let another car pull off the road as cars and trucks with flashers went by. He couldn't keep up with the pickup with his mom in it. Eventually, he saw it more than a mile ahead, topping the rise before vanishing down the other side.

He'd never seen her so scared before, and it was almost too much for him to even understand. She'd looked like a little girl, as young as him, a horrified little girl who happened to be his mom. He couldn't sort it out and he didn't know if he ever would or if that vision of her would stay in front of his face for the rest of his life.

When he thought that maybe that would be it, that he would never even see her again, ever, and that his last glimpse of her was of a scared little girl spitting blood on the glass …

Kyle opened his mouth and roared. His cry came out high-pitched and it cracked in the middle, but it sounded to him like he was a wounded animal.

Because he was.

*   *   *

DRENCHED IN
sweat, Kyle pulled out of the traffic on Main Street into the ditch and rode back toward town. He'd never catch the silver pickup and he didn't know where it had gone.

The thoughts racing through his head made him reckless and manic and he rode down the middle of the snow-packed streets and let cars and truck get out of
his
way. Someone yelled at him, called him a “peckerhead.”

He rode through a gap in a chain-link fence that ran along the length of the service road, across the parking lot of the Work Wearhouse, down a snow-clogged alley made nearly impassable due to frozen ruts.

He decided to tell Grandma Lottie because he didn't know who else to tell. Maybe Raheem, he thought. Maybe Raheem's dad would know what to do.

When he roared a second time it sounded weaker. He couldn't feel his limbs, even though he could still move them. Kyle realized he'd worked up such a sweat and it was so cold that he was in the process of freezing to death. The only way to stay alive was to keep riding, keep his blood pumping, keep sweating.

And within a few minutes, he found himself back on his block.

The van he'd seen T-Lock driving was backing out of the driveway.

“Hey!” Kyle yelled.

Kyle saw a flash of brake lights in the street, and T-Lock drove away.

Kyle wondered what he'd been doing there, and if he had any idea what had happened to his mom.

*   *   *

HE WAS
so cold when he coasted to a stop on the side of the house that he couldn't work the hand brake and the front tire of his bike thumped into the washing machine. Kyle stiffly dismounted and trudged up the steps to the back door, praying it had been left unlocked because he didn't want to take the time to dig through his pockets beneath his coat for the key his mom had given him. It was locked.

Kyle moaned against the cold and fumbled with the key as it stuck to his frozen fingers, but he finally managed to slip it into the knob and turn it and he was inside.

Once inside he paced, flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing again. He tried to figure out what to do to save his mom. He wished T-Lock would come back but at the same time he didn't.

So Kyle plucked the telephone off the stand and dialed 911.

“Emergency operator,” a woman's voice said. “If you're calling about the train accident we're well aware of it and we're in the process of sending emergency teams—”

Kyle said, “There's a lady—okay, she's my mom—well, she's being held prisoner in a pickup truck.”

“Can you please slow down and
enunciate?
” the dispatcher said, drawing the last word out. She sounded annoyed.

“My mom,” he croaked.

“Please identify yourself, sir.”

“This is Kyle. Some guys—three guys—grabbed my mom and put her in a truck outside McDonald's and drove her away. Her face was bloody—”

“
Sir,
” she interrupted, “I'm sorry but I can't understand a word you're saying. Now maybe if you slowed down.”

“My
mom
. Three men grabbed my
mom.
” He hated that his voice cracked with emotion as he spoke.

“Sir, have you been drinking?”

“No!”

She must have understood, because she said, “Look, sir, I need you to do something for me right now. I need you to hang up and call back later when you sober up and can make some sense. The whole town is in an emergency right now, and we need to clear the lines.”

“You aren't going to help me?” he asked.

Kyle stood there for a moment, gasping. Then he slammed the phone down on the counter so hard the 1 and the 7 keys popped off the receiver.

*   *   *

KYLE CRIED
out loud in the hot shower. As his limbs and trunk warmed under the harsh stream of water, he ached all over as he thawed out. He sobbed and was grateful the hiss of the water drowned out the horrible sounds.

Why couldn't the 911 lady understand him? How could he save his mom?

*   *   *

HE DRESSED
in dry clothes—jeans, thick socks, T-shirt, hoodie—and walked through the house. He wondered what T-Lock had done and why he'd been there. He hoped T-Lock had left for good but the man's clothes were still in the closet in his mom's room, and there was a huge pile of them on the closet floor, along with his work boots and cowboy boots. T-Lock's razor and his hair products were still in the bathroom. So he was likely coming back, Kyle decided.

As he went through the kitchen back to his bedroom for his coat and boots, he saw a cop car cruise slowly down the alley and stop in back of his house. It was one of the SUVs like the one that had nearly hit him on the road a half hour before. The driver's door opened. Kyle stepped back from the window so he couldn't be seen by the cop who climbed out. The cop pulled on a pair of thick gloves and tugged on the bill of a green woolen hat with the sheriff's department logo on the front.

At first, Kyle thought the cop had arrived because of his 911 call. Then he recognized the cop as the one who had arrived second at the scene of the rollover car wreck—the younger one. He was by himself and he didn't march up to the back door like Kyle suspected he would. Instead, the cop was peering around, as if checking to see if anyone was looking out their window at him.

The cop approached the house cautiously with his right hand on the grip of his holstered pistol. Kyle thought maybe he was looking for T-Lock.

But instead of walking straight toward the back door, the cop hesitated when he saw something that interested him on the side of the house. Again, he paused and looked all around before changing his route. Then he walked out of Kyle's view.

Kyle padded into his mom's bedroom. The window that overlooked the side of the house was frosted with ice, but Kyle could make out the dark form of the cop as he passed by it and then came back. He was interested in something just below Kyle's view.

When the cop bent over, Kyle approached the window, ready to duck and run if the man looked up.

The cop was hunched over in front of Kyle's bike. Through a three-inch oval in the center of the window that was not obscured by frost, Kyle could see the man remove something blocky and white from his parka pocket and place it on the front tire of the bike. Whatever it was seemed to fit perfectly, and the cop nodded with some kind of inner knowledge and stood up and pocketed the white block. Kyle quickly stepped aside from the window as the cop turned toward it and leaned to the glass. Kyle flattened himself against the wall as the cop cupped his eyes with his hands and peered inside. His breath steamed the window.

And then he was gone.

Kyle went over to his mom's chest of drawers and pulled out the bottom-left drawer. Her small semiautomatic .25 Taurus was there beneath a heap of old sweaters. There was a box of .25 ammunition in there, too. He left the drawer open but didn't take the gun. If a cop saw him with a gun …