by Cara McKenna
Crazy, but pleasant.
They entered and grabbed a table in the corner, Kim positioned with a good view of the whole room—every last patron and the front door, all of which she scanned with darting eyes. Vince waited until her face told him she saw nothing alarming; then he pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it to her.
“Get us a pitcher while I talk with Welch. If you’re okay with me leaving you alone for a few minutes, that is.”
She nodded. “Good luck.”
Welch was at the bar, predictably, he and Raina busy nurturing whatever extrathorny rose of sexual tension they’d managed to get blooming of late. Fucking weird. Vince’s voice cut through the rabble and the jukebox din as he came up from behind. “Welch.”
The man turned and stood. There was something different about him—he seemed to sway faintly, and Vince wondered if he was drunk. Didn’t seem like the guy’s style at all. Then again, neither did Raina.
“Mr. Grossier. You’re a difficult man to get hold of.”
“I was getting laid. What’s this development you mentioned?” He peered at the man’s eyes, the usual calculating paleness replaced with pools of eerie black. “And why are your pupils dilated? You look like a fucking anime character.”
“It’s my prescription,” Welch said dismissively, glancing around. The precise edges of his speech and movements had been ground off, and his accent was different—not as snooty as usual. He sounded nearly normal, which for Duncan Welch was kind of creepy.
“Are you tanked?” Vince asked.
“No. Not entirely. Though maybe partially.”
Shit. Had this asshole even seen anything at all? “You’d better not have drunk-dialed me.” Vince turned to Raina. “Was he sober when he came in?”
“Yeah.”
Well thank fuck for that. “Did you roofie him or something? Jesus Christ.”
“Is there someplace quiet we can talk?” Welch asked.
“Back room.”
Welch gathered his jacket and followed Vince into the bar’s office, shutting the door behind them.
“So what’s this development shit about?” Vince asked. “Because my brother and my friend are riding out by the sites now, looking for anything suspicious. If you’ve got a reason they should get out of there, tell me now.”
“No, I don’t think so. But I did some searching myself today, through the phone.” The change of setting seemed to have sobered Welch a few degrees. Or perhaps the distance from Raina.
Vince frowned. “And?”
“I couldn’t even tell you why I did it . . . Only that something had been nagging at me, ever since you and I went out there.”
“What something?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling, and I’m not a man who operates on feelings.”
Vince believed that.
“Tremblay had said that the site Dunn visited the day he died had been the main one,” Welch said, “but had he looked it up, when he told you? Checked whatever log they keep of everyone’s patrols and assignments?”
Vince shook his head. “He just told me from memory.”
“I reckoned as much—and I reckoned he could have remembered it wrong, so I called around the other sites.”
“And asked what?”
“I made up some bull—told them Sunnyside needed to review a permit from that Monday, signed by Deputy Alex Dunn. And could they please check their files and fax me a copy.”
“And?”
“And nothing, from the first three calls—no paperwork signed by Dunn that day, including from the site we visited.”
Vince frowned. “Huh.”
“But the final site I called—the northernmost one—Dunn had been there.”
Vince crossed his arms. “Well shit. So our entire trip was a complete waste of time?”
“Indeed. And when I requested a copy of the form, to make the lie credible, the foreman got rather defensive. Got tetchy about why it was his issue if we lost our copy. Told me to request it from the Sheriff’s Department instead—basically threw a small tantrum.”
“What’s he care if you see the paperwork or not? Unless it’s got something to do with the bones . . .”
Welch shook his head. “I pressed, and he did fax it, and I got someone from the Sheriff’s Department to do the same—identical pages, and nothing criminal at all. It was just a zoning permit to do with blasting.”
“Damn.”
“But we know two things now—we know which site your friend really visited before he died. And we know that the foreman in charge of it breaks out in a cold sweat if one broaches the topic of Alex Dunn.”
“We know more than that, even.” Vince filled him in on what Kim had overheard.
“My God.”
Vince nodded. “And that stays between us, for now. You tell anybody else what you found out today? The sheriff?”
“No. This might be enough to arouse our suspicions, but Tremblay would be a tough sell without anything solid. Plus, if there’s anything to be found, it could go missing in the time it’d take for him to contact the foreman and arrange an investigation. Bones aren’t difficult to move. And that’s if he’d even give us the time of day.”
“Good to know your hard-on for the rules knows when to stand down.”
Welch smiled dryly. “I respect the law because it’s nearly always on my side. This time, however, I may have put curiosity before protocol . . . I suspect I owe you an apology,” he added.
“For?”
“For giving so little credence to your concerns, before.”
Vince snorted. “Yeah. Like anybody did. You get the foreman’s name? We ought to arrange for Kim to lay eyes on the man, much as the idea makes my skin crawl . . .”
“I did—David Levins. And I called Virgin River’s head office, and they gave me the same name and number when I requested contact information for that site’s foreman . . . I wonder if Virgin River’s Web site might have employee headshots that Kim could look at, if she was nervous about seeing him in person.”
“Either way, it’s a good lead.”
“Before we get the authorities involved, I think we should go to the site as soon as possible, though well after dark. Check the office, the Dumpsters, see if any foundations have been poured, anything suspicious . . . Once we have, and if we find anything, we can probably chance bringing the sheriff into it.”
“Big if,” Vince said through a sigh. “They’ve had two weeks to hide any evidence.”
“It’s worth looking. And maybe there’s something worth being nervous about, if you’re that foreman.”
“We go tonight,” Vince said.
Welch nodded. “Late. Between midnight and four—no chance of running into anyone.”
“I’m in. Are you?”
After a pause—a bracing breath, as though Welch were about to fling himself off the high diving board—“Yes. I’m in.”
“Good—” Vince paused, his phone buzzing against his chest. Miah. He hit TALK. “Where are you?”
“Just hit the last site on Kim’s map. Sorry, Vince—nothing. I bugged all the workers I could get away with, but bones didn’t mean a thing to any of them. And we didn’t spot anything that seemed off . . . not that we were too sure what we were looking for.”
“Any heat from the foremen?”
“We pissed one of them off, and I played the overly concerned cattleman card, got in a nasty little shouting match. But that was it. We’re gonna head back into town.”
“Good . . . I’m with Welch now. He just gave me some info that could’ve saved you boys the gas.”
“Oh?”
“Exactly which site Alex saw those bones at.”
A pause. “Which one?”
“Northernmost,” Vince said, eyeing Welch, seeking confirmation. The man nodded.
“You want us to keep looking around there?”
“No. We’re gonna go tonight. Real late, well after the workers clear out.”
“Yo
u need me for that?” Miah asked.
“No. I’ve hauled you away from your job enough for one day.”
“The ranch comes second to finding out what happened to Alex. My folks’ll cope.”
“I get that . . . but no. You sit this one out, get some rest. Keep an eye on Kim for me.”
“Welch going with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Not to sound paranoid, but what if Welch is lying? If there’s any chance he could be involved in any of this—”
“I can hear you, Mr. Church,” Welch interjected. “And I don’t appreciate what you’re implying. I’ll have you know I’m putting my job at risk to help—”
Vince shut him up with a wave. “I trust this asshole,” he said to Miah, as Welch’s lips narrowed to a livid line. “And I’ll bring Case. Thanks for everything you did just now, though.”
“Wish I had more to show for it.”
“Forget it. You did good. And you’ve got a business to worry about. Head home.”
“Will do. And I’ll let Casey know he’s in for a late night.”
“Thanks, man.” Vince pocketed his phone, and turned his attention back to Welch and their forming plan. “For tonight . . . your car’s a fucking hazard.”
“Your motorcycle’s ten times noisier.”
“But ten times more useful, if we needed to get out of there quick.”
“Fair point.”
“You know how to ride a bike?”
“No.”
He thought a moment. “Bet you’d fit behind my brother. I need him to come anyway—he can pick locks, if there’s an office trailer.” Besides, who knew what they might find, and Casey was a good shot, should it come to that.
“Ah . . .”
“Don’t panic—no need to cuddle the guy. He’s got a bitch bar.”
“The intimacy doesn’t concern me so much as the vehicle itself.”
“I played nice the first time we went out there—played by your rules,” Vince said. “This time you shut up and do what I say.”
A firm nod. “Agreed.”
“Bring your fancy-ass phone—that thing must have video, right? And I’ll borrow Kim’s camera as a backup, in case we find anything worth documenting.”
Welch nodded again, looking calmer, same as Vince felt to have a plan coming together, ragged though it was.
“Incidentally,” Welch added after a pause, “are you the one who set Raina Harper sniffing after my private life?”
“She asked you about some bleach?”
“She did.”
Vince smiled. “Guess I’ll let that mystery slide, seeing as how you seem to be on my side against this bigger one.”
“Appreciated.”
“But I still think you’re a creepy motherfucker.”
Welch smiled wanly. “And I still think you’re a feral goon.”
“Two o’clock,” Vince said, hand on the doorknob. “We’ll pick you up at the motel.”
He nodded. “I’ll be ready.”
Chapter 23
Vince kissed Kim good night around one thirty, promising to call as soon as he, Casey, and Welch had wrapped up their mission.
“Be careful,” she said, the two of them sitting at the edge of the guest room bed, her hand on his thigh, fingers rubbing nervously.
“I’m armed. Casey will be, too.”
She glared at him. “That’s not at all what I meant.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” he promised, and stroked her hair. Goddamn, she was pretty. Why in the hell was she with Vince, anyhow? And how in the fuck was he going to say good-bye to her?
Scarier still, how was he ever going to survive taking her on a trip to possibly ID that foreman? If he could be one of the men, the thought of the two of them locking eyes made him queasy. Maybe he could get a photo instead . . .
“You’d better go.” She gave his upper arm a squeeze. “Be careful. And I hope you find something,” she added, then seemed to rethink the sentiment. “Maybe. Unless it’s dangerous.”
Vince stood, patted his pockets to check for his keys and phone, and the digital camera Miah had lent him. “We’ll be fine. Now, you’re sure I can’t borrow your baby?” He fingered the strap of Kim’s camera bag, which was sitting on the dresser. She’d flat out refused when he’d asked, looking stricken. “You know I’d treat it real nice.”
“No way in hell. I’d sooner give you a kidney.”
“We gotta work on our trust issues,” he teased, then leaned in for a final kiss on her forehead. “Talk to you in a bit.”
“I’ll be up worrying until you do.”
He smiled good-bye and shut her door behind him.
Weird how quickly they’d gotten to this point—good-bye kisses, reassurances, promises to call. He hadn’t been that way with a woman in ages. He’d always been a natural at the more boorish aspects of romance—possession and all that greedy stuff—not the softer, subtler things. But he couldn’t deny, those soft things felt good, with Kim.
He also knew not to go getting attached to the sensation. Same as she surely knew better than to stick around Fortuity once her part had been played.
He stopped in the front hall to grab Miah’s helmet off its hook, and locked up. The night was cold and still as he climbed onto his bike and headed into town. A light was on in his mom’s house, and as he walked up the driveway, he could see his brother through the kitchen window, eyes on the counter, on something unseen.
When Vince entered the kitchen, he saw that the unseen something was a .45 that Casey was loading. Vince crossed the linoleum to watch him.
“Nice piece.”
“I know. Got it for a song at a show in Fort Worth.” He slid the magazine in place and checked the safety. “I doubt she’ll be seeing any action tonight, though—not based on that heaping pile of jack shit me and Miah saw this afternoon.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Casey tucked the barrel at the small of his back and arranged his shirt.
Vince shook his head. “You gotta get a holster. That is so fucking ghetto.”
“No way—I like how it feels back there.” Casey grabbed his jacket and followed Vince outside. “Wait. That came out wrong.”
Vince laughed.
They got to the Gold Nugget just after two, and Welch was standing beside his car, dressed unusually. Unusual for Welch, anyhow—expensive-looking jeans, narrow Eurotrash running shoes, a black hooded jacket that was probably deceptively expensive.
“Ready?” Idling, Vince tossed Welch the extra helmet.
“Close enough,” the man said. He eyed Casey’s seat with misgiving.
“Hop on, motherfucker. I don’t have cooties.”
“That’s reassuring,” Welch said as he adjusted the helmet’s strap. He managed to mount up with surprising dignity, likely down to his long legs as much as anything.
“Feel free to get friendly,” Casey said.
“Pass,” Welch said, gripping the sissy bar at the small of his back in both hands.
They didn’t pass a single vehicle on their route past the foothills, and apart from the main site, which was lit, the ride was pitch-black under the new moon.
More than anything else, the northernmost site looked like a storage area. Loads of heavy equipment, orange construction barrels and cones lined up in military formation, industrial-sized Dumpsters. There wasn’t even a porta potty or a mobile office that Vince could see. They killed the bikes but kept the headlights on.
“This wasn’t on the map that Kim gave Miah,” Casey said, dismounting after Welch. “We didn’t come this far out.”
“Not surprised,” Vince said. “There’s not any real construction happening here. Sunnyside wouldn’t have asked her to photograph this stuff.” He pulled out the three flashlights he’d stashed in his seat case. “We split up,” he said, handing them out, keeping the little LED one for himself. Getting lost would take talent—the site was narrow, no longer than a football field, and but
ted right up against the rocky hills.
“Shh,” hissed Welch, and their three bodies went stock-still, all ears straining. Vince heard it—movement. A scraping noise, and footfalls. They swung their beams toward the hills in a single motion, illuminating two mangy four-legged bandits.
Vince and Casey slumped, but Welch stayed frozen.
“Just coyotes.” Vince scattered the vagrants with a load of shouting and clapping, and they trotted off. “Could be after carrion . . . or just somebody’s old fast-food bag.”
“What sorts of diseases do they carry?” Welch asked.
“The kind that turn you into a fussy prick,” Casey said, aiming his light around. “I remember this place. The old mines are around here.”
“Anybody finds any of the entrances,” Vince said, “call it out. Nobody goes in there alone. Those things are fucking death traps.”
“Never bothered us as kids,” Casey said.
“Yeah, well, some of us grew up. I’ll be thirty-five in a few months, and I might just want to live long enough to run for president.”
They broke off, Vince heading for the northern end, Welch to the far side, and Casey in the middle. “Check for what those coyotes were sniffing at,” Vince called after his brother.
Two cavernous Dumpsters sat in Vince’s territory. He held the little flashlight between his teeth and palmed the front rim, hopping to hold himself up on straight arms. Shit. Thing was practically empty, like they’d just replaced it, only a wooden cable spool and random debris strewn in the front corner. Same with the second one. Vince dropped back to the ground and started scanning the perimeter, where the site ended in a tangle of scrub brush and boulders. He wove between the boulders, aiming his beam in any nooks and crannies that looked fit to stuff evidence into, but nothing. Rocks, dirt, and the odd cigarette butt, an energy drink can.