I went back to my room and called my office at the college. No one answered so I left a message on the recorder. The instructions were simple enough — profile the locations of the four previous attacks, looking for anything that might remotely tie the events together. Lucy was a bright gal and would know exactly what to do with one of my typical open-ended assignments. With that little chore completed, I set out in search of the sullen young man who called himself Kelto.
The Chamber Bay Motel was a 12-unit, white clapboard affair with ten units on one side of the office and two on the other. There was a time, I suppose, 30 or maybe 40 years ago, when the pace of our pell-mell society was a little slower and life was a little less complicated, that it held a certain appeal for travelers. But now, with the advent of ultramodern resort motels on every corner of every major highway, places like the timeworn Chambers Bay struggled just to hold their heads above water.
On balance, it was clean, comfortable and reasonably well kept, but it was evident that the ravages of time were exacting their inevitable toll. Next to the entrance was an old-fashioned, carefully lettered welcoming sign complete with cuddling bluebirds that proudly proclaimed Bert and Polly Johnson to be the owners since 1957.
Kelto wasn't behind the desk. Instead I was confronted by a smiling, open-faced man with large horn-rimmed glasses and friendly brown eyes. For the most part he was bald. He had a grease smear on one cheek and busied himself trying to repair an old mechanical calculator. He looked up at me expectantly. "Can I help you?"
"You can if you can spare a moment or two."
"Need a room?" he asked hopefully.
"Nope. I'm already registered. The name is Wages, E.G. Wages. My partner and I checked in last night."
The man wiped his hands on an oily rag and reached across the desk to shake my hand. "My name's Bert Johnson. Me and my wife Polly own this place."
"Nice place. We like it." Some white lies are good for the soul.
"Appreciate that, Mr. Wages. Polly and me work real hard to keep it up. Chambers Bay ain't exactly what you'd call a resort town and we know our little place ain't a Holiday Inn, but it's our home and we like it."
"Well, since my partner and I are going to be sticking around here for a few days, we'll have some spare time on our hands. I was wondering if you could direct me to some of the local points of interest."
"There's a little bit of everything," he said proudly. "Caleb Hall has a real nice charter fishin' boat. He moors her down at the public pier right near the center of town." It was obvious that Bert was pleased with his suggestion; it was equally obvious he was having a difficult time thinking of anything else. Finally, he reached around, pulled back the curtain and shouted down the hall. "Polly, I got me a fella out here that wants to know what he and his friend can find to do around Chambers Bay."
There was the sudden unmistakable sound of a creaking, protesting mechanism. As the noise grew louder, Polly emerged from the shadowed hall in an old motorized wheelchair. Her smile was even broader and brighter than Bert's.
"Mr. Wages here is our guest," he explained.
Polly had laughing, rich hazel eyes, closely cropped brown and gray hair and a body twisted by arthritis. Even the most subtle of movements brought on a wave of pain. Still, she looked up at me and intensified her smile. "Bert has never been very good at letting people know about our fair community, Mr. Wages. You see, Bert's mind begins and ends with Caleb Hall's fishing boat. When Bert gets to thinking about going fishing, nothing else much matters. If you know where to go fishing, you know everything you need to know."
There was no way of knowing how Polly Johnson had ended up in Chambers Bay, because her voice betrayed a deep Southern heritage. I figured Bert Johnson must have been a helluva man in his day — that, or one helluva salesman.
"Like I was telling your husband, my partner and I are going to be here for a couple of days, and we'd like to take in the local sights when we get some spare time. What do you suggest?"
Polly suddenly looked a little sad. "Most of the time I'd encourage you to spend some time in our lovely provincial forest — we have some seven hundred thousand acres of it — but I don't know how safe it is what with all the strange things that have been going on around these parts the last few days." She paused as though she was reflecting on the string of events, and I wondered how much she knew and whether or not Bert had spared her some of the ugly details. "We have some lovely waterfalls, miles and miles of trails for hiking or biking and even some rather intriguing caves."
"Do ya like caves?" Bert inquired.
"Not particularly. Seems to me they're always dark and damp and cold — not my cup of tea."
Bert's shoulders sagged. He had finally come up with something other than Caleb Hall's fishing boat, and I had rejected it outright.
"Maybe that young fellow that works for you has some ideas," I tried.
The proprietors of the Chambers Bay Motel exchanged a quick glance, and Bert went back to fidgeting with his adding machine. Polly cleared her throat. "You must mean Kelto."
"Kelto, that's it, a young fella, working the desk when we arrived last night. Nice-looking young man," I added.
Bert laid his tools down and leaned forward on the counter. "You mean a weird-lookin' young man, don't you, Mr. Wages?"
Polly made a disapproving clucking sound and reached out to pat her husband on the hand. "Bert and I agree on just about everything, Mr. Wages, but we don't see eye to eye on Kelto."
"I think the kid is weird," Bert protested. "I don't like the way he never smiles or the way he sneaks around this place. It ain't natural for a boy his age to not have no friends and be that quiet and off to himself all the time."
"Help is hard to come by," Polly said defensively, "and he is very dependable." I had a hunch there weren't too many people that Polly didn't like.
"He came draggin' in here one day, carryin' that damn back pack, sweat runnin' down his face, askin' us if there was anything he could do to earn a meal. Said he hadn't had anything to eat in days. I put him to paintin' gutters and the kinda stuff I never seem to get to. Now we can't get rid of him."
Polly shook her head at Bert's intolerance. "Just having him around has been a godsend," she said quietly. "It gives Bert and me a few hours to ourselves, and we haven't had many of those since we bought this old place."
"Have any idea where I could get in touch with him?"
"He stays in unit number ten," Bert groused. "It was Polly's idea, not mine. Hell, Polly feels sorry for everybody."
I had more questions about young Kelto, but it didn't seem to be the time or place to ask them. Where had he come from? What was his background? Had anybody checked his references or tried to learn anything about him? For that matter, was Kelto his first or last name? Maybe Polly had the right idea — give a guy a chance and let him stand or fall on his own merits. "Suppose he's there?" I asked.
"Don't rightly know," Bert snarled. "Polly gave him today and tomorrow off. He found out about what went on out there behind the motel last night and said he needed some time off."
"I don't imagine you'll find him in his room, Mr. Wages. I saw him packing his back pack; he seems to want to spend every spare moment in the woods. Goes there every chance he gets." Polly was doing her best to defuse Bert's agitation. She turned her wheelchair around and smiled at him. I had the feeling that Bert was either going to come around to her way of thinking or he was going to get his attitude readjusted. Polly may have been working with a handicap, but all signs indicated she could handle the situation.
Polly was right. I knocked three different times but there wasn't any response. Kelto was either out or unconscious; I assumed it was the former. I went back to my own room, lit up a cigarette (number four for the day), whipped out my three by fives and started scribbling notes. I had lots of questions and an equal amount of observations, and I didn't want any of them to get away from me.