It feels so freaking good to be doing something, but I’m constantly checking my rearview mirror, too.
In the third corridor from the entry, I spot his truck parked halfway down. I continue to the next aisle as if I’m looking for my own unit and creep down to the end, place my car in park, get out, and sneak around the edge of the last shed to peer around the corner and up the row where Lasserio stopped.
Lasserio is unlocking a unit on the opposite side. After he jerks the padlock free and lifts the mini garage door, apparently oblivious to the harsh squeal, he disappears inside. I’m already shooting video when he reappears. He’s toting a beige backpack in his grip. He looks up the corridor and turns back toward me. I yank myself back, unsure if he’s spotted me.
Lasserio goes back inside his unit with his arm extending out like he’s about to drop the pack back inside it. A second later, he comes out all nonchalant and whistling, no longer carrying it, his hands in his pockets.
He’s looking away from me to the car that has stopped about ten sheds up from him, where a tall woman steps out and starts fiddling with her padlock. He’s changed his mind, I think. He came to take the pack out, but the car has interrupted him. He doesn’t want to be seen with it.
Lasserio watches her for a moment, shakes his head in irritation, locks up his unit, and hops back in his car.
I dash back to mine, throw it into drive, pull across his row, and go to the next two over in case Lasserio takes a U-turn to the left instead of to the right to go back toward the exit. I don’t want him to end up behind me. I drive to the end and wait for him to pull out. When he exits two rows over, I follow him out again and onto the highway.
This time, he drives farther south to a green-box dump site, one of the county’s designated solid waste disposal areas. I’m still wondering what was so special about that pack that he needed to ditch it before the stranger saw him with it.
The dump is enclosed by a tall chain-link fence with the dumpsters arranged in a U shape. He unloads the dresser with minimal effort, all recorded for posterity on my camera.
Next, he grabs the microwave, also with ease. Once I check the weight of his jetsam, I’ll know by precisely how many pounds he’s exceeded the max he claims he’s able to hoist. This “case” is a breeze, but it will pay the bills. I find myself more concerned about what he left at his storage shed and why he abandoned his mission when another person arrived.
I wait near one of the first dumpsters in the U shape on the opposite side and act like I’m trying to organize some recycling in my back seat as he backs out, swings around, and drives out of the site. He doesn’t look my way.
Nobodyis looking my way because the place is empty.
Good.
After his taillights are out of sight, I pull over to the spot he vacated, get out, go to the side of the dumpster, and nudge the dresser to get a feelfor its weight. It’s even heavier than it looks. I prod it again, estimating an easy sixty pounds.
I take a photo of it, using my flash, since it’s getting into the thick of dusk. I try to lift the microwave that he’s placed next to the dresser, even though the sign instructs that appliances need to go to the main dump north of Kalispell. It’s an old model, so roughly as heavy as a VW Bug. I find the product information plate on the back and snap a final shot. It’ll be easy to find the actual weight online.
I’ve pocketed my phone and turned to head to my car when lights from another vehicle swing across the dumpsters and halt on me.
The driver stops in the entrance.
Kills the lights.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. What the hell? Why turn the lights off?
The night isn’t completely black—the sky above the horizon has turned a pale lavender—but the glare has momentarily blinded me. I readjust to the fading twilight and keeping an eye on the mystery car, begin to cross the thirty yards to mine.
But I freeze because the lightless mystery car begins to head slowly toward my SUV. Its tires grind on the gravel. It pulls to a stop on the other side of my car so it’s hidden and I can’t see the driver’s seat.
I stand still, waiting for them to get out and deposit a bag of trash.
Nothing. No movement.
My hand goes to my gun, even though it isn’t there. I left it in the SUV, under the driver’s seat. So much for getting myself all tuned up at the range.
Crickets chirp in the dry surrounding fields and the breeze brushes the tops of the cottonwoods in the distance. The rancid scent of garbage fills my nose. Cars from the highway swish by, and I think I pick up the soft click of a door opening, but I’m not positive. Did someone slip out? I didn’t lock my door since I was only going to be gone for a second to take the photos.
What a fool. With everything going on, and after stubbornly telling Greene and Alderson that I was more than capable of defending myself,how could I be so careless? To top it off, I didn’t even mention to anyone that I was coming here.
I pull my phone out and debate making a call. To? Greene and Alderson? Zane? What would I say? There might be a bad guy at the recycling center? By the time anyone got here, whatever’s going to happen will have happened.
Again, a dark figure shifts around beside my car, but I can’t tell if it’s walking over to the bin to unload something or staying beside my vehicle. The evening has faded to a steely, dark gray. I continue to strain through the dark to see. I’m not fool enough to stroll back to my car without knowing what they’re up to. But now I’m starting to get angry. Screw this.
Fully shielded beside the dumpster, I yell, “Hey!”
No one answers.
