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So Buzzy had not been Ursula's drinking partner. “But she never came, right?”

“No.” Buzzy let out a big sigh. “Laura got mad at me all over again, as if it were my fault.”

My feet were sinking into the muddy dirt spur. “Thanks, Buzzy. Is this … where you usually park your van?”

“I don't have a special spot. Yet.” His face grew rigid.

I thanked him and trudged back to the Jag. It was depressing to think of Buzzy O'Toole, living inside that old van and searching out a secluded place to rest his head. Going home to my cozy log cabin was very appealing, but I had started out in search of Roger. Recalling the little wretch's sometimes ghoulish personality, I continued down River Road.

Vida's car was parked outside of the O'Toole place. There was no sign of the Fury. I kept going until I reached the spot where Ursula's body had been found.

While the gray clouds still hung low over the mountains, the rain had almost stopped. I pulled up short of
where Vida and I had parked on Saturday. I didn't want to spoil any new tire tracks.

To my satisfaction, there was a fresh set in the muddy dirt. Close scrutiny indicated that three of the tires had the same tread; the fourth did not. Cal's spare, I figured, and stood by the side of the road gazing thoughtfully upriver. Roger would have enjoyed seeing the site where Ursula Randall's body had been found. The kid had a morbid streak, though perhaps no more than most of his peers.

However, the Fury was gone now. Nor did I notice any sign of the car having turned around, at least not within a fifty-foot radius. Rather, the tracks reversed just slightly, then veered back onto the road. Given the rainy conditions, it wasn't hard to follow the car's path into the woods.

I lost sight of the river after less than a quarter of a mile. The relatively flat terrain also disappeared as the road began to climb and twist up the face of Mount Sawyer. It was typical, a treacherous corridor that always made me marvel at how those huge rigs navigated the rugged switchbacks, the makeshift bridges, the narrow passages gouged out of the mountains with a thousand-foot drop on the sheer side. Loggers were a different breed, men who embraced danger, for whom a mill whistle was their siren call; the damp woods, their aphrodisiac.

Through the trees, I could see across the valley, though my view of Mount Baldy was obscured by the low-lying clouds. The road became more rugged, with potholes and an occasional rock to dodge. The Jag didn't seem to like the ride. I sensed it would have preferred gliding along the M40 between London and Oxford. Coming out into the open on a hairpin curve, I felt the same way. Here, at the four-thousand-foot level, the second-stand timber had been cut within the last five years. Young alder grew among the logging slash, and a family of jays
chattered noisily in the branches of a Douglas fir that had been left standing. But after another curve in the road, wild blackberry vines took over, creeping among the stumps and rotting logs. I spotted a brown bear nosing around for food. He moved ponderously between the logs, indifferent to my passage. If not tame, many of the wild animals have grown bold as civilization encroaches upon their habitat. I almost expected to see the bear's mate and a couple of half-grown cubs.

I didn't expect to see the four motorcycles. Indeed, I heard them first, a gathering roar like the sound of a waterfall. They careened around a blind corner, two and two, forcing me to swerve into the bank. I braked just a little too late but not too hard. The Jag nestled into the wet earth, sending a cascade of rocks and mud tumbling onto the bonnet. The bikers roared on down the mountainside, heedless of my dilemma.

It was only after the noise had faded and my engine died that I realized I was shaking. Had I made the wrong choice, I might have gone straight over the cliff on the other side of the road. I sat motionless for at least two minutes, trying to collect myself. A jagged flash of lightning further unnerved me, followed by a rolling clap of thunder. I waited, trying to calm down, steeling myself for another burst. Nothing happened, except that the clouds seemed to encircle me like an eerie pall. I started the car again and backed slowly out onto the road. A more confident driver might have risked turning around on this narrow stretch, but I was too upset to try. With the rocks rolling off the bonnet, I crept along through the gathering mists, still climbing, still winding, still bumping over potholes. At last I found a spot that was wide enough to turn the Jag in the opposite direction. My personal and professional curiosity had been stifled. Whatever lay ahead on this hazardous logging road wasn't worth jeopardizing my life—or my Jag. For all I knew, a swarm of bikers might be camped among the
crags of Mount Sawyer. My eyes darted between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. I didn't need any more surprises coming up behind me. Briefly I thought about the Colt .45. But I doubted that it would have done me any good had I brought it along. If the bikers were armed, they would have been much quicker on the draw.

It began to rain again as I made the descent, and I realized that somewhere after the first quarter mile, I had lost sight of the Fury's tire treads. In the parts of the road that were heavily sheltered by trees, the ground hadn't turned completely soft; If Roger and company had gone all the way up the road, they might still be there. With the bikers. I hardly knew who to root for.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the pavement shortly before the turnoff to Ed and Shirley Bronsky's construction site. A minute later I was passing Laura and Buzzy O'Toole's house. Vida's Buick was gone. Wondering if she had driven to the sheriff's office, I headed for Front Street. There was no sign of her, but Milo was just getting out of his patrol car. He saw me and waited on the sidewalk.

“What a weekend!” he exclaimed, removing his regulation hat and tugging at his graying sandy hair. “The emergency room's so busy, Flake had to call for backup from Monroe.”

“I don't think doctors call it backup,” I said with a sympathetic smile. “Are you still on duty?”

Milo had put his hat back on, which was a good thing because another flash of lightning and clap of thunder heralded a real downpour. “Let's get inside,” the sheriff said, grabbing my arm. “Maybe this rain'11 cool everybody down.”

Toni Andreas, the department's receptionist, and Deputy Jack Mullins were behind the big curving desk in the outer office. Toni nodded and smiled in her vague, pretty way, and Jack grinned impishly.

“What did you do for fun on Labor Day when you
lived in Portland?” Jack asked me. “Go out to the skating rink at Lloyd Center and watch people fall down? I'll bet it was pretty tame compared to Alpine.”

I merely shook my head as Milo led me into his private office. He hadn't directly answered my question about still being on duty, but since we were in his place of work instead of the bar at the Venison Inn, I figured it out for myself.

“Really ugly accident up near the summit,” he said, shaking rain off his hat. “Four cars, nine injured, two may not make it. Jeez, I wish people would smarten up when they drive on a three-day weekend. In fact, I wish the dumb bastards would all stay home.”

Briefly I commiserated with the sheriff. Then I went over to the wall map of Skykomish County, where I found the logging track that took off from River Road. “Milo,” I said as my finger traced the zigzagging red line, “what's at the end of this?”

“See for yourself,” he replied. “It peters out near the start of Deception Creek.”

“I don't mean the topography.” I tapped the map with my index finger. “I'm talking about … well, I'm not sure. Have you found Roger and the Fairfax boys yet?”

Milo waved an impatient hand. “They've been spotted at least five times, cruising around with Mike O'Toole. The last sighting was by his mother. They shot past Laura O'Toole about an hour ago, doing sixty-five. I'm going to bust Mike's butt real good.”

I was still at the map. “I think they might be up here. I followed their tracks to the place on the river where Ursula's body was found. They took off from there, up the dirt road. I ran into some bikers.”

“Bikers?” Milo's hazel eyes showed a spark of interest. “How many?”

“Four. They were coming down Mount Sawyer. Lots of leather, a ton of studs, fringe all over the place. They ran me off the road.” Suddenly I sounded sulky.

“Jeez! Are you okay?” Milo was leaning on the desk, eyeing me with concern.

“Do I seem okay?” Now I was surly.

“Bikers.” Milo stroked his long chin. “I wonder …”

“What?”

The sheriff didn't answer immediately, then he shook himself. “Nothing, maybe. But we've wondered … you know, about all the vandalism and assaults. Several witnesses described perps who didn't sound like they belonged around here.”

“Did they sound like bikers?” I asked, finally sitting down in one of Milo's visitors' chairs. More thunder rolled, and the lights flickered briefly.

“A couple did. But you know how witnesses overreact. If some guy's wearing a leather jacket, he's automatically a biker. Anybody who has a hog is a bad guy as far as the loggers are concerned. They hate bikers almost as much as they hate the environmentalists.”

The logger-biker feud was long-standing in timber towns. Over the years the Icicle Creek Tavern in particular had been the site of some violent clashes. I had grown silent for a few moments, but finally offered the opinion that Milo or his deputies ought to go up the Mount Sawyer road and see if Roger and his newfound friends were there.

“Before it gets dark,” I added somewhat hastily. I didn't want Milo to think I was telling him how to do his job. Occasionally he returned the favor, and it infuriated me.

Milo started to shake his head, then checked his scanner. An apparent calm had settled in over Alpine, along with the clouds descending through the trees and onto the rooftops. “I could send the Search and Rescue guys,” he said. “They could bring Bill Blatt with them, in case they need a sidearm.”

It appeared that Milo had taken me seriously.

“Where's Vida?” I asked, knowing that she wasn't sitting around twiddling her thumbs.

Milo's tan grew even deeper. “She's … ah… well… she insisted on joining the Search and Rescue team. Actually she's with her nephew Bill. She left her car out back, on Railroad Avenue.”

I tried not to smile. “Isn't it illegal for a civilian to go with a deputy?”

Milo's skin grew ever darker. “Bill asked her to sign a waiver.”

“I'm surprised he had the nerve,” I said. “Did she do it?”

“I don't know.” Milo leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “I don't want to know.”

Again, I grew silent. The clock on Milo's wall told me it was going on seven. “If you go off duty in the next hour, do you want to eat some dinner at the Venison Inn?”

Milo stretched and yawned. “Sure. But I won't leave until those damned kids are rounded up. Vida'd kill me if I did.”

“Understood. I'm going home now and change. I'll call you between seven-thirty and eight.”

Milo nodded. I left, bidding farewell to Toni and Jack on my way out through the front office. It appeared that Toni was also leaving, slipping into her jacket and wrapping a scarf over her short black curly hair. I considered waiting to accompany her outside, but she took her time. Toni is a very deliberate sort of person. Some, such as Adam, who once dated her, might say
slow
—but the sheriff wouldn't have hired her if she couldn't do the job.

I'd barely gotten through the door when the maroon Fury pulled in next to my Jag. To my amazement, Vida exited from the driver's side. Peering through the rain, I could see a trio of heads in the backseat. Before I could say a word, Bill Blatt's squad car also came to a stop. He, too, had a passenger. I guessed it to be Mike O'Toole.

“I'm going to get my car and take Roger home,” Vida declared in an angry voice. “Milo can do what he likes with those odious Fairfax children. If I were him, I'd put them in juvenile hall.”

Bill Blatt was escorting Mike OToole. I recognized the teenager now, a medium-sized kid with long brown hair that fell over much of his nondescript face. His attempt at a swagger was shattered by a bolt of lightning that startled all of us. The crash of thunder followed at once, indicating that the storm was directly over Alpine.

“Excuse me,” Bill said apologetically, steering Mike through the door.

I had stepped aside and started after Vida. Roger and the Fairfax boys remained in the Fury's backseat. “Where were they?” I shouted as more thunder and lightning hit.

“On Mount Sawyer.” Vida kept tromping straight down Third Street, impervious to the pelting rain. “Roger's soaked. I'm bringing the car around so that he doesn't get any wetter. I'm afraid the little fellow is going to take a chill.”

If I had thought Vida's anger had been partially reserved for her grandson, I was wrong. Apparently all her ire was directed at Roger's companions. I caught up with her while she opened the Buick's door. Our eyes met across the top of the car.

“Get in,” she commanded. “I've something to tell you. I can do it while I drive around to Front Street.”

I obeyed, as I always did, despite the fact that I was the employer, Vida, the employee. Our situations often seemed reversed. Vida sat behind the wheel, removed her hat, and ran her fingers through her unruly gray curls. Then she yanked off her glasses and rubbed furiously at her eyes.

“Ooooh! It's a good thing I called on Laura O'Toole. She'd seen those boys headed up that logging road and hadn't done a thing to stop them. That's the trouble
with parents nowadays—they're afraid to discipline their children.”

It was hardly the moment to point out that Roger needed as much discipline as any Fairfax or O'Toole. Nor would Vida have believed me if I'd said so. “But you didn't go after them directly,” I noted. If she had, I would have passed her on the road.

“No.” Vida shook her head, the curls hopping around her face. “I went back to get Billy and have him alert the Search and Rescue team. The Fairfaxes are with them. They should be back by now, too. Such a pair! Grant's a meek, spineless sort, and Greer's unbearably opinionated, especially about modern child rearing. No wonder their children are so hopeless.”