“Scotch,” I said. “Join me?”
“Absolutely,” he said, wading over to my side of the creek. He sat down on a rock and began to undo the elaborate wader rig. I went up to the cabin and got another glass and the bottle. The shepherds stayed with me up and back. He was sitting on a dry rock when I got back down to the bank. He was wearing what looked like two sets of red woolen long Johns and extra-thick socks, and the boots and waders were piled in a sodden heap beside him. He accepted the drink gratefully and knocked half of it back, following up with a satisfied sigh. Up close, I could see that he was probably in his late fifties, if not sixty. His face was permanently tanned, telling me he spent all of his time outdoors.
“Perfect,” he announced. “I needed that.”
“You live up here?”
“Retired,” he said. “Came from these parts about a hundred years ago. Robbins County, actually, right next door.”
“You don’t sound like western Carolina,” I said. The shepherds sat behind us; from their posture, it was plain they hadn’t made up their minds yet about this guy. It was hard not to stare at that face; it was just such a perfect resemblance to the Fraser sculpture.
“Got the hell out, like most folks who had the chance and half a brain,” he said. “How about you?”
I told him I was retired from the Manceford County sheriff’s office back in Triboro.
“Don’t look old enough,” he said, eyeing me as he finished the scotch. I offered him a refill, but he shook his head. “Thanks, gotta drive my Harley.”
“I thought a snoot-full was a prerequisite for righteous hog wrangling.”
“A snoot-full and a Harley is a summons for the undertaker,” he said.
“They come after you for reenactments up at that Cherokee Village?” I asked.
“All the time,” he said, chuckling. “I don’t, but I do go downtown sometimes and do my wise old Indian act when I’m looking to pick up women.” He grinned and suddenly looked ten years younger. Retirement was agreeing with him.
“What brings you up here?” he asked. “Vacation?”
“I do a little consulting work on the side for the courts back east,” I said. “A friend needed some help with something, asked me to come up.”
He nodded, but didn’t pursue it. “I do private guide work in the backcountry of the Smokies,” he said. “Name’s Mose, by the way. Mose Walsh.”
“Cam Richter,” I said. “Those guys behind us are Frick and Frack.”
He laughed out loud. “They must hate you for that.”
“No, it’s a sound thing. Easy name differentiation for commands.”
He looked over his shoulder at the shepherds, who looked back. “Keep ’em with you all the time?”
I nodded.
“Good deal,” he said. “Especially for a cop. I had a shepherd once. He got eaten by something in the woods. Bear, feral pig, I don’t know what, maybe even a big cat.”
I felt a tingle on the back of my neck. “Big cat? You mean like mountain lion?”
He shook his head. “Folks say they’re out there, but I’ve never seen any real sign of’em. Too bad, in a way. Some’a these tourists would be more respectful of the park if there was something out there could eat ’em.”
“People keep saying they’ve seen big cats,” I said.
“The park rangers are hard-over on that subject,” he said. “The big ones are long gone. No, if it was a cat got Kraut, it was probably a bobcat. Damned dog liked to corner woods critters. Something cornered him back, that’s all.”
I thought about telling him about my own experiences with some all too real mountain lions out there, but decided not to. It was history best left alone. Then I remembered what Greenberg had said about Robbins County, and I asked Mose about that.
“Robbins County is a place unto itself,” he said. “Me, I keep to the park.”
“I ran into some DEA guys this afternoon,” I said. “They make Robbins County sound like, um-”
“Injun country?” he said with a mock suspicious look on his face. Then we both laughed. That was exactly what I’d been about to say.
“Most of that county is classified as state game lands,” he said. “Hunters go up there more than tourists; you just have to be circumspect about what you see sometimes.”
“How long you been guiding?”
“Going on ten years now. Made a nice change. You found your chapter two yet?”
“Not really,” I said. “Still figuring it out.”
“Well,” he said, getting up from his rock. “Thanks much for the firewater. You ever need some guide services, give me a holler. Moses Walsh, Esquire. I’m in the book.”
“Esquire-you a lawyer?”
“Na-ah,” he said. “The ‘esquire’ keeps those pesky telemarketers away.” He grinned again, and I said good-bye. He gathered up his wet gear, the bag, and the stick and headed up the gravel walk toward the parking lot, looking faintly ridiculous in those baggy red long Johns. A couple of teenaged girls were on the pathway. They stared at him as he lumbered by them. He raised his right hand and gave them a very convincing Big Chief grunt as he passed them, and they broke into fits of giggles. A minute later I heard the unmistakable rumble of a Harley firing up in the parking lot. Sitting Bull on a Harley; that must make quite a sight.
At nine, I was finishing dinner in town when Mary Ellen Goode came into the bar and looked into the dining room. I waved her over. Despite those shadows under her eyes, she was still pretty enough to cause most of the men in the dining room to fumble what they were doing. She was wearing jeans and a shortsleeved blouse, and she was definitely thinner than the last time I’d seen her. Her face exuded that slightly haunted, lingering, longing look. But not for me, I suddenly realized. I started to get up, but she waved me down and slid into a chair.
“You’re bigger than I remembered,” she said. “Weights?”
I nodded. “After I left the sheriff’s office I was really feeling sorry for myself. Left under a professional cloud, my best buddy dead up in the mountains somewhere, and an unknown number of the bad guys still out there. The sheriff came by one evening and was unsympathetic. Next day one of the SWAT team supervisors showed up and hauled my sorry ass down to his gym. Introduced me to the notion of applied pain as therapy.”
“Did it help the arm?”
“Actually, it did. I was mostly doing the Napoleon bit after the incident, but now I can hold a glass when I pour my scotch. But you’re right-two years of free weights and you tend to bulk up. Had to buy all new clothes. How about you?”
She smiled. It did wonders for her face, but it wasn’t the dazzling, sunny smile I remembered from when I’d first met her. “I came back to work after a month’s leave. Told my boss everything. Big mistake. They wanted to transfer me out west, or to Washington headquarters. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the Smokies.”
“So then they, what-put you in a cocoon?”
“Exactly. I was having trouble sleeping, so they sent me to a counselor. He fell in love, or at least lust, and I had to disentangle myself from that mess. If I wanted to go out to the backcountry they always sent someone along. That screwed up the duty rotation, had people standing extra duty. I thought about quitting, but what else would I do? I had no idea.”
“I know the feeling,” I said. “I was a cop. That’s a job that defines you in today’s society. Now I’m supposed to be some kind of private eye and I feel a little ridiculous most of the time. Plus, everyone knows I don’t have to work anymore.”
“So the big bucks came to pass, then?”
“Boy, did they ever. Even after taxes and grasping lawyers, it was a hell of a lot of money. You eaten?”
She shook her head. “I typically have a late lunch and leave it at that.”
I talked her into dessert and coffee, and we talked about the past two years. She had written me a letter after the dust settled that seemed to invite a relationship, but it hadn’t panned out. I’d been too busy reestablishing my identity to get away from Triboro, and she had become increasingly reclusive. I asked her why she really wanted me to look into the Janey Howard incident.