McCain asked the dispatcher to give the coordinates and phone number of the Patterson’s horse outfit to Sinclair if she called in and they couldn’t raise him on the radio.
“Oh, and tell her to bring some mosquito spray if she comes,” McCain told the dispatcher. “Those blood suckers up on the hill are as big as woodpeckers.”
He then went over to the Patterson’s place to let them know there might be a phone call from the FBI, and they might need another horse.
“We’ll make sure you are paid for the horses,” McCain said. “It’s my guess you’ll be renting a few more during the next couple of days. Thanks for all your help.”
With that McCain turned, patted his hip, and Jack fell in place. They walked back to his truck to wait for the deputy to show or Sinclair to call. As he sat by the highway, in the gravel lot next to the horse corrals, an older 80s vintage Chevy pickup pulled up. McCain recognized the driver as Jim Kingsbury, a sixty-something man who always wore a Crocodile Dundee-style Australian hat, and any one of a plethora of t-shirts with humorous or political sayings on them.
Kingsbury was a local character in the Naches area, obviously retired because you’d see him at just about any time of day driving around or parked at one café or another. What he had retired from, McCain didn’t know, but the guy had the gift of gab. There were times when McCain was glad to chat with the gentleman, and other times he would cringe when he saw him coming.
When McCain saw the Chevy pull up next to him in the parking lot, he figured a little talk with Kingsbury might be a good way to pass a few minutes while he awaited the others.
“Hey, Jim,” McCain said. “What you doing up this way?”
McCain took note of the blue t-shirt that Kingsbury was wearing. In bold white print across the chest it read, IT’S BETTER TO WAKE UP AND PEE THAN PEE AND WAKE UP.
“I heard the silvers were biting at Rimrock,” Kingsbury said. “That asshole Frank Dugdale told me so. He’s a damn liar. You should never trust a guy with three first names.”
McCain laughed. He knew that Kingsbury and Dugdale were good buddies and that Kingsbury was probably not terribly upset at his friend.
“Well, you tell him they’re catching two-pound cutthroats up at Dumbbell,” McCain said. “He’ll hike in there and be lucky to catch a twelve-incher.”
“That S.O.B wouldn’t hike two hundred yards for a five-pounder,” the older man said. “I’ll get him back sometime. So, what’s going on up here?”
“Some horse riders found some bones. Not sure what they are, but we’re going to check them out.”
“Connected to those bodies that were found up in these hills?” Kingsbury asked. “There’s scuttlebutt around town there might be another Gary Ridgeway running around these parts.”
Gary Ridgeway was infamously known as the Green River Killer, one of the most prolific serial killers in United States history. He preyed on teenage girls and young women during the 80s and 90s and dumped many of their bodies along the Green River in Western Washington. When he was finally caught, he was convicted of murdering 49 women, although he had confessed to killing seventy-one.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s what we are dealing with here,” McCain said. “But the sheriff needs to take a look at it. I really am not involved in the investigation.”
The two men talked for a while longer. McCain told Kingsbury to go give Clear Lake a try if he wanted to catch a mess of trout to eat. When he’d been up there a little earlier in the day the folks fishing along the banks were having some good luck. It didn’t hurt that the WDFW hatchery crews had been to the lake a couple days before and dumped a few thousand rainbows in the lake.
“Aw, I don’t like the taste of those hatchery fish,” Kingsbury said. “But I have developed a hankerin’ for some of those silvers for the smoker. That damn Dugdale, I’ll get him back when he’s least expecting it.”
With that, Kingsbury jumped in his pickup and drove away. As he did McCain noticed a new bumper sticker on the back of the truck. It read: I’m not a Gynecologist, but I’d be glad to take a look. McCain just smiled and shook his head.
Williams was the deputy who showed up from the Yakima County Sheriff’s Office. He pulled in next to McCain’s truck, rolled down the window and said, “I’m getting tired of this.”
McCain filled him in on what he had seen and asked Williams if he was ready to saddle up.
“Can I walk?” Williams asked. “Me and horses don’t get along too good.”
“You can if you like, but it’s a pretty good haul. Over two miles uphill, almost the whole way.”
“Aw, geeze. Okay, but get me the calmest old mare in the string. The last time I had to ride a four-legged creature into the hills, I got a nasty old mule that spent half the time swerving into low limbs trying to knock me off.”
“I’ll talk to Patterson,” McCain said. “The mare I rode up on a bit ago was pretty easygoing. I had no problems with her. Maybe we should switch, and you should ride her.”
And, that’s what they did. After some stirrup adjusting, Williams was on the chestnut-colored mare McCain had ridden earlier, and McCain was astride a dapple-gray
