even a touch fearful. “Come back to the conference room,” Gage said. “You’ve got the pictures? The clothing?”
The men nodded and Gage turned. “Kelly?”
“Coming.”
Velma’s scratchy voice suddenly penetrated the murmur of quiet voices. “Boss? Connie Parish says they need some help with crowd control. Word is getting around and folks are gathering near where the car was found to start their own searches.”
Gage cussed. “Send ten men out there before they trample any evidence. Get ten volunteers. I got some business here first, then I’ll go out there, too.”
“I’ll go,” said Al Carstairs. He might be the animal control officer, but he had the physical stature to be intimidating, and the military bearing to go with it.
Velma looked around. “Nine more?”
Before she could see who went, Kelly and Bugle were being ushered into the conference room. In the relative quiet once the door closed behind them, the room filled with a different atmosphere. Fear. Worry. Even some anger. These fathers were like rifles that didn’t know where to point.
“We’re helping with the search,” Randy Beauvoir said.
“I never thought you wouldn’t. But I need Deputy Noveno here to give Bugle his target scents, and I want pictures of your daughters to go out with her, and with damn near everyone else. We’re going to digitize the photos. They’ll be on every cell phone in the county, okay? And TV, as well. But first things first.”
A SHORT WHILE LATER, after a quick stop at Maude’s diner to get a tall, hot latte, with her truck heater blasting, Kelly and Bugle headed east out of town with evidence bags holding part of the girls’ clothing and photocopies of the full-size portraits. Even as she was driving she heard her cell phone ding, and figured it was probably the digital photos with background info.
It was beginning to hit her. She’d found the vehicle that had been carrying the girls only last night. Shouldn’t some instinct have kicked in? Made her look inside the car, study the ground around for signs of a scuffle? Anything?
But the scene hadn’t struck her that way. Once she knew the occupants were gone, that even their purses had vanished, there seemed to be nothing to worry about. No one injured, because if they had been they would have been on their way to the hospital and her radio should have been crackling with information.
It had been quiet, dark. People misjudged and went into ditches all the time, especially on cold nights where even a small patch of black ice could cause loss of control. She hadn’t seen or felt any ice, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been there when the car ran off the road.
But without any damage to the car or any obvious sign of foul play, there was really nothing she could do except get the vehicle towed when she couldn’t get ahold of the owner.
Randy Beauvoir and his wife had been in Laramie for the weekend. They’d come home midday today, Randy had told her and the sheriff. They’d received Kelly’s voice mail but hadn’t immediately worried. No messages suggested the girl was in trouble. Probably at a friend’s house for the night, as discussed. They’d get the car out of impound later.
But then Chantal’s family had phoned, and the dominoes started tumbling. The girls weren’t at one of their houses. Their families had no idea where they might be. Kelly’s message about the car had suddenly struck them as a blinding warning flare.
The early winter night had begun conquering the landscape. Bright floodlights warned her of the approaching accident scene. She felt ill to the pit of her stomach. As she passed the cordoned-off area where the car had been found and crowds were beginning to gather, all she could hope was that somebody at Rusty’s would give her a clue.
THE GRAVEL PARKING lot was clear of all but one vehicle, an aging pickup truck. Neon signs in the windows didn’t yet shimmer with life and wouldn’t until Rusty officially opened his doors.
She knew Rusty. She’d been called a number of times to help when some customers grew rowdy. Rusty did a better job than most of keeping it under control, but sometimes even he needed help. Roadhouses farther out had more problems, but here only ten miles out of town, the clientele seemed less likely to want to tussle, especially with the law. Most nights people came, drank and danced to local live music, and peace ruled, if not quiet.
This was the place that drew the patronage of local couples as much as local cowboys, and while she doubted anyone would think it wise for an unescorted woman to come here, three teens should have been safe. Older folks would have kept an eye on them, and Rusty would have served them soft drinks.
The door was unlocked. She pulled the tarnished brass handle and the ancient entry squeaked open. Inside the lighting was dim. The table candles in their squat hurricane lantern holders hadn’t been lit.
Rusty was behind the long bar, polishing it with a rag. Directly across the large room from him, across the big dance floor, was a stage still holding band equipment.
“Hey, Rusty,” she said as she and Bugle entered. “How’s business?”
“Pretty good, but it always is on a holiday weekend. Tonight we’ll be damn near empty. Can I help you, Kelly?”
He was a tall, lean man who always looked as if he needed to eat more of his own sandwiches. A gray moustache curled around the corners of his mouth.
“Have you heard about the three girls who’ve gone missing?”
Rusty’s watery blue eyes widened. “No. Is that why you’re here?”
She nodded and opened the brown envelope she’d brought with her, the one that held the eight-by-ten photos of each girl. She recited their names as she pulled them out. “Jane Beauvoir, Chantal Reston and Mary Lou Ostend. All high school seniors. We found their car in a ditch about five miles west of here just last night. No sign of them anywhere.”
“Jeez,” Rusty said, leaning toward the photos as if his old eyes needed some magnification. Reaching up with one hand, he turned on a bright light over the bar. Kelly blinked.
“Anyone else here yet?” she asked, even though it didn’t feel like it.
He shook his head. “We don’t open for another hour. Not much to do before then.” He picked up the photos one by one and studied them.
“They were here last night,” Rusty said slowly. “Seems like they might have showed up a little after eight. Early. I hardly noticed because we were already full. Holiday,” he said again as if in explanation.
“All three?”
“I do believe so.”
“They hang out with anyone?”
He shook his head. “They sat at that table over there—” he pointed “—and drank enough diet soda to float a battleship.” He lifted his gaze. “No alcohol, I swear.”
She nodded. “Can I let Bugle sniff around while we talk?”
“Go for it, although how he’s going to smell squat over the stale beer and fried chicken beats me.”
She didn’t argue or explain, but squatted
