“Hey, Luke,” Parker said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”
“Well, you know me,” he said. “I’m not a big drinker.”
“So, what brings you here tonight?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a buddy,” he said. “But I don’t see him.”
“Do I know him?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” McCain said. “He’s here once in a while. I was driving by and thought I would just stick my head in to see if he’s here tonight and say hello.”
“Why didn’t you call him?” she asked.
McCain wanted to say, “It’s none of your damn business!” but instead he said, “I did, no answer. I figured he might not be able to hear his phone as loud as this place is.”
“You can come join us if you want,” she said.
“Aw, I better not,” McCain said. “My dog’s at home and if I don’t make it back fairly soon, he’ll get mad at me and pee on the couch or something.”
Parker made a face like she’d just smelled a fart and said, “Well, just thought I would ask. See you at work.”
“Not if I see you first,” he said, quiet enough that she couldn’t hear him over the roar of the bar crowd as she walked away.
Before he turned and walked out, he took another hard look around the bar and saw no one else he recognized. He walked over to the bar, and when the bartender came over, McCain said, “I’m looking for a friend. About my age, well-built guy, dark brown hair, a little shorter than me, wears a cowboy hat sometimes.”
The bartender thought about it a few seconds and said, “Sounds like about half the dudes who come in here, except for the cowboy hat. This isn’t a goat-roper bar. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with a cowboy hat in here.”
“Yeah, okay, well thanks,” McCain said as he turned and headed for the door. When he stepped through the threshold, he ran headlong into Deputies Williams, Stratford and Garcia. In fact, he about bowled them over.
“Hey, slow down,” Garcia said, kind of pissed. Then he saw who it was. “Oh hey, McCain.”
McCain stopped and looked at the three guys, all off duty in street clothes, and said, “Hey, guys.”
“What’s the big hurry?” Williams asked.
“Jack’s at the neighbors, and I need to take him off their hands before he eats them outta house and home,” he lied.
“No time to join us for dinner?” Garcia asked. “I remember something about you owing me one for hauling that bear poacher into town for you the other day.”
“I believe I said lunch,” McCain said. “Besides, this place is way too rich for my blood. I was thinking more along the lines of Miner’s, or for you, McDonald’s.”
“Stratford here is the big spender,” Williams said. “He’s celebrating his one-year anniversary with the department, and he’s buying.”
“Food’s good here?” McCain asked Stratford.
“So, I’ve heard,” he said. “I’ve never eaten here before.”
Everyone said quick goodbyes, and the three deputies went on into the bar as McCain headed to his truck.
As he drove home, McCain thought about running into the deputies. He wondered if it really was Stratford’s first time dining there. What about Williams and Garcia? He wondered how often they stopped in for a drink.
Sinclair called him first thing the next morning. McCain was just loading Jack into the truck to head up Chinook Pass to Bumping Lake. A woman had called in and said she thought she had shot a cougar that had been prowling around the cabins. Evidently one of the neighbor’s cock-a-poos was missing, and they were worried the mountain lion might have taken up snacking on family pets. The woman who called in said she saw the cougar sneaking up on another neighbor’s dog, so she pulled out her husband’s 30-30 rifle and shot at the cat.
“Hey!” McCain said into the phone. “I think Simon the TV reporter has a little crush on you. I’ve seen you on TV with him like four times now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Listen, we might have something on your idea about the trail cameras. We got a call from a local guy who just reviewed his photos from April and thinks there’s something on one of his cameras we might want to see.”
“When can you see them?”
“I told the guy we’d come by later today. Are you available at four?”
McCain told her he was, and she gave him the address for SPD&G Accounting on the west side of Yakima. McCain told her he’d meet her at the accounting company at four o’clock and clicked off.
As he drove up toward Chinook Pass and Bumping Lake, McCain wondered what might be on the trail cameras. Even if it was a photo of a person, possibly the killer, would they be able to see enough detail in the dark of the new moon night to tell who it was?
When he arrived at the little resort on Bumping Lake, a petite, silver-haired lady of about seventy-five, wearing tan shorts, a pink hooded sweatshirt and a pink tennis visor, came hustling out of the store.
“Mrs. Thomas?” McCain asked as he climbed out of his WDFW pickup. “I’m Luke McCain.”
“Yes, I’m Hilda Thomas,” the lady said. “I assume you know why I called?”
“I do. Can you take me to where you shot at the cougar?”
“I can,” she said. “I would never think of shooting such a beautiful animal, but the thing was stalking the Olson’s dog, Duke. And you heard that a cougar snatched the Puttman’s little cock-a-poo?”
“I did,” McCain said. “Should we drive, or can we walk?”
“We can walk. That way you can see the cougar tracks.”
McCain opened the door, let Jack out, and started out
