by C. J. Box
A gush of liquid burst forth, and it hit the packed dirt with a splash and beaded in the dust.
“Here we go,” Jess said, grunting to his feet and pulling on latex gloves. “Help me welcome a brand-new cow to the world, Annie.”
“Wow,” she said. “A brand-new cow. It’s pretty gross.”
“Life is messy,” Jess said, meaning one thing but realizing it sounded like something else.
Sunday, 7:05 A.M.
WHEN THE sun broke over the mountains, Villatoro was in his compact on a two-lane state highway headed west, trying to get a better sense of where he was, what this place was about. His back was stiff from sleeping in the too-soft bed, and his belly rumbled with hunger. He’d been awake since five, spent an hour drinking the entire pot of bad weak coffee from the motel room coffeemaker and watching cable exercise shows in his bed. He skirted the lakeshore, plunged into shadow and mist, and emerged on a straightaway and an ancient bridge over the inlet of the lake. Dark, forested mountains rose sharply on his left. The road was bordered by heavy brush and knee-high grass beaded with dew, and when the sun cascaded over the peaks, it ignited the droplets, creating fields of sparks. The air smelled of damp pine.
He got a better read on the area as he distanced himself from the town of Kootenai Bay. It was a community in transition, with a new population and culture superimposing itself over another. Older, smaller homes were near the road. Many of them had lawn decorations made of massive old circular saw blades with alpine scenes painted on them. There was something quaint, but tired, about the older homes, no doubt occupied by past generations of families who worked in the original extraction industries of logging and mining. These homes had postage-stamp lawns, small white fences, and a sense of humility about them, a conscious effort by the owners not to overreach. Then there were the huge new glass-and-log homes with sweeping grounds, gleaming new SUVs parked in circular driveways, and attractive new signs out front with names like “Duck Creek Ranch,” “Elkhorn Estate,” “Spruce Casa.” And HOMESITE FOR SALE signs everywhere. A whole new community was forming around the skeleton of the old one. Golf courses were being constructed. Quaint shops and espresso bars occupied old storefronts that still had fading painted signs on their porticos reading GENERAL STORE or NIGHTCRAWLERS.
Within sight of the Montana border, he turned around and drove back. There was more traffic on the road now, and more human activity. Newspapers were being delivered, four-wheel-drive pickups were parked in front of restaurants for breakfast, the drivers pausing to finish cigarettes before entering. By contrast, thin, bronzed women of indeterminate age, some with dogs on leashes, jogged along the lakeshore in tight, colorful clothing, iPod earbuds wired to their heads.
As he reentered town, he checked his watch. It was still too early for Celeste to have come to work if she got the message from him the night before, and therefore much too soon to expect any information on Newkirk. He drove downtown, and swung into a space behind a battered pickup across from an old-fashioned diner called the Panhandle Cafe.
As he killed the engine and reached for his keys, he looked up through the windshield and gasped. The massive round face of a bear stared straight at him from six feet away.
It took a moment to realize what he was looking at, and for his heart to stop whumping. It was a bear, all right, in the bed of the pickup in front of him. Despite open eyes and a gray tongue that lolled out of its mouth, the bear was dead, its head propped up and over the tailgate on the back of the truck. The dead bear’s front paws were arranged on either side of its head, making it look like the animal was trying to climb out.
Once his breathing returned to normal, Villatoro opened the car door and slid out, never taking his eyes off the face of the dead bear. He saw now that a long thick stream of maroon blood ran from the bottom of the tailgate of the pickup to the street and had pooled in the gutter.
“Spring bear hunt,” someone said behind him, and Villatoro instinctively jumped, slamming the car door behind him. He was instantly ashamed of his reaction.
“Sorry,” the man said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
It was a mature man in his late fifties or early sixties, thin, wearing a stained cowboy hat and light denim jacket. One of his hands was bandaged. Villatoro recognized him as the rancher who had preceded him with Jim Hearne at the bank. He didn’t recall the bandage from the day before. They had not been introduced then, and Villatoro wasn’t sure the man recognized him. What was the name on the file Hearne had put away? Rawlings?
“I’m fine now,” Villatoro said. “I just looked up and there was that bear….”
“I know,” the man said. “I wish they wouldn’t do that, but it’s sort of a tradition around here. When a hunter gets a bear, he’s obligated to drive it into town and buy a round for the house.”
Villatoro nodded toward the Panhandle Cafe across the street. “Is that a good place to get breakfast?”
“Yup, it is. It’s not as good as it used to be, though. But it’s still sort of the place where the old-timers like me gather in the morning.”
“Do people here go to church on Sunday?”
The rancher paused. “Yup, they do. I’m usually there myself, but not today.”
“Just wondering. It seems like a community of faith. I used to live in a place like this.”
The rancher looked at him with a hint of suspicion.
Villatoro turned again to the bear. “Do people here eat bear meat?”
The man shrugged. “Some folks make sausage out of it. It kinda tastes like pork. I’ve never been very fond of it myself.”
Villatoro shuddered. He wished the bear’s eyes were closed, at least. It bothered him that the tongue was exposed. If he were ever found dead, Villatoro thought, he hoped his tongue wouldn’t be sticking out like that, swelled up, looking like he was sucking on a gray sausage.
“Well, thanks,” Villatoro said, and crossed the street toward the restaurant. Before entering, he dropped two quarters into a newspaper machine and took the last copy of the Kootenai Bay Chronicle. As he did so, he glanced over his shoulder. The man in the cowboy hat was still across the street, examining the bear. He looked back at the man’s truck, and saw the name RAWLINS RANCHES painted on the door.
Right, Villatoro said to himself. Rawlins.
THERE WAS a time, years ago, when the big round table in the corner of the Panhandle was reserved most mornings for ranchers. Jess had first taken a place there as a boy, with his father. Jess could still remember his elation when his father motioned him over from where he sat at the counter and cleared a space for his son on the half-moon-shaped vinyl seat. It meant something to be invited to sit with the adults, and they all knew it, and they grumbled good-naturedly when they shifted to the left, making a place for him. They teased him a little about the hot chocolate he brought with him, and offered to fill his mug with strong coffee instead. He let them. He knew enough to sit silently, to defer, to listen. The talk was of cattle prices, noxious weeds, predators, politics, cattle buyers. But that was a long time ago. How different it had been when Jess had duplicated the gesture with his own son. Jess Jr. had refused to come over, instead rolling his eyes and turning his back to the table. The other ranchers in the booth had all seen what had happened, and they suddenly found their cups of coffee fascinating to look at. Jess was humiliated. It was the first of many more humiliations to come involving his son.
The table was now occupied by a large family of visitors to the area, who obviously planned a day of hiking, judging by their high-tech boots and garb.
Jess took a stool at the counter and put his hat crown down on the bar. A knot of men talked loudly at the end of the counter, surrounding a young man with a beard who had blood on his shirt. The bear hunter.
“What can I get you?” the hunter asked Jess after wiping beer foam from his mustache.
“Coffee’s fine,” Jess said.
“Nothing stronger? I got a bear out there.”
; “I saw it,” Jess said. “Congratulations, but coffee’s fine.” Not saying: I already cooked and ate breakfast a while ago with a couple of missing kids.
VILLATORO WATCHED the exchange from a booth while he waited for his coffee. There was something about Rawlins he admired. There was a quiet dignity about him, something solid and old-fashioned. He wished he had introduced himself, but the dead bear had shaken him to his bones. He would do so after breakfast.
The former detective ordered and spread the newspaper open in front of him. The issue was dominated with stories about the disappearance of the Taylor children. Their photos, the same ones he had seen in the bank and on flyers in the sheriff’s office, were reproduced on the front page. A photo of the woman he’d seen clutching at Rawlins—she was identified as Rural Postal Contractor Fiona Pritzle—was featured under the headline THE LAST TO SEE THE CHILDREN. He read a little of the interview. Pritzle said that she’d “had a feeling that something wasn’t right” when she’d dropped off the siblings to go fishing. “I should have gone with my best instincts and just taken those kids home to their mother,” she said. She blamed herself but was quoted in such a way that she deflected it: “…But I just figured that there was no way those kids would have just taken off like that without their mother’s permission and approval.”
That poor mother, Villatoro thought, shaking his head. That’s all she needs. He searched through the paper for a photo of Monica Taylor and found one on the next page. Monica Taylor was an attractive woman, but she’d refused to be interviewed by the Chronicle. Instead, a volunteer named Oscar Swann, who identified himself as her spokesman, said she was under medication and was too distraught to make a statement.
The name Swann was familiar to Villatoro. He felt himself take several quick, shallow breaths. Could it be that two of them were up here? Would that be coincidence? He didn’t buy it.
Villatoro underlined the name in the newspaper before reading further. Sheriff Ed Carey was quoted extensively. It was the same interview Villatoro had seen the night before on the Spokane news. Carey made several references to his investigative team.
He read:
When asked for more detail on what has been referred to as a “Dream Team” rumored to be made up of retired police officers from the LAPD, Carey said the volunteers had selflessly given their time and expertise to the case, and that he, and the residents of the county, would be forever in their debt. When pressed, Carey refused to reveal the names of the volunteer investigators but said they were being led by a former senior officer who had been involved in dozens of high-profile investigations.
JESS WAS reading the same article after deliberately covering up Fiona Pritzle’s face with his coffee cup.
Swann was describing himself as Monica Taylor’s spokesman? What in the hell did that mean? As he thought it over, his coffee turned bitter and cold in his mouth. If what Annie and William told him was true, Swann had ingratiated himself with their mother so he could head off or prevent any contact with her by them. He would be there if one of them called, probably answering the telephone.
Jesus, Jess thought.
On the television in the corner, the now-familiar photos of Annie and William Taylor were shown, followed by a graphic with a map of the state of Idaho. The room hushed as everyone turned toward the screen. A reporter doing a live shot followed the graphic. He was standing in the middle of the street in Kootenai Bay, holding a microphone and talking straight into the camera. Over the reporter’s shoulder was the sign for the restaurant.
“That son of a bitch is right outside,” the bear hunter said. “If I walked out the front door, you guys could see me on Fox News!”
“We’ve seen enough of you already,” his buddy said.
Jess had a momentous decision to make. Seeing Annie’s and William’s faces on national news triggered it. Either he believed those kids or he didn’t. And either way, he was harboring them, telling no one, while the entire nation worried and searched for them. By not reporting their presence immediately, he had crossed a line. Every minute he kept his secret was another minute he was more guilty. But he had to know more about the situation. Jess had always thought for himself. Hell, everybody did up here. Who could blame him for waiting and listening to make sure he was doing the right thing?
The world was different now, all right. Twenty-four-hour news channels told everyone what to think, what they should be concerned about. If those news networks decided the disappearance of the Taylor children was big news, there was no way he could keep them hidden much longer. He just hoped he could figure out what was what before that happened.
Turning in Annie and William would be the easy thing to do. He could hope for the best and wish things worked out. But who would he be turning them in to? Swann?
“SHERIFF,” THE WAITRESS behind the counter greeted Carey. “What can I get you?”
Like every set of eyes in the place, Villatoro’s watched the sheriff enter the restaurant, walk wearily to the counter, and take a stool. As the rancher next to him had done, Carey took off his hat and placed it on the counter. Even the bear hunter and his friends had stopped talking.
“I guess I should eat, even though I ain’t hungry,” Carey said. “Eggs over easy, ham, coffee, wheat toast.”
The waitress scribbled and took the order into the kitchen.
The sheriff sat with his shoulders slumped, his uniform shirt wrinkled, his face unshaven. His eyes were dark and hollowed. He held his coffee mug with both hands and sipped it cautiously.
“Any news, Sheriff?” the bear hunter asked from the end of the counter.
Carey sighed. “Nope.” Then, as if he realized how hopeless he had sounded, he said, “We’re working on it, though.”
JESS TRIED to keep his own voice calm. He spoke softly. “What’s the deal with the volunteers? Are they really ex-cops?”
Carey eyed Jess with cool eyes, as if trying to determine whether he was a supporter or in the 49 percent who had voted against him.
“And you’d be …”
“Jess Rawlins.”
“That’s right,” the sheriff said, pretending he remembered.
“I’ve got a ranch north of town, not far from Sand Creek.”
“Right. It’s not all that far from where the Taylor kids disappeared.”
“Over ten miles away,” Jess said, feeling defensiveness creep into his voice.
The sheriff heard it as well and looked stricken. “That’s not what I meant …I wasn’t implying anything.”
Jess shrugged it off. “Your volunteers?”
Carey was grateful to move on. “Yes, they’re all ex-cops. LAPD retirees, but not all that long in the tooth.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Four are working with me directly. But another couple dozen on search teams.”
Jess nodded. Annie had made the drawing he had asked her for on the kitchen table. The sketch was folded in his pocket. The caricatures were rudimentary: a thin man with white hair and blue eyes, another wearing a ball cap, the third bigger, darker, with a black mustache. Three of them, not four. Then Jess remembered Swann.
“Did they all know each other before this?” Jess asked.
“I think so,” Carey said. “They seem pretty familiar with each other. They all pretty much agree who the leader is, anyway.”
“Who is that?”
“A man named Singer. Used to be a lieutenant, from what I understand.”
“This guy Swann,” Jess asked, tapping the newspaper with his finger, trying not to convey his trepidation, “the paper says he’s the spokesman for Monica Taylor. How’d that come to be?”
Carey’s antenna seemed to go up, Jess thought. Maybe he was asking too many questions.
“Do you know him?” Carey asked.
“I’ve heard his name,” Jess said truthfully.
“Well, apparently he’s friends with the mother. He volunteered to stay with her in case somebody calls. But with the exposure t
his thing is getting in the press, he might spend most of his time keeping reporters away from her. I really can’t spare a man for that.”
Jess nodded. “This is kind of a crazy question, but is this the only big case you’re working on right now? I heard a wild rumor about a possible murder in the county.”
Carey’s eyebrows shot up, and he seemed to examine Jess in a whole new way that said, This old man is a nutcase.
He kept his voice down, as Jess had done. “Where in the hell did you hear that?”
“You know how people talk.”
“And where was this murder supposed to have occurred?”
“By the river.”
Carey shook his head. A vein had enlarged in his temple, and Jess could see the sheriff’s heartbeat.
“I wish they’d stick to real life, goddammit.”
“So, no other big crime in the area?”
Carey reached over and tapped the newspaper, as Jess had. His eyes were both angry and pleading. “Isn’t this enough right now?”
The waitress emerged from the kitchen with Carey’s breakfast and topped off their coffee.
“If you’ll excuse me …” Carey said, turning to his plate and stabbing egg yolks with points of toast.
Jess sat back. He hadn’t noticed another man enter the restaurant and walk straight toward the sheriff.
BUT VILLATORO saw him. It was Newkirk. Newkirk approached the sheriff and threw an arm over his back so he could tell him something private.
JESS KEPT his eyes averted but listened carefully. The man had whispered something about a videotape. The man wore a ball cap.
“How’d we get it, Newkirk?” Carey asked, his toast poised in the air between his plate and his mouth.
“Somebody dropped it by this morning. We found it in a grocery sack near the front door of the station. Nobody saw who left it.”
“Have you looked at it?”
Newkirk solemnly nodded his head. “It’s something you need to see, Sheriff.”
“Do I have time to finish my breakfast?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
