“Of course not,” her mother said. She disapproved of people in a hurry, especially Cassie.
Isabel—she had always insisted Cassie call her by her made-up hippie name from the sixties instead of “mom”—had settled into Grimstad much better than Cassie had anticipated she would. The go-go atmosphere of rampant maleness and naked capitalism had somehow energized Isabel to become even more of a bulwark against both. Rather than throw up her hands in despair, Isabel had founded a small group of disaffected newcomers called “Progressive Grimstad” to agitate for larger budgets for social workers, homeless shelters, and a cooperative grocery store that sold non-GMO organic food. Cassie found herself agreeing with the need for the first two projects but was not enthusiastic about the third. Progressive Grimstad had made the proposals at county commission meetings and suggested that the funding should come from the “bloated” sheriff’s department budget. The proposal was shot down although Cassie had hoped it would pass, and Isabel vowed to raise funds to renovate an empty building downtown to house social workers. Still, Sheriff Kirkbride was annoyed about the potential raid on his budget.
Plus—although Isabel wouldn’t admit it to her daughter—Cassie suspected Isabel enjoyed the attention she received from oil field and construction workers when she ventured out in public with her flowing robes and waist-length silver hair. Although Isabel had always looked like an individual in Montana, she really stood out in North Dakota. And she was surprisingly effective in obtaining funding commitments from area businesses and newly wealthy landowners in the area.
Isabel liked standing out. Cassie often thought that if Isabel wasn’t her mother she wouldn’t have much to do with her at all. Too much drama, too many sharp opinions, too many high-minded causes that rarely produced any tangible results—until now. Isabel was on a mission.
Isabel had dragged Cassie around with her for eighteen years and when Cassie got her position in Grimstad she felt she needed to return the favor. And Isabel truly loved Ben.
*
“DID YOU GET BREAKFAST?” Cassie asked Ben when they were in the Yukon. He was wearing his daily uniform: baggy jeans, high-top Nikes, Grimstad Vikings hoodie, unshaped trucker cap. His backpack was on the floor near his feet.
“Not hungry,” he said.
“That doesn’t matter, Ben. We’ve talked about this. You need breakfast.”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t care,” she said, shaking her head. “Tomorrow, you eat something. No argument.”
He shrugged and looked out the window. Then: “So what’s going down?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, stalling for time until they got to school.
“I’m not stupid,” Ben said. “I know you’ve got those two cell phones. One is a normal phone and the other is for that trucker. I know you’ve gotten calls on that trucker phone and I can tell you’re all worked up.”
“I’m not worked up,” she lied.
“So what’s going on?” he asked.
She couldn’t tell whether he was concerned for her or curious about the law enforcement operation itself. She guessed a little of both. She hoped it was more of the former since Cassie was all Ben had except for Isabel.
Ben’s father and Cassie’s husband Army Sergeant Jim Dewell had died during the Battle of Wanat in Afghanistan in 2008. Ben had never met his father but he always kept a photo of him in the camo uniform and helmet on his desk. Ben had recently written a paper for his English class entitled “Jim Dewell: Wartime Hero for Our Time.” Cassie had read it with tears in her eyes. Ben wanted his father to be heroic in every sense. Cassie saw no reason to correct Ben’s hopes, and she’d vowed to never do it although in fact Jim had enlisted in the military the day after he learned she was pregnant.
Jim was by no means a coward, though. He did his duty and he served his country with honor. He just didn’t want the responsibility of being a dad.
“It’s a big operation,” Cassie said as she slid the Yukon into a line of cars nearing the school. “A sting.”
Ben nodded because he’d been right. He said, “I wish I could come with you. I’ll be sitting in a bunch of boring classes and you’ll be out there doing something exciting. Kyle says you can learn more not going to school than you can learn in school.”
“Kyle should keep his opinions to himself,” Cassie said.
Kyle Westergaard was Ben’s fourteen-year-old friend. Kyle had a mild case of fetal alcohol syndrome that primarily affected his ability to speak. Ben understood every word he said, though, and he looked up to him. Kyle had been involved in a tragic situation two years before when he lost his mother but bravely shot two gangsters, killing one of them. His status after that among boys Ben’s age had grown almost mythic. Kyle, to his credit, didn’t seem to notice, Cassie had observed.
“I hope he doesn’t leave,” Ben said to the passenger window as Cassie turned into the drive that took them to the front doors. It was slow going as parents in preceding cars dropped their kids off and reminded them of last-minute instructions.
“What?” Cassie asked, surprised.
Ben looked as if he’d been caught. “Nothing.”
“Ben, what do you mean Kyle might leave? Is his grandmother moving away?”
“Naw, forget I said anything,” Ben said.
They reached the drop-off zone. Cassie checked her mirror to see a dozen cars behind her. All, like her, were running late.
“Ben, are you keeping something from me about Kyle?”
“No,” he said, reaching for the door handle. He wouldn’t meet her eyes which meant he was lying. Lying was new, too. It started around the same time he started calling her Mother in that passive-aggressive tone of voice.
“Ben?”
“Hey, I gotta go.”
“We’ll talk tonight,” she said sternly.
Ben couldn’t get out of the Yukon fast enough. Before he closed the door he said, “You don’t need to pick me up. I’ll walk home after football practice.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Hey, good luck with your sting today.”
She started to caution him to not say a word about it to anyone but he’d already closed the door, turned away, and joined a group of friends all wearing the same uniform.
Cassie glanced at the clock in the dashboard. Minutes she needed back had burned away.
CHAPTER
THREE
WHEN CASSIE ARRIVED five minutes later at the Dakota Remanufacturing building located within an industrial park north of Grimstad there were already four sheriff’s department vehicles in the front parking lot and she cursed out loud.
Word was already out about what was about to happen. She could only hope that the deputies had been off-channel and that the Lizard King wasn’t monitoring police-band frequencies.
She pulled her department Yukon around the building to the back loading dock. Eight of the ten pallets of reconditioned and shrink-wrapped oil field parts were already there. She could see a forklift operator spearing the ninth pallet inside to move it to the dock as well.