Among the Missing (5 page)

"For the family scrapbook," she explained.

"You're a terrible woman, Mary."

"I know, I know."

"No wonder my kid fell for you."

Turning away from her, he waded into the river.

Pac watched him trudge out. When the water was nearly waist deep, he dived. Then he swam to the other side and climbed onto the bank, his shorts low and clinging. Standing on dry land, he hitched the shorts up. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

Pac, grinning, showed him a thumbs-up.

He returned the gesture.

After Rusty had disappeared into the trees, Pac began taking photos of the crime scene. The area photos went well. She took more than necessary, postponing the time when she would need to do detail shots of the body.

But that time came. She took the photos slowly, carefully. When the roll of film was used up, she reloaded, set the camera aside, and drew sketches of the scene.

That took care of it. She wanted to start working on the car, but she couldn't leave the body unattended. The sun pressed down on her. With a sleeve, she wiped sweat off her forehead.

A swim would feel great.

She didn't dare.

Instead, she picked up her camera and fingerprint box and walked to the foot of the trail. She found a shaded area, kicked aside some pine cones and sat down. The mat of needles made quiet crashing sounds.

She sat there waiting until she heard the voices. Then she stood up and brushed needles off the seat of her trousers.

Two men came down the trail carrying an empty stretcher.

"Top of the morning," called Birkus. "They say you've got a present for us."

Pac got to her feet.

Chapter Five

Witnesses

On the other side of the river, Rusty walked carefully down the narrow path through the woods, watching for the killer, for clues, for the missing head, for pine cones.

The pine cones, whenever he stepped on one, hurt like hell.

Except for an empty mashed pack of Camels, a Hershey wrapper and a couple of crushed beer cans, the path was clean. None of the debris looked fresh.

Half a dozen overgrown footpaths led into the path he was following. The suspect could have taken any of them, but Rusty doubted it. This was the main path, the one leading most directly to the Sweet Meadow roadhead.

When the ground began to rise, he knew he was close to the roadhead. He left the path and approached cautiously. Pine needles scratched his arms. Lines of spider webs stuck to his face and shoulders.

At last, he could see the parking area.

It was deserted except for a battered old Chevy pick-up truck.

Though he could see no one, he heard a man's quiet laughter.

It came from the truck.

The pick-up was about twenty feet away. Through its windshield, Rusty saw an empty rifle rack. Nobody was visible inside the cab.

He looked to the left and right. He saw no one.

Before stepping into the open, he memorized the license plate number.

He walked quietly toward the truck. His hand moved to his hip. Though he sought the comfort of his Smith & Wesson, he found only the damp fabric of his underwear. He almost muttered a curse, but stopped himself.

At the truck, he glanced through an open window. The cab was empty. A faded purse made of blue jeans, complete with pockets but without any legs, lay on the passenger seat. There were sandals on the floor. Stepping toward the back, he looked down into the truck bed.

He grinned.

Then he slammed his hand against the side panel, making the metal ring out.

"Hey!" the girl blurted. "Shit! What the fuck?" Rolling over, she scowled up at Rusty. A teenager. She had frizzy blond hair and a pierced eyebrow with a ring in it that made Rusty hurt, just looking. She had one through her left nostril, too. And one in her upper lip. And about six running down the rim of each ear.

Hell on metal detectors, Rusty thought.

She wore a pink T-shirt, and was covered almost to the shoulders by an old brown blanket. "Hey," she said, "what's happening?"

"Saturday morning," Rusty told her.

"Yer a riot."

Beside her, a boy pulled down a blanket that had been hiding his face. He frowned at Rusty. Like the girl, he had a ring through one eyebrow. None in his nose or lips, though, and only one ear was pierced. Its lobe was decorated with a small, silver skull.

Rusty guessed his age at seventeen, maybe eighteen.

Not thirty and certainly not bald.

Though his hair was cut so short it resembled a three-day growth of whiskers, it was jet black. Nobody would be likely to describe him as bald.

Not our guy, Rusty thought. Not unless the Bass's description had been way off.

The boy said nothing. Underneath the blanket, his arms were moving. Rusty figured he was probably fastening his pants.

"So, what're ya doin' here?" the girl asked.

"Taking a look around."

"Well, now that y'seen us, how about gettin' the fuck outa here?"

"You got any clothes on?" the boy asked him. Sitting up, he looked over the side panel. "Not much. What are you, some kind of degenerate?"

"What's he got on?" the girl asked.

"Just his undies."

"No shit?"

"I'd like to ask you some questions," Rusty said.

"I'd like to ask you something," the girl said. "Briefs or boxers?"

"Maybe we can be serious here for a minute," Rusty said.

"I'm serious," the girl said. "I'm always serious, right Bill?"

"That's right," her boyfriend said. To Rusty, he said, "Trink's always serious."

"I haven't got a funny bone in my body," she said, and giggled.

"If you're looking for your clothes," Bill said, "I haven't seen them. Have you seen his clothes, Trink?"

"Nope." She sat up, crawled over Bill, and looked down at Rusty's shorts. "Boxers. Hmm." She looked him up and down, then said, "Hey, mister, you wanta climb in and join us?"

"Thanks for the invitation, but no thanks. I'd like you both to climb out."

Bill frowned again. "What for?"

"I want to talk."

"We don't have your clothes."

"Maybe he thinks you're layin' on 'em, Bill."

"Well, I'm not."

"I know that, tell him."

"Why? It's none of his business."

"It's his business if you're on top of his clothes."

"But I'm not," Bill said.

"I'm not looking for my clothes," Rusty explained. "I need some information."

"Why aren't you looking for 'em?" Trink asked. "Seems to me you oughta be."

"Maybe he's a flasher," Bill told her.

"Are you a flasher, mister? Go on and flash us if you want."

"Did either of you see a man here this morning?" Rusty asked.

"I did." The girl glanced at Bill. "Did you?"

"Not me."

"You must be blind."

"What did the man look like?" Rusty asked.

Frowning, she rubbed her chin. "Oh, he was about forty-five. He was some six feet tall or more, and maybe weighed a couple hundred pounds. Had him a good build, a real nice build. Had red hair and green eyes and freckles. And, let's see . . . yeah . . . he was wearin' boxer shorts."

"You're a big help," Rusty said. "I'm Sheriff Rusty Hodges. This is an official investigation, so I suggest you cooperate unless you want to find yourselves in a jam."

"He claims he's a sheriff," Trink told Bill.

"I heard."

"So where's your badge, Sheriff?"

"He don't need no steenking badges!" Bill blurted.

"Think we should talk to him?"

"Hell, no!"

Frowning seriously at Rusty, she said, "We never talk to cops in undies. Not without our lawyers."

"You may need a lawyer," Rusty said, "if I decide to search this truck."

"You can't search it," Bill complained.

"Watch me."

"You need a warrant."

"I don't need no steenking warrant." He nodded toward the tweezers that lay in plain sight on their blanket. "That looks like a roach clip to me, and it's right out in plain sight. That's all . . ."

"That ain't no roach clip," Trink said. "That's my eyebrow pluckers."

"Both of you climb down, please."

Bill shook his head. "Why should we?"

"Now."

"Okay, okay. Don't get your shorts in a twist."

Trink laughed.

"You first, Bill. Trink, you stay there till I tell you to move. Come on down, Bill."

The boy stood up. He was wearing a rumpled T-shirt with the logo, "Eat Shit and Die," a pair of torn and faded blue jeans, and sandals. The waist button of the jeans was fastened, but his zipper was down. He pulled it up. Fastening his belt, he stepped to the rear of the truck bed. Then he climbed over the tailgate and jumped down.

Rusty turned him around. Standing behind the boy, he bent him over. "Hands on the tailgate," he said. After Bill complied, Rusty nudged his feet apart and started to frisk him.

"Hey, that tickles."

Rusty worked his way down to Bill's waist, then stopped. "Anything sharp in your pockets? Razors, needles?"

"No. No, sir."

"I put my hand in, nothing's going to poke me?"

"I told you . . ."

"Okay." Keeping one hand on Bill's back, he searched the jeans pockets with the other.

They were empty.

"Where's your ID?"

"In the cab. You gonna bust us?"

"We'll see." He backed away from Bill. "Stand over there," he said.

Bill stepped aside. "Here?"

"That's good. Okay, young lady. Please step down."

Trink swept the blanket away and stood up. Her T-shirt was pink, fairly clean, and had no sayings or decorations. It might've fit her when she was nine years old. It hugged her body, clinging to her breasts. She didn't wear a bra, but she obviously wore nipple rings. The T-shirt didn't quite reach down to her navel. On purpose, Rusty supposed. So everyone would be able to admire the ring in her belly button. Down low on her hips, she wore a flower patterned skirt. Long and billowy, it reminded Rusty of the "granny dresses" that gals used to wear back in his college days.

If I had a daughter and she looked like this . . .

Straddling the pick-up's tailgate, Trink raised her skirt waist-high. She wore nothing beneath it. Except a few small, gold rings. "Give me a hand, Sheriff?" She laughed.

"Go on, Sheriff," Bill added, sounding amused.

Rusty turned to Bill. "You knock it off."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trink leap. He didn't have time to get out of the way, so he braced himself for the impact. When she dropped onto him, he staggered sideways but didn't go down. She clung to him with her arms and legs.

He twisted, trying to free himself.

Bill, rushing in, threw a right cross.

Rusty blocked it with one arm. At the same moment, teeth clamped down on his shoulder. He jabbed his elbow sideways into Trink's belly. With a whuff of escaping air, she collapsed.

Rusty turned all his attention to Bill. He walked into the boy's punches, catching them on his wrists and forearms, brushing them away until he grabbed the boy's shirt front.

"Hey, okay!"

"Okay what?" Rusty swung him sideways and slammed him against the truck.

"What do you want to know, man? Hey, just ask. Whatever you want, okay? I'll tell you anything. Just ask."

"Who did you see this morning?"

"Nobody."

"The truth."

"We heard a car start. That's what woke us up."

"When was that?"

"I don't know, maybe an hour ago."

"What did the car look like?"

"We didn't see it."

"What about the driver?"

"Didn't see him."

"You're not being very helpful, Billy."

"Well, shit . . ."

"Okay. Fine. You have the right to remain silent."

"Hey!"

"If you choose to give up the right to . . ."

"Hey, man! No! Don't bust me! Please! I saw the guy. Okay? Only not this morning."

"When?"

"Last night."

"What time?"

"I don't know. One or two, when we pulled in here."

"What did you see?"

"Not much. It was so dark. But there was this van parked . . ."

Rusty heard movement behind him.

Before he could turn, a fist swung up between his legs. A grenade seemed to explode, blasting up through his groin and bowels, tearing out his backbone, his lungs, his brain.

Vaguely, he knew he was down. He heard voices. They didn't matter. He heard the truck engine start. He didn't care. He watched the truck drive away and didn't give a damn.

He only cared about the pain.

Chapter Six

Merton Drops In

The man trotted up the porch stairs of the brightly painted house and jabbed his finger into the doorbell button. From inside came the ring of chimes. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. He looked behind him. No cars were approaching on the quiet, sunny street. Two boys on bikes pedaled by, hunched low over their handlebars, racing. Across the street, a young woman was walking her dog.

He hit the button again. Then two more times.

Inside the house, a toilet flushed.

So that's why he's making me wait, the man thought. I suppose I can't blame him for that.

Somewhere behind him, a house door banged shut. He didn't turn around to look. He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and waited.

"Who's there?" asked a voice from inside the house.

"It's me -- Merton," he answered, pulling open the aluminum framed screen door.

A guard chain rattled. A dead bolt clacked. Then the wooden door swung open and Merton stepped into the house.

He found Walter half hidden behind the door, gazing at him. "Good heavens!" Walter blurted. "What on earth happened to you? You look an absolute fright!"

"Is your car in the garage?"

"Certainly."

"Move it. Fast."

"My God, what have you done this time?"

"If you're not going to let me use your garage . . ."

"I didn't say that. Of course you may use my garage."

"Then let's get your car out of it."

"Just one minute, please. I'm hardly dressed for an excursion outside."