professional or risk making a mess. If he was even interested.
Besides, the only thing that mattered tonight was three missing girls, girls who might be terrified out of their minds. Girls who might be suffering.
Girls who might be dead.
THE CROWD AT the accident scene had thinned out. She paused long enough to let Al jump out to get his truck while she surveyed the faces that looked so odd in the arc lamps. It was getting later and colder, and evidently people thought nothing more would happen tonight. Overhead the county’s two choppers were flying a search pattern with bright spotlights sweeping over barren fields.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into a parking spot in front of the City Diner, also known as Maude’s, and through the diner windows scanned the interior. Al pulled in beside her and climbed out, coming over to her window. She opened her door halfway but didn’t get out.
“No discussion here tonight,” she remarked. The place was jammed full.
“I’ll run in and get the coffee, then,” Al said. “Nobody will badger me with questions. Think Gage would like some? And if so how does he like it?”
“Are we going to offend Velma?” she asked almost absently. Her thoughts were far away, reaching out into the frigid, empty night, trying not to imagine horrible things.
“Do we care? Gage.”
“Yeah, he always wants his black, I think.”
“You?”
“The biggest hot latte Maude makes.”
“I’ll see you at the office, then.”
She listened to her door squeak as she closed it. The thing always squeaked when it was cold. She glanced over her shoulder at Bugle and figured he was probably starting to get desperate for some room to move. He tolerated the caging part of the job, but he was naturally very active.
Smothering a sigh, she threw her truck into gear and drove it the half block to the sheriff’s offices. Across the street was the courthouse square, where Bugle could run a few laps and deposit his business. She let him out, then grabbed a plastic bag to clean up after him. He was good about that, always doing his business near her so she didn’t have to run around needlessly.
When he was done she dumped the bag in the trash can, then turned to cross the street to the office. She saw Al just about there carrying a tray and a big brown bag with handles from the diner.
“That looks like more than coffee,” she remarked as they met at the door. Since his hands were full, she reached out to open it.
“Maude’s clearing some things out for the night. I hope everyone likes pie.”
“Maude’s pies? I think half this county would crawl across hot sand to get to one.”
He gave a short laugh. Relief. They needed something to leaven the horror.
Inside, the office was much quieter than it had been earlier. Only four officers sat at desks. Probably a great many deputies had been sent home to rest up for a search tomorrow. Any others might be out protecting the crash site. Even Velma had vanished, a very rare thing.
Al lined up four pies on the table near the coffee. They were going to make plenty of people happy in the morning. Right now, he cut into an apple pie and served himself the wedge on a paper plate. “Hey, guys,” Al said to the others, “help yourself to the pie. What would you like, Kelly?”
For the first time in hours she remembered that all she had eaten was a bowl of cereal.
“There’s apple, blueberry, mincemeat and cherry.”
The thought of any of them made her mouth water. “Apple would be great.”
Gage had apparently heard their voices because he came out of the back, thanked them for the coffee and dug into the mincemeat pie.
He led them to the conference room, where maps covered the table. “Planning for tomorrow,” he said as he eased into a high-backed chair. “Now, what’s going on with these three guys—who are being interviewed right now, I believe—and what didn’t you want to mention on the radio?”
“I’ll let Al tell you,” Kelly said. “He thought of it.”
“A wild hair,” Al said yet again.
“It didn’t sound so wild after we went back to the tavern and talked to Martha. Go on.” She spooned a small bit of apple pie into her mouth, to make it clear she wasn’t talking, and wished only that she could savor it as all of Maude’s pies deserved savoring. Right now, as knotted with worry as she was, it might as well have been ash.
“Well,” Al said slowly, “I was looking at the highway and shoulder. Everyone thinks the girls skidded.”
“And you don’t?” Gage asked.
“Not likely. If they’d braked, even if they didn’t leave tread marks on the pavement because of black ice, they’d have chewed up the shoulder, frozen or not. That car is too old to have anti-lock brakes, so there should have been some sign.”
Gage swallowed a mouthful of mincemeat, followed by some coffee. “You’re right, and at last report from the scene, they’re not finding any clues as to why the car went off the road.” He paused, his dark gaze intent. “That doesn’t mean they won’t.”
“I know. I’m not a crime scene tech. Hell, I’m only half a deputy.”
“I beg to differ, but go on.”
“Well, it was like a light going on in my head. Why wouldn’t they brake when going off the road? Maybe they were unconscious or seriously drunk on soft drinks.”
Gage sat up a little straighter and put his paper plate and plastic fork down. Pain rippled across his face but it didn’t remain. The frown did.
“You think they were drugged? Before they left the tavern?”
Al shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t prove it.”
“But,” Kelly interjected, “Martha, who served their drinks, said she often puts her drinks tray down, either to rebalance it or because people want to chat. In other words, nobody watched those girls’ drinks every second between bar and table.”
“Nobody would think it necessary,” Gage murmured. He’d forgotten his pie and his coffee and rubbed his chin. “The problem around here is that people know one another. It wouldn’t occur to them to question the trustworthiness of a neighbor. Over time, they’ve sometimes had to, but by and large those are considered isolated incidents, nothing to worry about. Most people still don’t lock their doors. We’ve grown, it’s no longer a place where everyone knows everyone else, but the attitudes are still mired in an earlier time. We don’t even imagine anyone would drug three young women. And yet, it’s entirely possible we’ve got a sicko running around. As the old sheriff, Nate Tate, liked to say, ‘This county’s going to hell in a handbasket.’ Not really, but change has been happening for a while.”
He fell silent for a few beats. “Drugs. Damn it all to hell, I can see it and it
