Cindy Ellis was happily received by Burt Stalling, the leader of the Back Country Trail Riders and coordinator of the sheriff's posse. It was nearly sunset by the time she reported, but the searchers would continue as long as possible, until darkness forced them to stop.
"We can use more hands," Burt told her. "Especially experienced trail riders. Only a few of the folks who were able to come from the Eagle Scouts and the local trail riders have been out with us before, so we'll have to do a little on-site training when they get here. We've got miles of highway to cover between Glacier and the ski lodge just to find the start of the trail. Now, normally I pair up two or more riders to take the trails, but since we're short and you have a vehicle, I think I'll send you out with one of the 4X4 teams. A rider can sometimes spot something from horseback a walker doesn't see."
Cindy, remembering Felicity Fortune's instructions, said, "Could you tell me who Haisley Henderson is, sir? My boss gave me something to return to him."
"Sure. In fact, I'll post you with Hay. Good man."
About that time, another 4X4 drove up and a tall, rangy man in his late forties got out. Cindy was immediately impressed by the REI couture he sported. She'd been mooning over the catalog, wishing for just such a jacket as he wore, but the cost was way more than she could see spending. Especially now, without a job.
Burt greeted the man.
"You Stalling?" the man asked.
"Naw," Burt said, with a wink to Cindy to show he'd pulled this particular joke many times before. "Just pausin' to assign this young lady to her post. Just kiddin', son. What can I do for you?"
"Name's Ray Kinsale. Neil back at SAR headquarters said you could use another 4X4 and told me to report to you for assignment."
"You've had CPR and first-aid training?"
The man nodded. There was something about him that seemed familiar to Cindy, but the man wasn't speaking or moving enough to give her any further clues as to where she might have seen him before.
"Okay, then. You might as well get trained by Hay Henderson too. I like having three on a team if possible. Missus H. was gonna have to go search too since we're so shorthanded, even though she's our top base-camp organizer. This way we can keep her at base with you two pups for Hay to train."
Cindy didn't mind being called a pup but the other newcomer looked surprised, even a little shocked, as if he never, ever considered himself in those terms. He smiled a tight, tense smile, just a little. Cindy thought if he ever relaxed he might be pretty nice-looking.
She and the newcomer convoyed out to the former site of the ranger station just west of Shuksan campground where Hay Henderson was beginning his leg of the search. How had Felicity known Hay Henderson and Shuksan would go together? That was the place Felicity had told her about. Shouldn't she have just told the SAR coordinator? Wouldn't that have done more good? Cindy shook her head wonderingly. Well, she hadn't, and any woman who could make a jeep and horse trailer out of a motorcycle could pretty well do as she liked.
Hay Henderson, a hairy biker-looking guy, turned out to be a good and patient teacher, assigning each of them to comb a yard at a time of the assigned area.
"We're looking for a sign, any evidence that the girl or the perp have been here," Hay told them.
"Red," Cindy muttered, remembering Felicity's words and scanning the trees and bushes, looking for a flash of that color.
"What?" Ray asked.
"She was wearing red, the TV said," Cindy repeated, guessing that the TV would have made routine mention of the girl's clothing. "I was just telling myself what to look for."
"A school uniform," Ray said. "Do we have to go so slow? I mean, anything could be happening to the poor kid. Can't we speed things up?"
Hay shook his head and said, "I know how you feel, buddy. But slow and steady is the best way. We got everybody on it we can, and we'll have more in the morning. Meanwhile, we don't want to stumble around and mess up a clue we miss because we're in a hurry. Comprende?"
Ray had exhausted his supply of words for the moment and nodded, close-mouthed. He looked truly miserable, though, and Cindy felt sorry for him.
"Okay, let's boogie," Hay said.
Cindy had Punkin saddled and ready by then and mounted up while Ray and Hay—sounded like a team of stand-up comedians—beat the bushes from as high as they could see down to the ground. They covered the Shuksan campground and the stretch of road between it as the light faded so much that Cindy suddenly realized she scarcely could see color.
They found red cigarette packages, used condoms, paper cups and McDonald's yellow-and-red cardboard boxes. They found several discarded articles of clothing including a herringbone patterned sock, a bra much bigger than any schoolgirl was likely to wear, and a black tractor cap with the legend "Over the Hill" on its crown. But no red cloth, none at all.
"Okay, gang," Hay said. "That's it. We'll hit the picnic grounds tomorrow at first light."
* * *
Sno tried to light the joint, but it was wet. All it would do was smolder. The rain drizzled lightly-down and didn't help matters at all. Here by the river, the feeder creek rushed over the rocks as loud as one of Raydir's concerts, and for a while she sat with her arms hugging her knees, the cold and damp seeping up from the ground, through her jeans and soaking her butt.
The fragrance of the wood smoke drifted toward her from the cabin and she yearned toward it with part of her, while the other part wanted to be alone, away from all those guys who at least had each other and their memories of a war that was over way before she was born. They could say what they wanted to about it; at least something had happened then. At least their enemies were people from another country, not in their own families.
Well, that wasn't exactly right either. Doc's father had been an alcoholic, and Maurice's mom used drugs and tried to sell him to her boyfriends—even though he said he ran away, Sno wondered. Trip-Wire had the crap beaten out of him every day of his life before he joined the service and had taken the opportunity to beat the crap out of somebody else until the anger was all gone, leaving just that jumpy, scared feeling he projected when you talked to him. He tried to make out like he was so bad but really, he was so scared. She could dig it.
* * *
In the basement of the abandoned Whatcom County Courthouse, at the circular console in the middle of a room surrounded on all sides by glass offices, Fred Moran hung up the phone after trying one more time to get through to Rose. No answer except the mocking machine message she'd left for the men she'd met on the ferry.
Fred tapped a pencil on the desk, turned it around and tapped it again.
"Anything wrong?" asked the deep, radio-announcer voice of Neil, the coordinator.
Fred shook his head slowly, chewing the inside of his lower lip. "I'm not sure."
It had been a long night but Fred was used to working nights, preferred it in fact. More action and less bureau-cracy to deal with, usually, although this night would have dragged interminably had it not been for swapping lies with Neil and talking to Rose, then to the Kitsap police about the license number she was now broadcasting on her answering machine. Johansen and Bowersox hadn't found the kids, or he'd have heard from them by now. Smitty and Chuck hadn't returned yet from going to check out the caller at the Triplehorn residence.
Normally, he would stick around and continue keeping an eye on the progress of this search while waiting by the phone for news of the Bjornsen case, but now he felt increasingly that he should have been more concerned when Rose told him about her encounter. The Search and Rescue folks wouldn't be able to discover anything until daybreak anyway, which was not for a few hours at this time in the winter.
He made a decision. He had already given all of the information King County had about the frog-man and the crime. Rose was not due at work for another hour and a half. She should still be home. He told Neil, "If something breaks, you can reach me by radio. Meanwhile, I need to go downtown, maybe over to Kitsap County to check something out."
Neil, who had a hand and an ear devoted to the telephone while the other hand traced a line on a map, nodded absently and waved the phone at him.
Fred drove south, getting caught in the heavy morning traffic outside the Boeing plant near Everett so that it was almost eight-thirty by the time he reached downtown.
He stopped in at headquarters to fill out more paperwork and pick up the ID on the license number Rose had requested. Winston Thorndyke Throckmorton. Wasn't there a judge by the name of W. T. Throckmorton? There had been some stink about him working in King County after he moved to Bainbridge Island, which was in Kitsap County. Fred remembered, because he had once been a witness in Throckmorton's court on a breaking-and-entering case. A couple of the detectives in the domestic abuse department had warned him against the judge, who they felt had a habit of dismissing cases of child molesting and domestic violence. They said he never seemed convinced by the evidence, even when it had been collected with the same care given to a drug bust. Child-molesting cases. He remembered what Marilyn Wallace, a detective sergeant, had said: "I don't think Throckmorton believes in child molesting—he acts like we're telling him dirty stories for the shock value every time we present evidence."
"Hmph," Leon Rodriguez, another detective with the same complaint, had replied. "Either he doesn't believe in it or he doesn't see anything wrong with it. His concern for the privacy of the accused seems to me like something personal."
Fred had listened to them, presented his evidence, which was taken, he thought, in an intelligent manner that led ultimately to a conviction, and forgotten about it. Now he felt as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. Did the judge not actually believe people molested children, despite a steady parade of evidence to the contrary, or did he simply not believe it was a crime because it was, as Rose suspected, something he did himself? And if he was in heavy denial about one crime, how would he feel about committing another? Fred rang Rose's house again, with the same results as he'd been getting since he called her before.
By then it was eight-thirty. DFS opened for business at eight. She should be there by now.
He identified himself to the man who answered the phone, someone he didn't recognize, and asked to speak to Rose. The man put him on hold and in another moment a voice he recognized as that of Mrs. Hager, Rose's supervisor, answered. "Miss Samson is no longer with the department."
"Since when?" Fred asked.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that."
"I spoke to her before she left for work this morning, and she didn't mention changing jobs," Fred said. "This concerns a police investigation, ma'am. Can you tell me where I might reach her?"
"I have no idea, nor could I divulge such confidential information over the telephone if I knew. If you'll excuse me, officer, we have our own highly important job to do."
And she hung up. It crossed his mind to make like the guy from Lethal Weapon, hop into a patrol car, storm into the place, cuff Hager and grill her "downtown," but that was movie and TV stuff, not real life, and besides, he didn't think she did know where to find Rose. But he was pretty sure Rose had had no idea she'd been canned when he last talked to her. If he didn't find Rose pretty quick, he'd do a little bit more digging into why Hager knew Rose was not coming to work before Rose did. Unless they'd had words on the phone within the last hour, at least. In which case, what would Rose do? Go out to breakfast? Unlikely.
He signed off duty, indicated that he'd be available on his car phone and could be reached in Kitsap County for the next few hours. By then he just had time to catch the 9:15 car ferry to Bremerton if he hustled.