The Bitterroots (Cassie Dewell #4) - C.J. Box Page 0,63
back there,” Cassie said. “Thank you.”
“This is why I do what I do,” Rachel shouted. She smacked the top of the dashboard three times for emphasis while she said, “This, this, this! Picking up an innocent person and throwing them in that shithole for the night without filing charges or allowing a phone call to me. It’s pure intimidation. Everybody despises defense lawyers,” Rachel continued. “Especially you cops. But when something like this happens aren’t you glad we exist?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever think you’d say that?”
“No.”
“Keep it in mind when you hear your brothers in law enforcement bitch about us. That’s all I ask.”
“How did you know where to find me?” Cassie asked.
Rachel took a deep breath but she was still clearly angry. “I called your cell five times and left messages,” she said. “You always call me back within a few minutes. When you didn’t call I tracked down Ben.”
“My son?”
“Of course your son. He said that you were on the phone with him last night when a cop pulled you over. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had a clue what happened to you. I left first thing this morning and sped all the way. They could have held you there for days or worse.”
Cassie recalled that Ben had something he wanted to tell her about the previous day, but they hadn’t gotten that far before she had to terminate the call.
“How much farther is it?” Rachel asked. Cassie noted that she was going eighty—fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit.
“A couple of miles. And you might want to slow down.”
“Fuck it,” Rachel said. “Let them try to arrest me now. Let them try.”
Cassie smiled. It felt like her face was cracking because it had been so long since she’d done it.
“Why were you trying to reach me?” she asked.
Rachel’s face got grim. “Blake Kleinsasser was attacked by at least four inmates in jail. They stove his head in and they pounded a footlong length of steel rebar into his ear. He’s in intensive care in the Bozeman hospital. Even if he makes it he might have permanent brain damage.”
Cassie sat back, stunned. “My God.”
“I should have believed him about the threats,” Rachel said. “But he’s such an asshole.”
“Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting to hear. But I’d bet you five dollars the bad guys have connections to Lochsa County.”
“No bet,” Cassie said.
*
When Rachel shot around a shadowed corner in the wall of trees, Cassie gasped for the second time in five minutes.
Her Jeep was a smoldering black box of steel and melted tires. The windows had all been smashed in or blown out by the heat and force of the internal fire. A yellow tag was affixed to the front door handle by state troopers who had found the vehicle and marked it to be towed away.
“Oh, no,” Rachel said. “Oh, no.”
“The files and my notes on the case were on the front seat,” Cassie said, closing her eyes tightly.
*
They circled the blackened Jeep. It was a cool morning and Cassie could feel the heat emanate from the still-hot metal. The seat cushions were burned through to the spring coils. She couldn’t discern if the ash in the passenger seat was from her burned-up files or from the fabric itself. Her gear bag had either been taken by passersby or had burned so completely it no longer existed.
Cassie studied the pine trees on both sides of the highway. The tops of many of them had been recently blackened and several were still smoldering. She knew enough about unchecked forest fires (everybody in Montana did these days) to know what had happened was called a “crown fire”—when flames leaped from treetop to treetop in a strong wind. Often, the fire didn’t drop down to lower branches.
Was it possible that a crown fire had passed through during the night and sparks or burning embers had somehow dropped through the air via the open windows of her Jeep and ignited the contents? It was possible if highly unlikely, she concluded. Yet a potential case could be made …
She fought a surge of emotion that brought tears to her eyes that she quickly turned and wiped away. Although Rachel would likely understand and empathize, Cassie didn’t want to give her the opening.
It wasn’t the loss of the Jeep or her possessions—both could eventually be replaced. There were hours and days ahead of filling out insurance forms and making phone calls to banks and other entities to replace her credit cards