Orry Yates climbed into the YATES PLUMING truck, waved, and drove off. Ramsay led the teenagers around to the back where the beat-up Dodge wagon was parked. His Camaro had gone to Elise in the settlement. La Reina County could afford only one sheriff's car, and the deputies were using it.
Ramsay wondered if the dead man was Abe Craddock or Curly Vane. If it was, he owed somebody an apology for mentally placing them in a saloon somewhere. However, if it was one of them, where was the other? An argument? Too much booze and a gun goes off? Better stop building a crime until he had a look at the scene. He kicked the engine of the eight-year-old wagon to life and took off for the old Drago Road.
Deputy Roy Nevins stopped to pull his uniform pants free from the thorns of a wild blackberry bush. He knew this drill was one big waste of time. Craddock and Vane could find their way around these woods as well as anybody in the county. The only trouble they were likely to get into was when they came back to town and started drinking.
He knew Gavin Ramsay had sent him and Milo out here just to keep them busy. If it hadn't been for the gung ho trainee, Deputy Nevins would have sacked out in the back of the car until dusk, then gone back and told Gavin there was no sign of Craddock and Vane. That's what their search would add up to anyway. Zip. Only difference was now he'd get all wet and scratched up from these fucking thorns and his shoes would be ruined.
"Roy!" Milo called unseen from off to the left.
"Yeah?"
"Just checking our positions."
Yeah, great. Ten-fucking-four. Milo could be a pain in the ass sometimes. But what the hell. He was only twenty. When Roy Nevins was twenty he'd been gung ho, too. The kid might grow up to be a good cop. Not in La Reina County, where a couple of overdue library books was a crime wave. But it was a start. Three months from now the state would put him somewhere else. Nice gentle way to break in as a cop. Not the way Roy Nevins had done it, on the grungiest street in the grungiest section of Oakland.
Roy had been a cowboy back then himself. No more. Now he was sitting on a pension, just putting in his time. Couple more years and he could buy that mobile home down in Baja. Sit around fishing with a cool Carta Blanca in his fist. A man could still live pretty damn good in Mexico for peanuts. Until then he would have to pass the days as comfortably as he could and put up with a certain amount of shit like slogging through these dripping woods.
"Hey!" he yelled in the direction of Milo Fernandez.
"Yo!"
"Let's take a break."
Roy stuck a Winston in his mouth and lit it. He eased his broad butt down onto a boulder that looked reasonably dry. Milo Fernandez, neat and slim in his uniform, pushed through the wet underbrush and joined him.
The younger man looked up at the patches of sky, they could see through the thick tops of the pine and Douglas fir trees.
"Not more than an hour of daylight left," said Milo.
"Yeah."
"You think we'll find those guys before dark?"
"Craddock and Vane? No way. Not before dark, not before Easter Sunday. They gotta be lost before we can find them. Those two ain't lost. Shit-faced somewhere, maybe, but not lost."
"How do you know?"
" 'Cause I know them two assholes. Why Betty Craddock wants us to find Abe beats the shit out of me. Best thing that could happen to her, he falls down in the middle of S3l and gets run over by an RV."
"Well... we can give it a try, anyway."
"Sure. Old college try. You go to college, tiger?"
"Junior college, actually. I need two more years for a degree."
"Waste of time. You want to be a cop, don't you?"
Milo Fernandez nodded.
"They not gonna teach you that in college. Only way to learn about being a cop is to be one."
Roy was about to launch into a war story from his days as a real cop in Oakland, but the young deputy's attention strayed.
Milo looked around at the dark, dripping trees. "Roy, where's Drago from here?"
Nevins pointed off toward the south. "That way. Four, five miles."
"I'd like to see it sometime."
"Nothing to see. Dozen or so burned out buildings."
"What was it like, Roy? The fire and all. Was it exciting?"
Roy shrugged. He pulled on his Winston, coughed, spat on the ground. "Sure, if you get off on poking through ashes trying to make out which is human and which is... something else."
The young trainee caught the older deputy's hesitation and looked at him quickly. Roy studied the glowing tip of his cigarette and stopped talking.
Milo Fernandez looked off toward the south as though trying to see the burned out village through five miles of forest. "What do you think was going on there, Roy? At Drago? Before the fire?"
"Who knows? Cult of some kind. Los Angeles types. The people living there never went much outside their own village."
"There were stories."
"Yeah, I heard the stories. Bunch of crap."
"Not human, people said."
"Crap."
"There was howling, they say. In the woods. At night."
"So what? There's lots of funny noises in the woods at night."
"People still heard things out here after the fire. After everybody in Drago was burned up."
"Look, amigo, some other time we'll sit around a campfire and scare the shit out of each other with ghost stories. I'm not in the mood now, okay?"
"Sure, Roy. I'm just curious."
Something rustled the bushes up ahead. The two deputies raised their heads, listening. They looked at each other, then back toward the sound.
"Who's there?" Roy Nevins called.
Silence.
Another rustle of brush.
"Craddock...? Vane...?"
No answer. A flash of movement. A head rose above a clump of brush twenty feet ahead of the two deputies. A face looked at them. A pale face streaked with mud. Dark, matted hair. Eyes wild, with lots of white showing.
"Hey!"
The face ducked out of sight. Squishy sound of running feet on the wet ground.
"Son of a bitch." Roy mashed the Winston out under his shoe and took off. Milo was already ahead of him, chasing the fleeing figure, who ducked and weaved among the trees.
The runner left the trail and fought through the undergrowth. The two deputies followed. Roy Nevins swore as the thorns clutched at him and mud seeped over the tops of his shoes.
"Halt!" Milo Fernandez called out. "Sheriff's officers!"
Roy pounded on, the breath wheezing through his open mouth. He fumbled at the leather strap that snapped to the holster over the butt of his .38 police positive. Regulation.
Never could free the damn thing in a hurry. The hell with it. Firing your piece only meant trouble these days. You had to account for every fucking bullet. Nothing in sight to shoot at anyway. He could only catch glimpses of Milo's back as the young deputy charged after the fleeing figure.
There was a thump of colliding bodies up ahead and a damp thud as they hit the ground. Roy floundered through the brush and almost fell over Milo. The young deputy was applying an armlock to the fugitive, who lay prone on the damp pine needles.
"I got him, Roy."
"So I see. Suppose you flip him over so we can see what we got."
Milo warily eased his hold. When the figure on the ground did not move, he grasped a shoulder and turned him over.
"A kid," Roy said disgustedly.
The face that looked up at the deputies was pale and frightened. Oddly, he seemed not to be breathing hard.
"What'd you take off for?" Deputy Nevins said. The large, frightened eyes flicked from one of the deputies to the other. The boy made no attempt to answer.
"Get up."
The boy rose to a crouch.