The Missing and the Dead: A Bragg Thriller (13 page)

Morgan's hand covered quite a portion of the map. "Now Bragg, I try to give my men a break on weekends. I short myself, to tell you the truth, and a lot of the auxiliaries are out of town on one thing or another. The sheriff isn't in much better shape. So all we've got right now is about seventeen volunteers to search an area of several square miles. The Air Force is sending up a couple of helicopters, and I think we'll get some National Guard help, but not until later in the day."

He drew himself up and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Bragg, I need help right now, not this afternoon."

"You're asking a lot, Chief. I'm looking for a missing man. He didn't have any reason to drop out of sight voluntarily. I think he's in trouble."

"That's one man," Morgan replied. "We don't know how many might be back in those mountains, or how badly they might be hurt, or even if there are women and kids up there. After we find them, I'll help you as much as I can on this other matter."

There wasn't any sense arguing about it, if I wanted his cooperation. "Okay. I'll help out for one day. By then you should have enough of your own men back here."

"That's fair enough, and I thank you." He went back around to sit at his desk and reached for the phone. "The fellow who just left here is Bill Fairbanks. He'll be in charge. Go report to him. Maybe he can scout up something for you to wear."

"It won't be necessary."

The chief hesitated. "You're apt to get messed up wearing those duds."

"I've got some casual gear in my car. You never know what you're apt to get into when you leave the big city."

"Smart," grinned the chief. "Damn smart."

I went out and found Fairbanks.

"It turns out I'm coming along," I told him. "I have a change of clothes in my car. When are you leaving?"

"In about fifteen minutes. Do you have any friends you could bring along?"

"I'm afraid not." I went to the car and got out some scruffy pants and a shirt and jacket, along with my hiking boots and some wool socks. I went inside and changed in a men's room. Then I found a phone booth and called Allison. I explained how the chief had drafted me.

"I like that," she said. "It means you'll be around a little while longer."

"It looks that way. I thought while I was gone you might be able to do me a favor, so the day isn't a total waste. How late will you work in your studio?"

"Until this afternoon sometime. What do you need?"

"I'd like you to try to find the motel Jerry might have stayed at after he left you that Monday night."

"That sounds easy enough, we don't have too many here."

"It might be tougher than you think. There isn't any reason I can think of for him to have registered under a phony name, but with his screwy approach to his work, he just might have. I have a photo of him I'll leave here with the woman clerk at the police station. Pick it up when you're ready to start looking. Try
to speak with the person at each place who was manning the check-in desk that night."

"Okay. When do you think you'll be back?"

"Tonight, sometime. I told the chief I'd give him one day of my time. I'll take you out to dinner if somebody's still open."

I went back and left the photo of Jerry Lind, then took my street clothes out to the car. Mike Parsons and another older man I'd seen at his party the night before were leaning against the side of a trail vehicle. I went over to them.

"Howdy, Mr. Bragg. Lending a hand, I see."

"I guess so. How are you, Mr. Parsons?"

"Just fine, thanks. This here's Abe Whelan."

Whelan nodded, and we shook hands. He was a tall, hard-looking gent, long-boned and lean with quick-moving eyes, as if he might miss something.

"Was Allison able to help you out any?" Parsons asked.

"Not really. She was the person I was looking for, but she couldn't tell me much."

We were interrupted by a startled cry to one side. I turned. It was Homer from the alley the night before, purple welts on his face and all. He jabbed an accusing finger at me and grabbed the arm of a large, uniformed police officer he was with.

"That's him! The punk who waylaid me."

The cop moved toward me with a mean expression. I got out my wallet, opened it and held it up.

"Before you make a bad move, officer, you'd better hear what I have to say about that gentleman. I work out of San Francisco. I was conducting an investigation into a very important matter last evening over at the Ten O'clock, questioning a witness. Simply because the witness happened to be an attractive woman, Romeo there behind you, drunk, came over and tried to move in on us. I asked him to leave a couple of times and he didn't. Instead he started annoying the witness. So I took him outside and put him to sleep."

"What did you use on him, knucks?"

"Just my hands."

"What's he saying?" Homer demanded.

I guess his ears were still ringing from the banging I gave them the night before. The cop made a motion for him to stay back, then turned to me again.

"He says you used judo or something on him. He can't hear so well. He thinks you popped an eardrum."

"I just wanted to take the fight out of him."

"Why didn't you have the bartender call us? That's what you're supposed to do in a case like that."

"Bullshit, and you know it, officer. It happens too quickly in a bar. What's the big concern on your part? Homer file a complaint?"

"He doesn't have to. He's my brother, down visiting from Eugene. That makes it my complaint."

"Sorry to hear that," I told him, putting my wallet away. "But the stuff I handle isn't penny ante. There's a man missing. He might be dead. It's that serious. Your brother was impeding my search for him by making a jackass of himself and I can dig up a dozen local witnesses to back me up. Now if you or Homer want to pursue this any further, let's go in and have a talk with Chief Morgan. I've been in to see him once this morning. If I go in again I might have a complaint of my own to make."

The officer was stopped cold and his face reflected that. It was unfortunate it had to happen in front of the people he worked and lived with. That showed on his face as well.

"All right, buddy," the cop said softly. "But it seems to me you could have done it a little differently." He turned and took his brother's arm to lead him away.

"What is it, Stan?" Homer asked. "Why didn't you lock him up?"

The men gathered around didn't have much to say. They briefly studied me with a variety of expressions. I didn't much care for the way the day had started.

"All right, men," called Fairbanks from the bed of a pickup truck. "We'll move out now and assemble at the River Run Campground. For any of you unfamiliar with the area, that's about thirty-five miles east of here on the road to Willits. That'll be our operations base. Let's go."

I got in toward the rear of the string of cars and trucks that rolled out of the lot and streamed out of town. I had to break the speed limit some to keep up. These were a serious bunch of men. I just hoped that Jerry Lind, wherever he was, or if he was, could appreciate that and hang tough a while longer. Thirty miles out of town I was passed by Homer's cop brother, Stan. Stan gave me a lingering look as he went past. I kind of wished they'd kept him behind to guard the town.

The road played tag with the Stannis River on its winding track up a canyon on the west face of Piler's Peak, the highest point for several miles in the coastal ridge formation. It wasn't a tall mountain by the standards of a boy out of the Pacific Northwest, but it was a rugged-looking, timbered area that hadn't been completely worked over by loggers. Even the areas that had were by now covered with a tough second growth. The River Run Campground was north of the highway. It was at a place where the river flattened some, making it a good fishing site. Also, it was the jump off point for several trails leading up the mountain. The highway cut back away from the river just above and meandered over to a draw between Piler's Peak and the next high point down south.

The men left their vehicles and crossed to a picnic area. Fairbanks was spreading out a large map on one of the tables. I opened the trunk of my car to get out my day pack. It was a bag I kept filled with first aid stuff: a flashlight, matches, rope, Spam and chocolate, small axe and a signaling mirror, a whistle, compass and anything else I figured might save my tail some day. I decided also to take along one of the handguns I'd put in my suitcase. It would make a good communication device back
in those canyons. I took the lighter weapon, a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver. It was a nice little weapon called a Combat Masterpiece that I'd picked up one time after I'd been thrown in with a group of Marines during some very disorganized days in Korea. I looped my binocular case over a shoulder and carried the gear to a picnic table near where Fairbanks was going over the map and organizing things.

By now there were about thirty of us in all. Fairbanks said we'd all hike up to where a foot bridge crossed the Stannis River, about a half mile above the campground. There we'd split into two groups. One bunch would cross the bridge so we could work up both sides of the river toward the top of the peak. The assumption was that since it was the highest formation in the area, it would have been most apt to have been hit by a low-flying aircraft. I have a pal who has his own plane, and from things he'd told me about weather and this sort of country, I knew that Fairbanks' assumption wasn't necessarily valid. But then I wasn't in charge of things and wouldn't have a better idea anyhow. I did ask him if somebody had thought to notify the Civil Air Patrol and see if they could get an air search underway. He said they were working on it.

Fairbanks had some walkie-talkies. He left one with a slight fellow he picked to stay at the campground to man a larger portable radio unit that could reach police communications in Barracks Cove.

"Something else we should think about," one grizzled old guy told Fairbanks. "If there are survivors, one of them might be trying to make their way down from the top. Could have gotten below us here, even. There's all them old, beat-up logging roads that used to come out a couple miles back down the highway. Maybe someone should go back in there and do some honkin' and yellin'."

"A good idea," Fairbanks agreed, looking over the crowd.

I left them to their scratching and planning and found a water tap where I could fill my plastic canteen. There was another five minutes or so of discussion before they began to move out.

"Any of you men who might be out of shape," said Fairbanks, "don't push yourself so hard we have to come and get you out as well." He smiled briefly in my direction. "From the looks of your outfit, mister, you might have done a little tramping through the country."

"A little."

"Fine. Then you go with the Hawkes group across the river. It's a little rugged. How many of the rest of you feel up to that side?"

Several men raised their hands. I was cheered to see that Homer's cop brother wasn't one of them.

"That's enough," said Fairbanks. "The rest will go up this side with me. Now try to keep in touch with the radios. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Okay. It's apt to be a long, hard day. Somebody's arranging to get some grub up here for us by late this afternoon, so there is at least that to look forward to. Let's get going. Oh, and Hawkes, let's leave any town troubles back in town, huh?"

The cop grunted and I sighed. That's why he hadn't raised his hand to join the cross-river party. He'd be leading it.

ELEVEN

G
oing up the initial part of the trail there wasn't much chatter. Everybody was huffing and puffing and trying to get their bodies into some sort of trail rhythm. When we reached the foot bridge, Fairbanks and Hawkes conferred for a minute before we split up. The bridge was a sturdy log and plank affair about twenty feet long that spanned the Stannis where it was pinched into a narrow channel by granite outcroppings. Hawkes was leading the column, so I hung back toward the rear with a fellow named Kennedy. He was a man of about thirty who turned out to be the chief of the volunteer fire department back in Barracks Cove.

"You must be familiar with the country up here," I told him.

"Should be. My old man began dragging me up here to hunt when I was twelve years old."

"Does the river narrow in many places like back at the bridge?"

"Not that I know of. There's some places high up, where a bunch of springs start to feed her, where you can get across pretty easy."

"How is it down below?"

"Tough," Kennedy told me. "It drops pretty fast, and the channel's deep. Water comes up to a man's ass most places. I wouldn't try fording it myself, 'less there was a goddamn bear after me or something."

We kept climbing. The sun was starting to break through the morning mist. I was beginning to appreciate why Fairbanks wanted more experienced climbers on this side. The trail got
steeper. It crossed a rocky slope and led us north of the river. There was considerable sweating and grunting on all sides. When we reached a wooded plateau Hawkes called a break. He tried to raise Fairbanks on one of the walkie-talkies. I took off my jacket and stuffed it into the pack. When Hawkes finished his conversation he came over to where Kennedy and I shared a log.