Paradise Valley (Highway Quartet #4)

Then he heard it again. It came from the river behind him. Sound carried on the water.

He noticed a light blue object passing in a slow current just beyond the thick brush. It was a small raft packed with parcels.

A moment after the raft was caught fast in the undergrowth he heard a male voice shout, “There it is. I see it. Can you get us over there?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You might have to row forward to get out of this current.”

“I’m doin’ that.”

The Lizard King neared the river and reached into his jacket pocket to grip his .380. There was a boat on the water beyond the brush and it was getting closer.

At first he thought it was a man and a boy, the boy on the oars. The boy talked in a garbled, high-pitched way. He could make out the gist of what he was saying if not the individual words.

Then he realized it was two boys, a black one and a white one. The black one was sprawled over baggage in the front of the boat. He was reaching out to try and grab a loose rope that was attached to the raft.

“Got it,” the black one said with triumph. “Now pull over to the bank and we’ll tie it back on the boat.”

“I’m tying the knot this time, Raheem.”

“Fucking right you are,” the bigger boy said, laughing. “I guess I can’t tie knots worth shit.”

The boy on the oars was scrawny, undersized, and there was something obviously off about the way he moved and talked. He was damaged in a unique way and the Lizard King felt something stir inside him.

When he looked at the damaged boy he saw himself at that age. When he was young he was on his own in the world and he had a speech impediment as well that was cruelly mocked by those around him.

There had been no one to look up to, no one to take his interests to heart.

He kept his hand in his jacket pocket when he stepped through a thick willow and said, “You boys look like you could use some help. I’ll give you a hand.”

No one had ever offered him a hand up. Or nurtured him within a family.

“I’ll help you boys,” he said.





PART TWO

BISMARCK, NORTH DAKOTA

ONE MONTH LATER





CHAPTER

EIGHT

CASSIE DEWELL AND SHERIFF Jon Kirkbride sat on opposite sides of a coffin-shaped conference table in a too-hot room in the state capitol building in Bismarck. Outside, the sky was the light gray color of weathered barnwood. She could see the yellow crowns of autumn trees in the distance.

Down the hall was the office of the state attorney general as well as the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. The door was closed but Cassie could hear snippets of urgent conversation out in the hallway and she could see shadows of passersby through the frosted glass.

She looked down at the lukewarm Styrofoam cup of coffee between her hands and saw that the surface of the liquid was trembling.

She let go of the cup and placed her hands on her lap beneath the table so Kirkbride couldn’t see what condition she was in.

But he knew. Which was why, she surmised, that he talked about everything except for why they were there.

“Lotta people drive right by this building and don’t realize it’s the state capitol building,” he said, referring to the twenty-one-story tower in the heart of Bismarck. “The house majority leader of Minnesota said it looked like a State Farm insurance building. You can guess how that went over around here.”

Cassie tried to smile. The fact was, it didn’t look like any capitol building she’d ever seen. Certainly not like the neoclassical building she’d seen in Helena with its copper-clad dome, or in Cheyenne or Denver with their glistening golden domes.

“It’s art deco style, I guess,” Kirkbride continued. “Not that I know anything about architecture. All I know is it’s the tallest building in the state and the historian types like to call it the ‘Skyscraper on the Prairie,’ for what that’s worth. The other thing I know is I’ve spent most of my career doing everything I could to not come to Bismarck, especially during the legislative session. All these politicos and lobbyists make me damned nervous. I’ve learned that whenever politicians get together in one place bad things happen.” Then: “First time here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Sorry I couldn’t drive up with you,” he said.

She nodded. She was sorry, too. She’d driven the three and a half hours in her personal Ford Escape. She knew the sheriff had traveled to Bismarck the previous day to testify at a committee hearing for the legislature. He was there to talk about rampant drug use in the western part of the state where oil was pumping.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Do you mean with the suspension?”

“Ian.”

Hearing his name jolted her. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him. If I would have not had him driving that forklift…”

“Stop,” Kirkbride said. “It could have been any of us. It could have been us—you or me. You can’t think like that.”

But she did. And late at night when she was not sleeping she fought back thoughts that Ian’s blind love for her should have been reciprocated to a higher degree. The guilt that thought produced gutted her.

Cassie changed the subject and said, “Do you know if there’s been any progress finding Kyle Westergaard or Raheem Johnson? The two boys who left town in the boat?”

“I’m aware of them,” Kirkbride said. “I know you’re close to Kyle. I haven’t heard anything and I haven’t been in the office to follow the case.

“Honestly, Cassie,” the sheriff said with a sigh, “I’m not sure what’s been going on in the office while I was out—if anything. That explosion blew up the department in more ways than one.”

She nodded.

“I don’t know what’s keeping them,” he said changing the subject and nodding toward the door. “Do you want me to go find out what’s going on?”

“Maybe give them a couple more minutes,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Jon,” she said, “thank you for being here. I know you didn’t have to.”

He waved it off and sat back in his chair without comment. She wasn’t used to seeing him wear a tie with his uniform shirt, a concession he’d apparently made for the legislators. He noticed her staring at his tie and in response he reached up and loosened it with a tug.

“How are you really holding up?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said.

“I am worried about you. I’m afraid they might be looking for a scapegoat. Especially Tibbs.”

She nodded.

“I think this might be a setup,” he said. “Tibbs and the head of BCI were college roommates. It ain’t right.”

Before she could reply Kirkbride swiveled his head toward the door at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Here they come,” he said.

*

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