Highway of Tears

Highway of Tears

Heavy black clouds hung low over the desert highway, a false promise of rain in the uncaring desert night, and marched east over a man leaning on his burbling Chevy Camaro.

         He was tall and casual, sporting a black leather jacket, taking unhurried puffs of his cigarette, face impassive as he eyed the dead-straight road to the west.

         A bright light punched a hole in the dark desert horizon in front of him.

         Could be, he thought.

         The single light grew into two quickly, brighter, approaching fast. Then it whipped by. A silver BMW M3. It was all wind and tyre noise.

         His eyes narrowed, and he smiled as he read the rear license plate. 4MY EGO.

         Yeah, he thought, now we’re talkin’, and crushed out his cigarette. He got in the car, buckled up his four-point harness, and slipped on his night vision goggles. This was a special moment.

         His moment.

         Hunting the hunter.

         He turned off the traction control and put his foot down hard. The 6.2 liter V8 roared, supercharger screaming, cold tires howling, barely gripping the bitumen.

         Blue smoke and the smell of burnt rubber hung in the air.

         Gaining quickly, he rolled down the passenger window and pulled out his .357 magnum revolver, just as he drew level with the hurtling BMW.

         He aimed and squeezed the trigger. The vicious boom of the big gun deafened him. The BMW’s window exploded; its driver slumped in his seat. The vehicle swerved off the road to the left, rolling over and over and over. Coming to a rest on its roof amongst the broken glass and debris, catching fire.

         He stopped the car and stared at it.

         Orange flames licked the inky darkness.

         No more serial killer, he thought.

One week earlier.

Detective Anne Nikal was very petite, very young for her position, and very attractive. Yet, she still had to look down at the face of the man in a wheelchair. ‘Just some routine questions.’ She flipped open her notebook. ‘Let’s start with your name, sir.’

         ‘Andrew Jack,’ he said with a smile. He didn’t get many cute visitors. ‘But you already knew that, right?’

         She said nothing, just angled her head.

         ‘Figured you’d talked to Mom or Dad at the shop already.’ He wheeled his wheelchair backwards. ‘Coffee?’

         ‘Sure,’ Nikal said, scribbling in her pad as she walked up the ramp, ‘why not?’

         Andy lived in a renovated warehouse at the back of his parents’ roadhouse on the Highway of Tears in British Columbia, halfway between the towns of Prince George and Prince Rupert. Highway sixteen earned its gruesome nickname because it was the playground of serial killers. Remote and isolated, with soft soils, and an abundance of carnivorous scavengers to carry away the human remains.

         Perfect.

         Nikal was close behind him. He could smell her perfume as she moved to push the door wide open, leaving it like that.

         Andy flicked on the jug. ‘How can I help?’

         ‘We’re looking for vigilantes. Have you seen any unusual vehicles or suspicious people hanging around?’

         ‘You mean the ones leaving burnt-out-cars all over the place?’ Andy spooned instant coffee into cups. ‘They’re doing the world a favor if you ask me.’

         ‘That’s not an answer.’

         ‘Cream?’ he said. He couldn’t help smiling at the pretty detective.

         ‘No thanks. One sugar.’

         ‘Right . . . No, I haven’t noticed anyone out of place . . . nobody acting suspicious.’ The gentle tinkle of steel on cheap China filled the air between them. ‘Then again, you can’t see much from back here.’

         He handed her the coffee.

         She turned and walked over to a covered vehicle, still wearing her pink backpack. Long tanned legs ending at a short denim skirt.

         Cops these days, he thought and eyed her over his cup. You’d never know . . . she looks like a typical backpacker.

         Nikal took a sip and smiled. ‘Mind if I look at your car?’

         ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Detective. Look at me . . . Do I look like a vigilante?’

         ‘Humour me,’ she said and threw back the car cover. She soft whistled. ‘ZL1 Camaro. Limited Edition . . . Nice.’

         ‘My pride and joy.’ Andy said, glancing down at his legs. ‘Before my accident, that is. I may have to sell it one day.’

         ‘I know who killed your sister,’ she said. Her face took on a serious look. ‘Proving it is another matter.’

         Monica was twelve years old when she disappeared. Last seen happily pedaling her bicycle home from school.

         She never made it.

         Andy's eyes narrowed and his lips took on a hard thin line. Something cold and thorny crawled up his spine.

         Nikal sipped her coffee as she ambled around the car, lightly touching it with her fingertips. ‘Of course . . . we can’t tell you who the man is.’

         She put her coffee down and scribbled in her notepad, tearing out the page, handing it to Andy. ‘My cell. Thanks for the coffee and your time. Please call if you hear or see anything that might help our investigation.’

         ‘Sure,’ Andy said, watching her turn towards the brightness of the open doorway. He looked at the note.

         It wasn’t a cell number.

         It read: “Garry Taylor Handlin. Silver BMW M3. Personalized plates 4MY EGO.”

         He closed the front door and stood up from the wheelchair, walking around the Camaro, lovingly adjusting the car cover.

         Another sharp wrap on the door startled him, and he quickly sat in the wheelchair again, rolling towards the entrance.

         She must have forgotten something, he thought and opened the door.

         A grey-suited man stood outside the doorway.

         ‘Sergeant Rob Vermeulen. RCMP,’ he said, holding up his identification. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

         ‘What’s this about?’ Andy said.

         Vermeulen put his ID away. ‘Just some routine questions. We’re looking for vigilantes. We think they are operating—’

         Andy interrupted him. ‘I’ve already spoken to Detective Anne Nikal a few minutes ago. She must be your partner.’

         The detective was silent, eyeing Andy seriously. ‘That’s not very amusing, sir,’ he said. ‘In fact, it’s kind of sick.’

         ‘What do you mean?’ Andy said. ‘She just walked out of here. I’m surprised you didn’t bump into her.’

         The detective shook his head slowly, locking eyes with Andy. ‘Miss Anne Nikal was one of the victims. We found what was left of her last year.’