With no more lofty purpose in mind other than finding a cup of steaming black coffee and a chance to suck on a Camel, I searched around for my crusty old Reeboks, tugged on a pair of blue shorts and a tee shirt, and ran a curry comb through the crop of thick red-brown hair my father had once likened to the fur on a rat's nuts.
I paused just long enough to sneak a peek into Cashman's inner sanctum, taking note of the fact that she was even sloppier than me. Garments ranging from the aforementioned well-worn Levis to an unexcitingly small bra were strewn haphazardly about the room. In addition to everything else, she snored. I made a mental note; Brenda Cashman had just turned up with two big negatives on her scorecard. She snored, and she had small boobs.
It was even more ominous outside than I had anticipated. A grumbling, still distant storm was approaching from the west, and the temperature had plunged a good 30 degrees since our arrival. I headed straight for the small diner where Brenda and I had dinner the previous evening, a distance of not more than a quarter of a mile up the road. I even felt smug because I jogged.
The parking lot was jammed and so was the diner. Most of the early morning customers were sitting at the counter slurping coffee out of heavy green china mugs with spoons still in them. Unlike the small town I grew up in, there was no light banter. Instead, the assemblage had their heads down, tending to their own business, postured in somber melancholy.
The locals had the seats at the counter filled, so I was shuttled off into what had to be the tourist area next to a middle-aged couple with two of the ugliest kids I've ever seen. The pimply, thickly lensed progeny were complaining about soggy french fries which they had buried under the remnants of two half bottles of runny ketchup. The combination of whining kids and the smell of french fries at a little past six in the morning was more than my constitution could handle. I ordered my coffee to go and decided to find a quiet place where I could stare at the water and destroy my health in solitude.
I picked my way down a narrow path in back of the diner, found myself a spot on a stretch of sandy, rock-studded beach and assessed the situation. There was a lot to think about — Madden's definition of the problem, the role of Brenda Cashman in all of this, and the sullen Kelto. I took several sips of coffee and lit my Camel; suddenly the day looked a little brighter.
Ten minutes later I had finished my communion with mother nature and started back to the motel, wondering if that lump under the covers in the room adjacent to mine was up and about, celebrating the new day. Approaching from the west, I could see the Constable's car sitting on the drive near the back of the motel. Jake Madden was standing beside the dusty dark green Pontiac, engrossed in a conversation with two other men. The old E.G. Wage's antenna went up and started spinning.
I waited until that conversation broke up, stuck another cigarette in my mouth and casually sauntered back in the big man's direction. For all intents and purposes, I was nothing more than a tourist out for his morning stroll. Halfway down the drive, I got a new reading on the situation. There was a whole lot more going on than I had anticipated. The dirty old Chevrolet was still parked right where it had been the night before, but now it had a yellow strip of plastic tape around it, cordoning it off from the rest of the world. In typical E.G. Wage fashion, I immediately assumed the young couple had gotten themselves caught with their cache and that I was approaching the scene of a Chambers Bay version of a drug bust. By the time I managed to maneuver closer to the scene, I was aware the situation was considerably more serious.
Madden looked up, then away, then back again. The affibility was gone. The Constable looked worn and haggard. "Morning," I tried.
Big Jake reached through the window and laid his clipboard on the seat of his car. He started toward me in that peculiar gait of his, frowning. "You're that research fella I met over at the diner last night, right?"
"Elliott Wages," I reminded him. "You look like you've had a hard night." The closer he got to me the harder the night looked.
"Been a long one," he acknowledged. "I knew we was gonna have a damned nightmare around here when they found Ruby Carson's old draft horse half-eaten and the rest of the parts all sorted out and hangin' from trees."
The all too graphic description of the Carson event sent a shudder across my shoulders and down my spine. "More trouble last night?"
Jake nodded and looked like he needed someone to commiserate with him. "I knew it wasn't no animal when I saw what had been done to that old mare, but the local folk are as superstitious as hell. They heard about them unusual prints and right away they're ready to start claimin' we got us a modern day Big Foot thumpin' around this neck of the woods."
"How do you know you don't?" I shot back at him. Playing the role of the devil's advocate comes easy to me.
Madden signed and turned his back on the old Chevy. "Come on over here, Researcher."
I followed him to the edge of the blacktop, stepped over the elevated yellow tape barrier and followed him out on the craggy strip jutting out into the shallows. He kept talking along the way, but the wind carried away his words. He threw open the car door, and my stomach did a somersault. For a moment I had to close my eyes.
The boy probably wasn't much more than 18 years old, and the girl looked as though she could be a year or two younger. What was left of the lad was slumped in the far corner of the front seat. The remains of the young woman were unceremoniously sprawled, arms and legs akimbo on the back seat. Each of them rested in crimson black pools of their own congealed blood. My stomach did another flip-flop and yawed back and forth a couple of times. I gulped, trying to get my equalibrium. The "holy shit" just slipped out, but it was appropriate. Someone or something had worked them over with a knife.
I looked up at Madden. His face was bone white. "I've never seen anything like it," I muttered. "It's a goddamn sicko, that's what it is."
This was the part of it I had never gotten used to. I forced myself to move in closer and made a more careful assessment. Each of the incisions in the boy's chest had been made with uncanny precision. The chest cavity had been pried open and the heart removed, with each artery severed at just the precise location. It appeared as though the youth had just laid back and allowed whatever it was to take his source of life. He had a stupid, almost euphoric look on his face, like he had been viewing the whole proceeding and only when the blood quit pumping to his numbed brain had realized what was happening. It had been, in the final analysis, one very bad trip indeed.
The girl hadn't fared much better. The butcher had obviously been attracted to her eyes. Consequently, she stared back at me with hollow and empty sockets, a futile, pleading look on her young face.
I shuddered and stepped back.
Madden gave me a long critical appraisal, folded his huge arms over his massive chest and leaned back against the car. "I know you'd be disappointed if I didn't ask you where you were last night."
The question surprised me, and yet it didn't. "I suppose you have to ask everybody," I admitted, "but, for the record, I was right there in the motel, room number eight."
"I suppose Miss Cashman can verify that?" The question had a double edge and I knew it. No answer was going to be entirely satisfactory in this case. Something told me that Madden didn't like the idea of a crusty, rusty-bearded old man sleeping with the young woman. But if Brenda couldn't verify my whereabouts, who could?