Bitter Sweets (12 page)

“I collect and repair them,” the colonel explained as he arrived with a tray, laden with mugs of strong, black coffee, cream, and sugar. “Normally, I would make corny jokes about having a lot of time on my hands, but I just finished making funeral arrangements for my daughter. I guess I'm not in a joking mood.”

Savannah returned to her seat and opened her mouth to say, once again, how sorry she was. But, thankfully, Ryan did it for them all.

“We can't express how sorry we are for your loss,” he said in his deep, gracious voice. “And that's why we're here today. We're all working very hard to bring some closure to this tragedy. But we need your help.”

The colonel sank wearily into a well-worn recliner and leaned back. He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them and said, “What do you want from me?”

“Information,” Dirk replied, wearing his most “sensitive cop” face. “I understand you and Earl Mallock go back a long ways.”

The colonel seemed mildly surprised that they would know this. “Yes. That's true.”

When he didn't elaborate, Savannah added, “And we know about what happened in Vietnam.”

Neilson's face hardened. “Young lady, I sincerely doubt that you know anything at all of what happened in Vietnam. You couldn't. You weren't there.”

“I was,” Ryan said softly. “Special forces.”

“Me, too.” Dirk picked up a mug of coffee and took a slurp. “Umm. . . . infantry,” he added reluctantly, upstaged by Ryan.

“Then you'll understand why I'm not inclined to drag up the past right now. God knows, the present is hard enough to handle.”

“Yes, we do understand, sir,” Ryan said. “But we need to discuss the similarities in the charges that were brought against him then and. . . . forgive me. . . . what happened to your daughter.”

“The similarities are there.” Neilson rubbed his eyes; Savannah could only imagine how much his head must be aching. “Earl committed the atrocities in Vietnam, just like they said he did. I was a fool to defend him. What can I say? It seemed the honorable thing to do at the time.”

His voice caught in his throat, and Savannah thought he was going to lose the battle with his emotions. But he rallied. “Staff Sergeant Earl Mallock. . . . he was my soldier. He had been on a trip through hell and back, a trip I had sent him on. What he did was horribly wrong, but I thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime act, the result of all he'd gone through. How was I to know that, years later, he would wind up doing the same thing to my daughter?”

“There was no way anyone could know, Colonel,” Savannah said. “You mustn't blame yourself.”

“Thank you.” His expression was sincere, his eyes compassionate when he added, “You either.”

“Colonel, you've known this guy for years, he was your son-in-law,” Dirk said. “What can you tell us about him that might help us figure out where he's taken your granddaughter?”

“If I knew the answer to that, I would have told you long ago.”

“Does he have any friends or relatives that he may have turned to for help?” Savannah asked.

“Earl is a loner. He doesn't like people, doesn't trust them. And not many people like him. He has a girlfriend named Vanessa, but I've talked to her already, and I don't think she knows anything. In fact, I think she's put out because she thinks he's run away and left her.”

“And what do
you
think?”

“I think he's hiding out somewhere, waiting for things to calm down before he tries to leave the state. With his picture and Christy's all over the evening news and the front page of the papers, he'd have a hard time traveling with her now.”

“That's what I figure, too.” Dirk helped himself to Savannah's untouched mug of coffee. “But we've checked all the motels, hotels, flophouses, and fleabags. Can't find hide nor hair of them.”

Ryan had stood and was walking slowly around the room, examining the clocks, the Congressional Medal, and miscellaneous memorabilia. He seemed particularly interested in a collection of framed photos on top of the baby grand piano in the corner.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “do you play?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Classical?”

“Jazz, but not as much as I used to. . . . with the arthritis and all.”

Ryan picked up one of the pictures and brought it to Neilson. “Can you tell me where this was taken?”

The colonel glanced at the photo, then handed it back. “I'm not sure. It was a long time ago.”

Savannah craned her neck to get a glimpse. It appeared to be a shot of two men, standing in a wooded area.

“The reason I was asking,” Ryan continued, “is because it looks like a place where a friend of mine camped a few years ago, up in the hills beyond Turner Canyon. About an hour's drive from here. I think it was called Montega Ranch, Montoya. . . . something like that.”

“I don't think that's where it was taken, but I don't remember for sure. It might have been. Earl and I used to go out for a week at a time, and he'd choose the locations. He was really into that survivalist routine, getting back to nature and all that. I got too old, too many aches and pains in the joints; we hadn't been for years.”

“Do you think he might have taken Christy out into the wilderness?” Savannah asked. “That might explain why they haven't been seen in the city.”

“I don't know.” The colonel was becoming agitated. “If I knew where my granddaughter was, don't you think I would tell you?”

“Of course you would, sir. I'm sorry. It's just that we're—”

“We're obviously imposing on you at a difficult time,” Ryan said, returning the photo to its original place. “We should get going.”

“If you think of anything, you let us know right away,” Dirk said, finishing off Savannah's coffee.

As the three of them left the house and walked down the sidewalk, Savannah said, “Well, that was a waste of time.”

“Yeah, we don't know any more than we did,” Dirk agreed.

“Speak for yourselves.” Ryan looked excited, pleased, eager.

“You got something?” Savannah said hopefully.

“Let's drop into Mort's Bait and Tackle shop, and I'll be able to tell you for sure.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Savannah and Dirk were sitting in Dirk's Buick in front of Mort's store, waiting for Ryan.

“I don't know what you see in that guy,” Dirk said with a self-righteous sniff. “It's obvious you've got the hots for him, and he's not the least bit interested in you.”

“Jealousy does not become you, my friend.”

“Jealous? Of him? Why, I—”

“I think we'd better change the subject fast,” she said, giving him the evil eye, “before I have the overpowering urge to snatch you bald.” She turned her face toward the passenger window and added under her breath,
“Both
hairs, that is.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Shut up; here he comes now.”

Ryan opened the back door, shoved some fast-food garbage off the seat, and slid in behind Savannah. “We're in luck,” he said, an eager smile on his handsome face.

“Oh, goody. . . .” Dirk muttered.

Savannah pinched his ribs hard, twisting the ample flesh between her finger and thumb. He jumped, but didn't yell.

If Ryan saw or heard the exchange, he ignored it. “Earl was in here about a week ago,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Dirk perked up visibly.

“The owner is a friend of mine, and he identified the photo I showed him.”

“And. . . .” Savannah held her breath, hoping, hoping.

“And he bought two rooster tails.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dirk asked sarcastically.

“Rooster tails. A special kind of spinner bait used for trout fishing.”

“Oh, yeah. . . . I knew that.” Dirk cleared his throat. “So, what does that prove?”

“It doesn't prove a thing. But most of the fishermen in this area use rooster tails for creek fishing, and almost all of the creeks are dried up. That one little shower we had the other night was the first one we've had in months.”

“Okay, okay. We don't need a weather report,” Dirk growled. “Everybody knows about the drought.” He jumped as Savannah pinched him again.

“The creek that runs along the edge of the Montoya Ranch almost always has water,” Ryan continued, “and trout. And everybody who fishes around here knows that it's the best place to use a rooster tail.”

Savannah looked at Dirk, Dirk looked at her, and they both looked at Ryan. A contagious smile spread across all three faces in unison.

“How long will it take us to drive there?” Dirk asked.

“Less than an hour. But we can only drive as far as Turner Canyon.” Ryan chuckled; he seemed to delight in giving this information. “From there on in, we have to hike.”

“How far?” Savannah asked.

“Six or seven miles. Maybe a couple more. But it'll be fun.”

Savannah turned to Dirk and saw her own lack of enthusiasm registered on his scowl. “Sure,” she said, trying not to sound sick at the thought of hiking anywhere, anytime, for seven miles, and maybe a couple more. “Great fun.”

Dirk rolled his eyes. “Yeah. . . . who-o-pee.”

T
he first two miles of the hike, Savannah had reveled in the joys of the great outdoors: the tantalizing smell of the sage, the marguerites growing in wild profusion with their yellow-and-white faces lifted toward the sun, the gentle breeze stirring her hair, and the occasional shade offered by a fragrant cedar or pine.

The third mile, the romance began to fade. The breezes were too damned gentle—hardly even there at all. The pines and the cedars were too few and far between. And she had decided that the wild sage and daisies stank.

Four miles in, she consoled her aching feet and back that this was some sort of spiritual excursion, a discipline that would enrich her soul. Hell, she might even lose a few pounds.

The fifth mile she began to curse Ryan Stone silently for bringing them into this godforsaken place.

The sixth, she let him have it.

“They'd better be out here, Stone, 'cause if we've gone through all this for nothing, you're dead meat,” she said, huffing and puffing as the sweat dripped down her forehead and into her eyes. “I'm going to bop you over the head and leave you out here to rot.”

“I'm more convinced than ever that we're on the right track,” Ryan said, dropping to one knee to examine the ground.

Savannah was grateful for the chance to pause and catch her breath. Turning to look back down the trail they had come, she saw Dirk, trudging along. His face was a deep, sun-scorched red, but the top of his head was even worse. He refused to put sunblock on his bald spot; to do so would be to admit it existed.

Pulling the canteen—which Ryan had bought for them at Mort's—from her back, she unscrewed the lid and took a long drink.

Instantly, she spit it onto the ground. “Yuck! What the hell did you put in my water after I filled it up at that last stream? This tastes like crap.”

“Actually, it tastes like iodine,” Ryan replied good-naturedly. “Those little tablets that I dropped into your canteen kill the bacteria in the water. Believe me, you don't want to catch beaver fever. John and I caught it once and it nearly killed us.”

She gave him a searching look to see if he was serious or making some sort of silly, obscene joke. But his eyes were wide and almost innocent.

He chuckled. “Seriously, Savannah. . . . just swallow fast and you won't taste a thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “I've heard that one before. When do we eat?”

“Why didn't you ask sooner? I bought some wonderful, nutritious treats to keep our spirits and energy up.”

He took off his newly acquired backpack, reached inside, and pulled out a couple of packets. “Here you go. Trail mix. . . . or would you prefer beef jerky?”

“You wouldn't happen to have a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey in there? Or maybe a Dove bar?”

“Sorry. This is it.”

Trying to appear grateful, she accepted the trail mix. After a couple of bites, she was finally able to discern most of the ingredients: sawdust, Styrofoam, balsa wood and—What was that slightly pungent accent flavor?—oh, yes. . . . mothballs.

“Is it lunchtime yet?” Dirk asked, catching up to them.

“Yeah. Here, you can have mine.” She discreetly slipped the bag to Dirk, while Ryan continued on ahead.

“Thanks.”

“Wait until you taste it before you thank me.”

“What is it?”

“A little treat to keep our spirits up.”

Dirk downed the bagful in four bites and didn't seem to mind the lack of flavor. Maybe there was something to this “swallowing fast” thing.

A few minutes later, they caught up with Ryan. He was standing silently by the side of the path, motionless, staring at the ground.

“What is it?” Savannah asked, afraid that she knew.

Slowly, he took a step backward in their direction. Then another, and another.

Savannah heard it. The telltale rattle.

“Oh, shit!” she whispered, reaching inside her shirt for her Beretta. “It's a snake. A rattlesnake. Damn, I hate snakes.”

Dirk pulled out his Colt and they waited as Ryan crept back toward them.

“He was sunning himself right there in the middle of the path,” he said when he reached them. “I almost stepped on him.”

“So, what do we do?” Savannah asked.

“He was there first,” Ryan replied. “We go around him.”

“Are there a lot of rattlers out here?” Dirk asked.

She could tell he was trying to be macho, but his voice sounded a little shaky.

“This time of year there are zillions of them,” Ryan replied as he forged a circuitous route, leading them on. “But not to worry, they're all friendly.”

“Friendly rattlesnakes?” Savannah didn't believe she had ever heard of a sociable rattler.

“Yeah. Like that one back there,” Ryan replied. “He was a friendly sort of guy. Didn't you see him wagging his tail? Just a great big puppy dog.”

Farther along, they drifted back onto the trail. “Not that I'm nervous or anything,” Dirk said, “but we do have a . . . . um . . . . puppy dog bite kit along, don't we?”

Ryan patted the side of his backpack. “Right here.”

“Remind me never to go hiking with you again,” Savannah said, realizing that, sooner or later, she was going to have to drink some of that stuff in her canteen that tasted like frog pee. “This is not my idea of a good time.”

“It'll be worth it,” Ryan said. “They're up here.”

Savannah's heart leapt and suddenly she didn't feel so tired. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“How do you know?” Dirk asked. Even he sounded encouraged.

“Footprints. I thought I saw some farther back. . . . a man's and a child's. Now, here they are again, and they're fresh. This time I'm certain.”

Savannah and Dirk squatted to examine the faint prints Ryan pointed out to them on the hard-packed earth.

“Well, hell. . . . what are we waiting for?” Dirk said with a determined sniff. “Let's get going and hope Tonto's right.”

 

“They aren't here.” Savannah wanted to cry, but her eyes were already irritated by the dust and her own dripping sweat, and she didn't want to make them worse.

“So, we dragged our candy asses all the way out here for nothing,” Dirk added, giving Ryan a look that was half aggravation and half I-told-you-so satisfaction. “Nice goin', Stone.”

Ryan had led them to the old, abandoned cattle ranch, the focal point of their search being the decrepit ranch house. His best guess had been that Mallock would have sought shelter for his daughter inside the condemned building. Even in its deteriorating condition, it would have been more serviceable than a tent and wouldn't have to be carried in.

But the house was empty. A family of squirrels, some bats, a plethora of spiders, and a gopher snake were the only residents. From the even layer of dust and the curtains of undisturbed cobwebs, it appeared the three were the only human visitors for a long time.

Ryan was unfazed by his companions' criticism. Standing on the porch, he leaned against a post and assumed a contemplative pose.

“Actually, it makes sense, if you think about it,” he said. “If you were Mallock, would you stay right here in the house? If I know about this place, that would mean others do, too. It was an alternative lifestyle commune in the sixties and—”

“Alternative lifestyles, oh, you mean a hippie joint,” Dirk said, sinking down onto the steps and dropping his canteen onto the dirt.

“As I was saying,” Ryan continued, ignoring him, “the house itself is too obvious. Besides, I believe the well that once served the residence has dried up. That would mean he would have to carry water from the stream.”

“The stream? What stream?” Savannah said, her own mental wheels churning.

“The one that borders the property on the north and west. The one I told you about earlier that seldom dries up, even when the others do.”

“Where you can catch trout with a rooster tail.”

“Exactly.”

“Are there other buildings that might be closer to the water source?” she asked.

“That's what I was thinking.” Ryan drummed his fingertips on the post. “If I remember correctly, there are a couple of outbuildings, small feed sheds, right beside the stream. The ranchers probably stored hay and grain for the animals there in the winter.”

“Let's go check them out,” Savannah said.

“Yeah, let's.” Still full of energy, Ryan bounded off the porch.

Dirk dragged himself to his feet. “Oh, joy. We get to walk again. I can hardly wait.”

 

As they approached the third outbuilding—a tiny, tar-papered shack with a corrugated tin roof—Savannah knew they had scored.

“Look at that,” she said, pointing to the canvas bag that hung on the end of a rope, draped over an oak limb. “Isn't that a camper sort of thing to do?”

“Yes. It's to keep the animals away from your food stash,” Ryan agreed.

To their left, an expert campfire had been laid with lots of wood stacked nearby. On some rocks near the stream some clothing had been spread: a large pair of jeans, a towel, and a small Beauty and the Beast tee shirt.

“At least Christy's still okay,” Savannah said, greatly relieved.

“Maybe,” Dirk added, always Mr. Negativity.

They crouched behind a clump of sage and surveyed the surrounding area. Their hiding spot was the only one around. The brush appeared to have been recently cleared away and, other than the oak, there were no trees nearby.

“Good choice,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, he can see us comin' a mile off,” Dirk added, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

“We probably shouldn't just march up to the door and knock a ‘shave and a haircut,' huh?” Savannah's legs were seizing into a cramp from squatting, so she knelt in the dust. It didn't help much.

“I wouldn't recommend it,” Ryan said.

“Mallock's probably not even in there,” Dirk suggested. “It's just some old codger who got sick of civilization and moved up here to get some peace.” Other people thought dark, pessimistic thoughts; but Dirk Coulter was always the first to utter them aloud. “It's still daylight. Even if Mallock and the kid are here, they could be anywhere, doing anything. Choppin' wood, skinnin' a bear.”

“Do you want to wait until dark?” Ryan asked.

“Not really.” Savannah thought of how it would be to have to navigate the path they had just taken or spend the night out here in the sticks with nothing but mountain lions, coyotes, and friendly rattlesnakes for company. “I'd just as soon get it over with,” she said. “But there's no point in all of us exposing ourselves. I'll sneak up and take a peek in the window. Then I'll come back here and let you know what's up.”

“I really think I should go,” Ryan said. “I know the two of you are exhausted, not being accustomed to hiking so far and—”

“I'll
go,” Dirk snapped. “I'm the cop around here, even if everybody does keep forgetting that little fact. You two are just along for the ride.”

“Are you sure?” Savannah asked. “We could all go together.”

“Yeah, right,” Dirk said irritably. “We'd look like the Three Stooges marching up there, three abreast.” He looked across at Savannah's generous chest. “Okay, you definitely count for two . . . .
four
abreast.” He pulled his Colt and checked his ammo. “I'm going. You two are staying. I'll take a look and then give you the high sign.”

Cautiously, he left the meager shelter of the scrub and scurried toward the house, keeping low to the ground and out of view of the one small window.

“What's the high sign?” Ryan asked. “I've always wondered exactly what that was.”

“I don't know what it is officially,” Savannah admitted. “But Dirk usually just flips you the bird.”

They watched closely as Dirk approached the shed, all the time keeping a sharp eye for any other movement in the surrounding area. But only the trees swayed from time to time, the dry oak leaves rustling like a starched Southern petticoat in the breeze.

Nearby a dove cooed, and they could hear the burbling sound of the stream. It was a natural, peaceful sound that seemed out of context, considering their mission.

Savannah held her own gun tightly in her sweat-slick palm, waiting for anything as Dirk plastered his back to the shed and slowly made his way around to the window.

The casement held four panels. Three of the glass panes were filthy and obscure, but the lower left corner one was broken, with only jagged edges. Dirk squatted below it, bobbed up for a quick look, then back down.

He repeated the move, then again, pausing a bit longer each time.

Finally, he stood and stared through the window for a long, tense moment. Ryan and Savannah held their breaths. Without turning toward them, Dirk beckoned with one hand, the movement slow and wooden.

They left their hiding spots and hurried toward the shed.

Dirk walked away from the window and made his way slowly toward the door. When they reached him, Savannah whispered, “What is it? Is anyone inside?”

He didn't reply. Instead, he pushed the door open and stepped into the semidarkness.

“Shit,” he said softly. He moved aside to make room in the tiny shed for the other two to join him.

By the sound of his tone and the horrible, distinctive odor that filled the structure, Savannah braced herself, knowing that she wasn't going to like what she was going to see. But she still wasn't prepared.