“And why did I do that? Because, when I sent deputies from other parts of the county to Morton or Packwood or Randle and the like, asking questions, they never seemed to get to first base. If you go there on your own, it’s likely the same thing will happen to you. You can ask questions until you’re blue in the face. You’re not going to get any answers.”
What Sheriff Tyler was saying made sense. Mel stood up and turned one of her classic smiles on poor unsuspecting Deputy Timmons. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. When it comes to bringing unsuspecting young guys to heel, she’s a killer. I’ve seen her do it before, and it works like magic every single time.
“If you have time to take us there, Mr. Timmons,” she purred, “we’d be ever so grateful.”
Timmons blushed from the top of his collar to the roots of his hair. A few short minutes earlier, Mel had been the one voicing the suggestion that there might be some kind of unsavory connection between Timmons’s boyhood pal Kenneth Broward and Rachel Camber. In the face of Mel’s radiant smile, however, all remembrance of her unpleasant suggestion was zapped right out of Deputy Timmons’s random-access memory.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning back at her. “I’d be happy to.”
If I had tried pulling that coy-smile bit, it wouldn’t have done a thing for Deputy Timmons, and it wouldn’t have done much for us, either.
“Would you mind going now?” she asked.
I believe Mel could have asked Deputy Timmons to march straight into hell about then, and he would have done it without question.
“Not at all, ma’am,” he replied. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.”
And off to Randle we went.
Chapter 14
I’ve never been to the Ozarks. Mel tells me they’re beautiful and that I’d love it there. The closest I’ve ever come was reading my mother’s well-loved collection of books written by Harold Bell Wright.
I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if the Ozarks aren’t a whole lot like the far-eastern stretches of backwoods Lewis County-Morton, Randle, and Packwood included. U.S. Highway 12 is made up of miles of tree-lined blacktop punctuated occasionally by tiny towns and isolated houses, where elk and deer and the occasional bear wander across the roadways.
As we drove, it was easy to imagine that we were time-traveling back to a simpler, quieter era, but that was an illusion because bad things happen everywhere. Some of the towns and houses we passed were decidedly worse for wear. The downturn in the housing market had hit the logging industry hard. People who were just barely making it before were a lot worse off now.
Mel had used her considerable charm to bring Deputy Timmons to heel, but in the privacy of our own vehicle she was not amused at the idea of being led into the wilds of Lewis County by a local scout.
“I don’t care what Deputy Timmons has to say about his sainted friend, Kenneth Broward,” Mel said. “They’re pals, meaning he can’t possibly be objective about the guy. I have no intention of believing Rachel’s stepfather is in the clear until I see proof of it with my own eyes. And no mother in her right mind would say ‘Good riddance’ about a fifteen-year-old runaway.”
We drove into Randle through the lingering late-afternoon sunlight that is typical of Washington in the summer. We knew Mount Rainier was a huge snow-topped presence lurking only a few miles away, but the mountain was mostly out of sight behind the wall of trees that lined the road. Driving through the woods at that time of day means watching out for wildlife. We saw several deer grazing along the highway. As Mel was noting how beautiful they were, a fawn spooked for some reason and leaped across the road directly in front of us. Mel and I were both grateful for the Mercedes’s top-notch braking system. The unscathed deer, springing off into the forest, should have been grateful, too.
We’d already had some hints that the Bike Inn wouldn’t be a quaint country hotel catering primarily to bicycle riders in their bright Gore-Tex outfits. Denizens of the bar were of another species altogether. We’re talking Harleys and leathers here, not Trek and Spandex.
The building itself was a disreputable ramshackle kind of place with several Harleys angle-parked out front. In among the collection of Harleys were hidden a couple of Honda Goldwings and even, I was surprised to see, a fully restored Indian Chief. The Indian was an original that dated from the early forties, not a reproduction like those currently being built in North Carolina. There may have been shiny new leather on the seat, but this one came complete with the old-fashioned suicide shifter. When it comes to Indians, I’m something of a purist.
It was almost eight o’clock when we stopped the car in front of the row of cycles. We exited the climate- controlled comfort of the car and landed in surprising heat that was unsurprisingly muggy.
The building stood alone. Rather than having a sidewalk out front, it sported a worn wooden walkway that creaked when we stepped up onto it. There were still a few vestiges of color on the outside walls that indicated the building had once boasted a coat of blue paint, but now there was far more mold than paint showing. Off to the side of the building sat a relatively new AC unit that probably cost more than the building itself, but I welcomed its low- throated roar. In the baking heat, the prospect that the Bike Inn was air-conditioned was a welcome surprise.
Deputy Timmons stood waiting for us on the boardwalk. Once we joined him, he pushed open the door and ushered us inside. I had never been in this particular bar before, but I’ve spent enough time in disreputable places over the years that this was an entirely familiar “ambience.” The first thing to hit me was the smell. Cigarette smoking inside bars and restaurants may be prohibited in Washington State now, but generations of smokers had left behind clouds of smoke that had absorbed into the Bike Inn’s very core. In this case, I suspected the dark paneling on the interior walls and the upholstered booths were most likely the main smoke-sink culprits. The bare plank flooring had sopped up plenty of spilled beer over the years. The olfactory residue of that lingered, blending with the stink of burned grease from a kitchen that probably wasn’t any too clean, either.
From the invisible dollar signs on the two-wheeled rides parked outside, I could tell most of these guys could have afforded to hang out in a better place, but for some reason they didn’t. They preferred this one.
After the bright sunlight outside, the room was gloomily dark. Most of the light came from fixtures that dangled over two fully occupied pool tables. The light over the bar was a lot dimmer than the light over the pool tables. There were four guys playing pool, two men and two leather-clad women sitting in two separate booths along the far wall, and three guys at the bar-two on one end and a solo at the other end near the kitchen. One of the pool players wore a handgun-one that looked like a.38-in a holster on his hip, but I assumed that wasn’t the only weapon in the room.
A woman wearing a tank top stood behind the bar with one tattooed arm raised while she pulled draft beer into a glass. After viewing all those mug shots, I recognized Rachel Camber’s mother the moment I saw her. In the flesh, I saw that her mug shot wasn’t an exact likeness, but that’s hardly surprising. Even movie stars look like crap in mug shots-just ask Charlie Sheen or Nick Nolte.
As the door opened, I had heard the sound of someone whacking the cue ball into a newly racked triangle of pool balls. We stepped into the room while the balls were still skittering across the felt-lined table. One of them dropped into a side pocket, but before that happened, complete silence fell on the room. I’ve been in bad-news bars before, and that kind of ominous silence makes me wary as hell. Right then I busied myself with a head count-nine men and three women-against the three of us. If Mel had been at the top of her game, the odds might not have been too bad, especially since Timmons was a trained Marine. Still. .
The silence was broken when Ardith slammed the beer glass down on the bar hard enough that half of it slopped out onto the counter.
“Who the hell is this, Davy?” she demanded sharply of Deputy Timmons as we walked past the pool players and took possession of three unoccupied bar stools. “Whaddya think you’re doin’ bringin’ folks like this into my bar?”
I noticed right off that she didn’t call him Deputy Timmons or even David-as his name badge clearly stated-
