“I’d trust Stinger Dalton with my life — and have on several occasions. Just give me a minute to get him used to the idea of having company.”
They watched Jack move down the driveway, hands held up as if he were at gunpoint.
“Oh, yeah, he trusts him with his life,” Travis said. “Trusts him to try and take it, looks like.”
Frank shook his head. “Roll the windows down a little, I want to hear this.”
Frank had been willing to go it alone to find Irene if that was what it would take, but he had been relieved when Travis insisted on being included. Jack had come over not much later, and seeing them preparing their gear, offered to join them.
That had been an even greater relief, and not just because Jack was resourceful and a skilled outdoorsman. Jack said he would trust Stinger Dalton with his life, and Frank felt that same level of trust in Jack — a trust he seldom extended to others.
Jack lived next door, and his concern for Irene would be nearly as great as his own, Frank knew. Jack hadn’t tried to talk him out of going up into the mountains. Without any hesitation, he had simply asked to be allowed to help.
Watching Jack walking through the rain, hands held high, Frank wondered if Jack was risking life and limb for Irene right this moment. But as if Jack could feel their concern, he looked over his shoulder at them and smiled.
Deke and Dunk lifted their noses to the open window, watching anxiously as Jack moved farther away from the van.
It had been Jack’s idea to bring them along.
“They aren’t trained to track,” Frank had objected, “and I don’t want to be worried about them. They won’t be able to find this group any faster than we will.”
“There’s a male dog on this expedition she’s on, right?”
“Right.”
“Maybe they’ll find this other dog, then. Besides, your dogs have been camping with me more than once. They’ll behave.”
“For you, they will,” Travis said, speaking Frank’s thoughts on the subject aloud.
But in the end, the dogs were allowed to join them. Frank had arranged for care of the cat. Finally, he had called Pete Baird and told him of his plans to find Irene. After listening to his partner’s warnings about the inevitable problems at work, Frank had refused Pete’s offer to join them.
“I’d love to have you with me, but one of us getting into this much trouble will be bad enough. I need you in there to beg for my reinstatement. Besides, if Irene comes home safe and sound before I do, you can tell her where I am. And I need someone to cover what’s going on here — to try to contact me if anything comes up while I’m still within cell phone range.”
“Anything else I can do for you before you’re fired for interfering in Thompson’s investigation?” Pete asked.
“Yes. If we’re not back by Sunday at six, come looking for us.”
So now Frank sat in the van, watching a man whom many people thought of as his most unlikely friend. Jack Fremont, tattooed and scar-faced, wearing black leather and sporting a gold hoop earring, his head completely shaved, looked made to order for the job he had once held — leader of a biker gang. That Jack had been born into wealth, and — after a number of years on the road — was now one of the wealthiest men in Las Piernas, surprised almost anyone who learned of it. It wasn’t a fact he advertised. He fit better into the role he was playing now.
“Stinger Dalton, you crusty-assed old son of a bitch, put your guns away!” he called.
“Jack?” a low, gravelly voice called back. “By God, I don’t believe my fuckin’ eyes. I figured you were dead!”
“What? And you think I wouldn’t have come haunting you before now?”
The front door opened, and a thin man with a shotgun stepped onto a ramshackle front porch. He was of medium height, and was wearing jeans, heavy boots, and a sleeveless blue T-shirt. He had long, gray hair that he wore in a single braid down his back. His arms were covered with tattoos. As he came into view, the dogs began whining.
“Hush,” Frank said to them, trying to hear the conversation outside.
“What the fuck happened to your hair, dude? And who fucked up your face?”
“You ask me the same questions every time you see me. You need someone to write you some new lines. Man, put the gun away. I want you to meet some friends of mine.”
Dalton looked at the van with misgiving.
“I’d never bring trouble to your door, Stinger. You know that.”
“No feds?”
“Shit, Stinger. We both know you aren’t hiding from the feds.”
“Any of ’em feds?” he repeated obstinately.
“No. One of ’em is a cop—”
“What!” Dalton brought the gun up.
Christ, Frank thought, why did you tell him?
“Now, Stinger, in a minute here, I’m gonna take offense,” Jack said easily. “I’m trying to tell you that he’s a cop, but he’s not here on a beef or anything like that. He’s my friend. You’ve heard me talk about Frank. Works homicide in Las Piernas. But he needs to do some business with you that’s got nothing to do with him being a cop, except that maybe it will get his ass fired.”
“I don’t follow you,” Dalton said, holding his position.
“The man’s as good a friend to me now as you’ve been, Stinger. Remember me telling you about Irene’s husband?”
At that, Dalton lowered the gun.
“Let us come in out of the rain, Stinger, and I’ll explain. Unless you think I’ve turned into a liar, you’ve got no reason to keep me standing out here.”
“Haven’t seen you in a long time, Jack,” Dalton said.
“Bullshit. I was out here just a month ago. By the way, keep in mind that this is the guy that lets me borrow his dogs.”
“Your neighbor’s dogs—”
“Oh, yeah — I almost forgot! I’ve brought a couple of dogs that would like to see you again.”
Dalton’s face broke into a grin. “Bring everybody in.” He turned and went inside.
Jack motioned to Travis, who started the van.
“What do you think of him?” Travis asked, as they turned up the drive.
“I think Jack is pretty free about introducing my dogs and talking about my wife to head cases. But if Jack says Stinger’s a good friend of his, I’ll try to reserve further judgment.”
Travis said nothing, but Frank didn’t miss his look of unholy amusement.
Deke and Dunk sprang from the van and charged toward Dalton, who was back out on the porch, without the gun. To Frank’s amazement, though, they slowed as they neared him, and approached with ears back, tails wagging — suddenly well mannered. Dalton spent several minutes praising and petting them, to their obvious delight.
He stood up and extended a hand as Jack said, “Doug Dalton, this is my friend Travis Maguire, Irene’s cousin.”
“You don’t look old enough to shave,” Dalton said.
“He’s traveled all over the state,” Jack said, “working as a storyteller.”
“Storyteller!” Dalton said, but catching Jack’s eye, kept any further comment to himself. He turned to Frank. “You must be the cop.” There was no rancor in it, though, and his handshake was firm, his smile welcoming.
“Stinger taught me all I know about dog training,” Jack said. “He’s met Deke and Dunk when we stopped by here on our way to go camping and fishing. He’s also the best helicopter pilot I know of, and protected my butt on more than one occasion when we did a little riding together. Now he protects me from the fiercest opponent I’ve ever encountered.”
Dalton smiled. “I’m his tax accountant.”
“Tax accountant!” Travis said. “How many people come all the way out here for tax advice?”
“Besides the ones that live out here or who contact me by fax or modem?” Dalton asked. “Just a bunch of old bastards on Harleys.”