Chapter 14
Fourteen
Sloane
I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and listen to Carmi and her friend’s chatter outside.
It’s disturbing to think those girls are not much younger than Chelsea or Nita.
I rub my burning eyes, the result of staring at my laptop, trying to decipher what is poor quality security video from inside the gas station store. There’s about two hours’ worth of footage from about seven to nine on the night Nita went missing.
Her mother informed police her daughter had forgotten to grab milk when she picked up a few things at the store before dinner. So at seven thirty, right after she’d finished watching an episode of Friends, she sent her back there.
That poor woman. I can’t imagine what she is feeling.
I’ve watched the full footage twice now, fast forwarding through parts where no activity was noted, and replaying sections where customers were coming into the store. From seven twenty-five through eight o’clock—which is the most plausible time window for Nita to walk in—there were a total of five customers in the small store. From what I could tell, three were male, two female. None of them bought milk, and none of them were Nita.
The second time I watched the whole thing through, I tried to focus on what was happening outside the store. The camera angle is such, at the top of the screen, you can partially see through the store’s front windows. You can’t see the pumps, only a portion of the parking spots right in front of the store. I’ve written down the specifics of every vehicle pulling up during that two-hour stretch.
Frustrated, I close the screen with the video feed, and pull up the email from the Lake County sheriff so I can reply and thank him for his assistance. I scroll down the original email to see how he signed off so I can properly address him, when I notice a second link. I guess I was so eager to pull up the feed, I didn’t look any farther.
When I click on it, another online folder appears, this one is titled “northeast corner.” Inside is another video file for the same time period, which looks to be of the outside. This camera has both the gas pumps and the front of the convenience store in view, as well as the two car-wash bays. At this angle, I can even see a part of the side street.
Before I can hit start though, Aspen makes herself known. She had another restless night, had developed a fever, and at Pippa’s suggestion, I ended up giving her some medication, which seemed to help. She was fine earlier this morning, has been taking her bottle just fine, and went down for her morning nap without issue, but that didn’t last too long. She’s only been down for forty-five minutes.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I coo, approaching the crib.
Yeah, her cries sound like she’s in pain. Even when I pick her up—which would normally settle her down some—she continues to cry.
It’s funny, I can barely remember who I was before I became a mother, and yet I still feel so new at this at times. I try rocking her for a bit, bouncing her on my shoulder as I walk around our bedroom, but to no avail. Her little head feels warm against mine.
“Let’s get you a clean diaper first, okay?” I suggest.
Maybe I can check her temperature while I do that.
I grab what I need from the dresser and put her down on the bed. She doesn’t like that and lets me know. I’m not sure what happened to my sweet, happy child.
“Awww, poor kiddo,” Pippa commiserates as she slips into the room, waving the bottle of infant Tylenol and one of the frozen teething rings.
“Good call,” I tell her. “I think her fever is back.”
“She can have a dose every four to six hours, it’s been over eight.”
While I struggle with Aspen’s flailing limbs, trying to get a clean diaper on her, Pippa gives her another dose of Tylenol.
“Were you trying to work?” she asks, eyeing the laptop I left open on the bed.
I nod, close the last snap on Aspen’s romper, pick her up, and shove my face in her little neck as tears burn. My God, maybe it’s just lack of sleep, but I feel so damn overwhelmed. Single parenthood, moving here, a new job, teething, demanding case, and tomorrow moving again.
I thought I’d be able to do this, but right now—Aspen’s woeful cries muffled against me—I feel like an utter failure.
“All right, then.” Pippa plucks the baby from my hands and bounces her on her shoulder. “Go splash some water on your face, grab your laptop, and go work in Sully’s office. He’s taking the girls to the ranch for a ride.” Then she presses a kiss to my baby’s downy head. “I’ve got this little one.”
The mirror in the bathroom shows my pitiful state. Swollen, red eyes, tear streaks down my face, my hair sticking out every which way. I’m a fucking mess. Instead of splashing water, I shove my whole head under the faucet.
When I walk into the bedroom a few minutes later, it’s empty. Pippa must’ve taken Aspen downstairs. I feel an immediate surge of guilt. What kind of mother leaves her sick child for someone else to deal with?
Then I catch sight of my laptop, and am reminded there is a mother in Pablo who may just have found out the daughter she’s been looking for is likely no longer alive, or Chelsea’s mom, who to this day doesn’t know what her daughter endured and how she ended up clinging to a cliff, a hundred or so miles away from home.
My child is taken care of, she’s loved and safe. Those mothers don’t have that luxury, which is why I have to at least find them answers.
Grabbing my laptop, I head downstairs and duck into my uncle’s office.
Ten minutes later, I’m watching the outside security feed from the gas station on the large screen of his iMac. Sully’s twenty-seven inches is loads better than my measly fourteen-inch screen.
Reviewing this feed is much slower going because I can’t fast forward. In fact, I have to stop and rewind regularly. There is more happening on the screen; vehicles pulling in and out, people pumping gas, pedestrians walking by, and you can even see part of the street Nita would have walked down to get to the store.
I’m writing notes as I go, jotting down little things that stand out and time stamps I want to revisit. It’s not until my second run-through something jumps out at me at the seven thirty-four time stamp.
There’s an entrance/exit into the gas station from US-93, and a second entrance/exit around the corner on 2nd Street North, the street Nita would probably have walked down. Most vehicles seem to come in off the highway, and exit the same way. Only a few seem to use the one around the corner.
At seven twenty-nine, a delivery truck turns into the Exxon off the highway and pulls up to the second pump closest to the road. I can see the driver, wearing a dark-colored ball cap, get out, but then lose sight of him as he presumably fills his tank.
Then at seven thirty-four, he gets back in his truck, but instead of looping around to get back onto the highway—like most do—he goes the other way. He passes the front of the car wash, and parks his truck around the far corner, parallel to the side street Nita would be coming down at about that time.
The next thing I see is the driver walking back around to the front of the building and entering the convenience store.
As soon as he disappears inside, I pause the video and open a second window. Then I pull up the feed from inside the store again and fast forward to where I can see him coming in. He walks to the cooler and appears to grab a few drinks before approaching the counter.
Now I can see his ball cap is green and he’s wearing what looks like a dark navy padded jacket, but I can’t really make out his face. I only see the bottom half, he’s keeping the bill of his cap low, and from this angle, it obscures his eyes and nose.
He seems to order a pack of smokes, and pulls a few bills from his pockets, paying in cash.
At seven thirty-eight he moves to the door to head back outside.
I pause the feed and return my attention to the outside view. Instead of play, I hit fast-forward to get to seven thirty-eight.
I watch as the man walks out and immediately turns right toward the car wash. Instead of going back to his truck around the outside of the car wash, he abruptly appears to dart into the second empty bay. Something clearly drew his attention.
When I catch a quick flash of yellow coming into view at the back of the first empty bay, disappearing again almost instantly, I shoot up straight in my chair. My heart is racing and my breath shallow, as I rewind to the point where the man exits the store. Instead of focusing on him this time, I zoom in on the first bay of the car wash and play it in slow motion.
There she is, the yellow coat is unmistakable; Nita. She appears to use the empty bay as a shortcut to get to the front door of the convenience store. I’m so focused on her, I don’t even see the guy coming up behind her until I see her suddenly lifted off her feet, a hand coming around to clasp over her mouth, and an arm grabbing her around the waist.
The next moment she’s gone, and so is the man with the green hat.
It’s a full five minutes before the truck moves.
“Take your time, sweetheart.”
The poor girl is fidgeting in her seat as she seems to mull over my question if she remembers hitching a ride, maybe getting into a truck.
For a moment I wonder if FaceTiming her was the right decision, but I wasn’t going to be able to drive out to Columbia Falls until after the weekend. I would really love to make a firm connection between the two girls.
If our perp is indeed this truck driver, Nita and Chelsea may not have been the only victims. There may have been more girls he picked up along his route.
“I…I’m not sure.”
I’m not sure is not no, but it still doesn’t really help me. I’m going to have to approach this another way.
“Chelsea, do you remember having a big argument with your parents?” I probe. “You were upset and left the house.”
Her eyes dart off-camera and she appears a little sheepish. I assume she’s looking at her mother or both her parents.
“I remember.”
Her voice is soft, but I’m hopeful when her response is sure.
“That’s good. So, you were upset and walked out the door. Did you turn right or left?”
“Right,” is her immediate answer.
“Why did you turn right?”
Something in her face changes. She seems to become more alert.
“Because of the Mountain Climber, the stop is up a few blocks.”
“The Mountain Climber?”
“The county bus,” she explains.
I send her a little encouraging smile.
“And you were planning to take the bus?”
“Yes, to the movies in Kalispell,” she says, more animated now as she appears to remember a bit more. “I thought I had money in my backpack, but I forgot I spent it on Subway for lunch the day before.”
That was more words strung together than I’d heard her speak before.
A deep frown appears between her eyebrows as she falls silent again.
“Chelsea? What happened when you discovered you had no money for the bus?”
She darts a glance away from the camera again. I get the sense she remembers more but doesn’t want to speak in front of her parents, there’s not much I can do about that.
I suspect she probably wasn’t ready to return home after discovering she didn’t have bus fare and maybe tried to hitchhike into Kalispell. Something I would assume her parents have clear rules about.
“Did someone stop to give you a ride?” I ask, trying to take a bit of the responsibility away from the girl.
We’re back to nodding.
“Was it a car or a truck?”
I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, almost willing her to give the answer I can feel in my bones is coming.
She tucks her long hair behind one ear and bites her lip.
“Car,” she finally says, deflating my balloon.
I was so sure.
It’s hard not to feel a little deflated, but I can’t lose sight of the fact the girl is finally starting to remember, giving me information I didn’t have before.
“But I changed my mind and ended up not getting in,” she adds, much to my surprise. “I thought maybe I could walk over to visit with Jessie for a bit before going back home.”
Off-camera I hear a sharp inhale of breath and Chelsea turns her head in that direction.
“Who is Jessie?” I ask quickly, to get the girl’s attention back. “Is she a friend?”
“She’s Tessa’s sister, she works at the Pizza Hut. Tessa is my friend.”
“Okay, so you went and saw Jessie at the Pizza Hut,” I prompt her.
This time she shakes her head, looking confused.
“I don’t think I did. I remember seeing the Pizza Hut sign when I cut through the gas station, but I don’t recall going inside.”
“Gas station?” I echo, all my senses on full alert.
“Yeah, the Exxon. It’s right across the street. The last thing I remember is passing the ice cooler on the side of the gas station when this white truck pulled up and blocked my path, so I had to go around it.”
I can barely contain my excitement, but I want to make sure. “A white truck, like a pickup truck?”
“No. Bigger. Like one of those delivery trucks.”
Bingo.