Part 26 (1/2)
”No. And I'm sure gonna find out why.”
”WELL,” said Morgan Elliott over my speakerphone, ”Brett Henchle isn't the only cop on the planet.”
Kyle and I looked at each other across my kitchen table, the telephone between us. She had a point there.
It was the first hush-hush meeting of the JordanaShermana Elliott underground resistance movement. Kyle even parked around the block and came through my back yard to keep from being seen, which seemed a little excessive to me.
”You know another one?” I asked.
”Gabe used to go hunting with a guy who's a cop in Sandpoint, Idaho. I'm still good friends with him and his wife.”
”So, you're saying a cop in Idaho can do a check on a car from Montana that's found in Was.h.i.+ngton?”
”Law enforcement people are all linked together by computer these days. Any cop can find out who owns any car anywhere, it doesn't matter.”
”Well okay.”
”What kind of a car was it?” Kyle asked.
”Ford LTD, probably early '70s. It was red where it wasn't covered with silt.”
”Okay,” said Morgan, ”I'll pa.s.s that along. What about the pictures?”
Kyle answered as he leafed through the snapshots he'd just gotten back from the drugstore. ”I got some good shots of Nichols's face. I'll get some extra prints made up.”
Morgan asked, ”So what if the car doesn't belong to Brandon Nichols?”
”That won't surprise me,” I answered, ”But that car went into the river during the spring run-off, and that's the same time Nichols showed up in town. That and the Montana license plate are enough to make me curious.”
”Plus Brett Henchle's silence about it,” said Kyle.
”You think Nichols bought him by healing his leg?” Morgan asked.
I hesitated a little, but Kyle didn't. ”Absolutely. We're not going to get one bit of help from him.”
”So, okay. I'll get back to you as soon as I find out something.”
”Before you hang up, let's pray,” I said. ”I'd really like the Lord to s.h.i.+eld us a bit. I, uh, I don't want Brandon Nichols to know what we're doing.”
”TWO-TWO-ONE-ONE-TWO South Maurice . . .” Kyle flipped and folded and gathered an unruly map of Missoula as we drove on the outskirts of the town, looking for numbers, signs, anything. ”I don't know. I don't think anybody actually lives around here.”
The drive through Idaho and into Montana had been beautiful, weaving through mountains and along rivers. Missoula itself was nestled in a wide, flat valley, surrounded by green hills and timbered mountains. This part of Missoula could be pleasing to the eye as well, depending on how excited you got about metal buildings and cyclone-fenced yards filled with big things: tractors, trucks, farm machinery, concrete sewer and drainpipe, roof trusses. We pa.s.sed a John Deere dealer with a whole fleet of green tractors lined up along the street, and then a masonry supply company with neat stacks of concrete block, decorative stone, and a zillion different colors of brick. This was definitely the guy part of town.
”Hey, wait, wait,” I said, releasing my foot from the gas pedal. ”*Abe's.' The car owner's name is Abe, right? Abe Carlson?”
Kyle looked up and saw it too: a sheet of plywood painted white with big blue letters: Abe's Auto Wrecking. It was hanging crookedly next to an opening in still another cyclone fence, this one festooned with automobile wheels painted red, white, and blue. ”That's it,” he said, reading the numbers under the name. ”Two-two-one-one-two South Maurice.”
I turned left and pulled up to the opening, but took a moment to survey the place before driving in. We were looking at an acre of dead cars in long rows, their carca.s.ses dented, hollow, and vacant, picked clean of chrome, gla.s.s, mirrors, wheels, and anything else a living car might need in the world beyond the fence. In the center of it all, like an old barge floating on a multicolored sea of metal, stood Abe's big shack wearing hubcaps like sequins.
”Maybe we should have called first,” Kyle suggested.
I eased the car down the long, jagged aisle toward the big blue shack.
Two pit bulls came charging out of a yawning garage door. A grisly looking character in gray coveralls came quickstepping after them, hollering their names so loudly it sounded like ”KAP! FREET! GEBACKERE!!”
”Kap” and ”Freet” didn't hear him. They had a mauling to attend to, circling the car, barking, growling, and waiting for either of us to stick a leg out.
”HAH! GEDOUTHERE!” This guy had to be Abe. A face and bark like his made me wonder why he needed dogs. He shooed them away, yelling and banging on the nearest hulk with a tire iron. They both scampered into a dog pen alongside the building and remained there while he slammed the gate on them. I was impressed.
He returned to our car and may have smiled, at least around the eyes. I rolled down my window. ”That's Casper and Frito. They just ate a Jehovah's Witness. Whatcha after?”
”Uh, are you Abe Carlson?”
”Yeah. Who are you?”
”Uh, may I get out?”
He backed away from my door and I got out. Kyle got out too and walked around to join me. We introduced ourselves and told him where we were from.
The moment I mentioned the town of Antioch, he scowled at us. ”You cops?”
”Uh, no. Kyle here's a pastor and I teach the sixth grade.”
”Got a call from a cop in Antioch. Is this about that car?”
”We-yeah. If we could-”
”I got nothing more to say about it.” He turned and started walking away.
I turned to Kyle. ”Get the photos.” He reached inside the car while I hollered after Abe, ”Could you just look at a picture for us?”
He turned. ”What?”
Kyle handed me the photos. I said, ”Look at a picture? These pictures right here?”
He glanced thoughtfully at Casper and Frito, then walked back. I guess I got him curious.
I held up the best photo we had of Brandon Nichols, a nice shot of him preaching in Mrs. Macon's garage. ”Do you recognize this man?”
He took one look and his expression turned so dark I almost backed away.
”You know him?”
He nodded. ”That's Herb Johnson. Where'd you get this?”
I exchanged a glance with Kyle. ”Herb Johnson?”
”He used to work for me.”
Kyle asked with surprise in his voice. ”He worked here?”