tore out, dust barreling behind them.
“Cassel’s!” Jon crowed.
Grace shushed him again, harsh.
“Killed her,” Jon getting the last word. Obnoxious.
“Killed?” JJ asked, looking at Mick.
“We don’t know,” he said. “Could have drowned.”
“Everybody shut up,” Grace said.
Her words held while the engine burred and the gravel sprayed and rattled against the car. After a few minutes they got on the pavement and the noise settled, but there was no more conversation on the ride home.
* * *
When Mick pulled off Main and into their dirt parking lot, Grace kept hold of Jon to keep him from jumping out.
“Nobody says a word about this,” Grace said. “We went swimming right where the main highway crosses the river. Right under the highway bridge there. We never drove up River Road.” She was looking right at Jon when she was saying this. “Promise.”
Jon pulled his arm out of her grip and scowled. Finally nodded his head.
JJ didn’t move.
Grace and Jon got out, walked to their trailer.
Mick turned to look at JJ. “You got something to say?”
She kept looking forward.
“JJ?” he pressed her.
A tear slid down her cheek. “You’re hopeless,” she said. “Blind, but it doesn’t matter now.”
She was wrong. It did matter. Mick should have asked her what she meant. Should have asked her what she was thinking, but he was preoccupied. His mind on what he was going to do next.
Mick waited until JJ was inside the Stovalls’ single-wide before he drove off to find a pay phone and call 911. He wasn’t going to give them his name. Just the real location so the girl could be retrieved and given to her family.
JJ’s words about the floater being Cassel’s girlfriend had really upped the ante. Mick guessed she meant Tim, the son, but she could have meant the father. After their school run-in last spring, JJ had told Mick more about Tim’s dad. Scott Cassel—Montana Highway Patrol officer, based in Portage with particular jurisdiction over the roads in Sanders County and the surrounding area. The man had a reputation. Nobody in a fifty-mile radius messed with Scott Cassel.
Years ago, according to Gary Stovall, a speeder tried to shoot him when he approached the guy’s car to give him a ticket. Gary says he was tough before that. After that, he was just plain nasty. Nasty enough that his wife left him. JJ said she moved across the country. His older son, Larry, was on his own, but his younger son, Tim, was stuck with him. He could beat the boy, but no one else was allowed to.
Tim would graduate next year. This year he’d been suspended a week for drinking at school. Barely kept out of jail, so far, by the influence of his dad and Mr. Hammond. Everybody Mick knew was afraid of the Cassels. He thought any of them might be capable of hurting a girl and, if things went wrong, if she made them mad, maybe even killing her.
23
L UCK . F ATE. You can have good sense most of the time, take precautions, make good decisions, make a few mistakes and correct them, but once in a blue moon you screw up at the same time that other things go wrong—little things. Maybe Mick had just made a few mistakes, all at once. He could see that it wouldn’t take too many small things to turn his bad luck into a train wreck.
He’d gone to the river park on the east end of town and reported the body. When he got back, he parked his dad’s Pontiac where he remembered it had been. His father noticed these things. People, not so much. Unless they were a danger to him. Being a crackerjack mechanic made it easy for him to get jobs. It also fit his hobby, restoring old cars. The Poncho was his latest, a ’72 Bonneville four-door hardtop that ran like NASCAR and looked like a rusted Batmobile. Ratmobile. The body and interior were always last in his dad’s restoration process and he rarely got to them before he was on to the next car.
Dad, Tighe “Fitz” Fitzhugh, got home a little later than
“Cassel’s!” Jon crowed.
Grace shushed him again, harsh.
“Killed her,” Jon getting the last word. Obnoxious.
“Killed?” JJ asked, looking at Mick.
“We don’t know,” he said. “Could have drowned.”
“Everybody shut up,” Grace said.
Her words held while the engine burred and the gravel sprayed and rattled against the car. After a few minutes they got on the pavement and the noise settled, but there was no more conversation on the ride home.
* * *
When Mick pulled off Main and into their dirt parking lot, Grace kept hold of Jon to keep him from jumping out.
“Nobody says a word about this,” Grace said. “We went swimming right where the main highway crosses the river. Right under the highway bridge there. We never drove up River Road.” She was looking right at Jon when she was saying this. “Promise.”
Jon pulled his arm out of her grip and scowled. Finally nodded his head.
JJ didn’t move.
Grace and Jon got out, walked to their trailer.
Mick turned to look at JJ. “You got something to say?”
She kept looking forward.
“JJ?” he pressed her.
A tear slid down her cheek. “You’re hopeless,” she said. “Blind, but it doesn’t matter now.”
She was wrong. It did matter. Mick should have asked her what she meant. Should have asked her what she was thinking, but he was preoccupied. His mind on what he was going to do next.
Mick waited until JJ was inside the Stovalls’ single-wide before he drove off to find a pay phone and call 911. He wasn’t going to give them his name. Just the real location so the girl could be retrieved and given to her family.
JJ’s words about the floater being Cassel’s girlfriend had really upped the ante. Mick guessed she meant Tim, the son, but she could have meant the father. After their school run-in last spring, JJ had told Mick more about Tim’s dad. Scott Cassel—Montana Highway Patrol officer, based in Portage with particular jurisdiction over the roads in Sanders County and the surrounding area. The man had a reputation. Nobody in a fifty-mile radius messed with Scott Cassel.
Years ago, according to Gary Stovall, a speeder tried to shoot him when he approached the guy’s car to give him a ticket. Gary says he was tough before that. After that, he was just plain nasty. Nasty enough that his wife left him. JJ said she moved across the country. His older son, Larry, was on his own, but his younger son, Tim, was stuck with him. He could beat the boy, but no one else was allowed to.
Tim would graduate next year. This year he’d been suspended a week for drinking at school. Barely kept out of jail, so far, by the influence of his dad and Mr. Hammond. Everybody Mick knew was afraid of the Cassels. He thought any of them might be capable of hurting a girl and, if things went wrong, if she made them mad, maybe even killing her.
23
L UCK . F ATE. You can have good sense most of the time, take precautions, make good decisions, make a few mistakes and correct them, but once in a blue moon you screw up at the same time that other things go wrong—little things. Maybe Mick had just made a few mistakes, all at once. He could see that it wouldn’t take too many small things to turn his bad luck into a train wreck.
He’d gone to the river park on the east end of town and reported the body. When he got back, he parked his dad’s Pontiac where he remembered it had been. His father noticed these things. People, not so much. Unless they were a danger to him. Being a crackerjack mechanic made it easy for him to get jobs. It also fit his hobby, restoring old cars. The Poncho was his latest, a ’72 Bonneville four-door hardtop that ran like NASCAR and looked like a rusted Batmobile. Ratmobile. The body and interior were always last in his dad’s restoration process and he rarely got to them before he was on to the next car.
Dad, Tighe “Fitz” Fitzhugh, got home a little later than
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