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.