He climbed out of the tent, wearing camo pants and a faded, red waffle-knit Henley, his muscular chest stretching the shirt’s neck to reveal the tip of a colorful tattoo. He was also sock-footed, his wide feet planted firmly in the black fabric. Crossing his arms, he gazed at her with that same bemused smile, though his eyes seemed to be watching her differently.
“People come and go in this world, okay? Lars’s got no holds on her. She’s free to go.”
“Did you see her leave?”
He shook his head of thick brown curls that were streaked with gray at the temples. His unshaven jaw had that chiseled look that probably made women swoon. He wasn’t unattractive, but his vibe was 100% lead dog. As if to confirm this, the vest he pulled on was embroidered with the name “Lone Wolf.”
“Can you help me find Lars?” she asked. And coffee, she wanted to say but afraid he’d only make fun of her.
He raised and lowered his hand in a “slow down” motion, then turned back to his tent. He slipped on a pair of black leather moto boots tucked inside the entrance. “He’s not gonna be happy. Do you know how fucking early it is?” he said, eyeing her seriously.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling bad about yelling at him. He was getting up. He was helping her, even if reluctantly. But they needed to hurry—what if Izzy was still here somewhere? What if she’d just found someone else to spend the night with?
“C’mon,” he grunted, shuffling past her. Cassidy followed, weaving around several tents and back along the edge of the rows of motorcycles and cars. The dry, flattened grass felt hard and uneven beneath her feet. Here and there were discarded, empty bottles: Gatorade, beer, a fifth of vodka, and bits of trash. Dutch led her to a cluster of bedrolls set up next to more motorcycles, gathered in a kind of loose circle. All the while Cassidy kept looking for any sign of Izzy, but there was only a sea of faded bedrolls, blue tarps strung haphazardly, a tent here and there, and the short, dry grass. Dutch forged ahead, his footsteps passing within inches of the lumps tucked into sleeping bags, to a compact-looking bike decked out with gunmetal-gray side boxes and an extra seat in the back.
“Yo, Lars, you up?” Dutch called, strutting to a stop.
A loud yawn filled the silence. “I am now. Why?” a voice called. Cassidy noticed the trace of some kind of accent—German or Swedish perhaps.
Cassidy watched as a body wriggled out of a navy-blue sleeping bag, the big square kind with thick metal zippers sold at sporting goods stores. The man’s bare chest was decorated with a Polynesian-style patterned tattoo that would certainly be described as “tribal,” a word she’d heard but never given much thought to. A sun-like pattern circled almost his entire left pectoral muscle, then continued down his shoulder with solid black stripes and geometric shapes.
Lars looked young, Cassidy realized, though she hadn’t realized it at first because of his thick, full beard. He scrubbed his face with his hands which were adorned with several chunky metal rings, the left wrist decorated with another tattoo, this one a stand of trees, the detail of each variety evident even from this distance. Around his neck hung a simple but rather large cross pendant on a shiny silver chain. He reached for a flannel from a pile next to him and slipped it on, then slid out of his bedroll, his legs covered by a pair of baggy thermal pants.
“Cassidy, this is Lars,” Dutch said. “Lars, Cassidy. She’s the one looking for that girl.”
Lars watched her warily for a moment, then reached for a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket laying across his bike. After sliding one out, he lit it, and inhaled a long drag.
“Why do you want to find her? What’s she done?” he asked, his accent more prominent now. His square face and tall stature screamed Scandinavian, but German felt more likely.
Cassidy tried to check her impatience. “She hasn’t done anything. I’m just worried about her. She’s my student at the University of Oregon.”
Lars’s eyebrows shot up.
“What?” Cassidy asked, looking from Dutch to Lars, but Dutch’s face was blank, and Lars had looked away.
Lars shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered, looking away.
“When did you last see her?” Cassidy asked, eager for him to go back in time and tell her everything, from the minute he picked her up until the moment he lost track of her, but Cassidy wanted to focus on what was important first. She had closed the gap—from being a day behind to only a few hours. I can still find her, Cassidy thought.
Lars ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “It was at the concert,” he said. “I went to get us another beer and when I came back, poof.”
“Do you have her number?” Cassidy asked.
“Yeah,” Lars said. “I texted her, but she hasn’t answered.”
“Could you try again now?” Cassidy asked, feeling her pulse accelerate.
Lars dug out his phone and typed something quickly, then slid the device into his back pocket.
“So had you . . . made plans to stick together?” Cassidy asked, hoping this wasn’t a delicate subject.
Lars took another drag, watching her with suspicion as the tip of his cigarette glowed orange-red. “No,” he said.
“Where did you meet? In Bend?” Cassidy suspected not, but waited for him to answer.
Lars shook his head. “I gave her a ride there.”
“From Bigg’s Junction?”
His eyes clouded. “No,” he said, looking uneasy. Then, he shot Dutch a look, who gave him a nod. “It’s cool,” Dutch said.
Cassidy tried to be patient but couldn’t keep the scowl from her lips. She had no tolerance for biker code bullshit.
Lars took another drag from his cigarette, then flicked the end, scowling at the ground as the
