Skullbelly Read online

  If the cops are building a case against the Downing kid, they’re gonna want to keep much of that information close to the vest, Jeffers knew. Same goes for why they keep brushing me off, hanging me out to dry. They don’t need me going back and spilling the beans on their investigation.

  But still...if old Lee Colson had been truthful, no one had ever spoken to him about the kids staying at his place. No one had bothered taking a statement.

  Climbing out of the Vic and slamming the door a little too hard, he wondered if he was being too critical, reading too much into things. Cops out here couldn’t be as worldly as they were back in Hoboken, could they? Should he expect them to run the same leads, cover the same ground? After all, how often did they have something of this magnitude to deal with?

  A small bell above the door chimed as he entered. The décor was what he’d expected: camping supplies, outdoor wear, racks of fishing poles set up to look like some sort of booby trap. There were kayaks braced to the walls and taxidermy animal heads behind the front desk. A set of wooden stairs led up to the second floor; Jeffers could see ranks of oars lining one wall up there like soldiers.

  From what he could tell, the place was empty of customers, though a few people milled about, straightening displays and restocking various items. A ruddy-faced man with an auburn beard stood behind the front counter perusing a clipboard. He looked up as Jeffers approached.

  “Hi. You the owner?”

  The man nodded. “Fred Wheeler.”

  “Hey, Fred. I’m John Jeffers.” Unlike with Lee Colson, this time he opted for the more formal approach, tucking the accordion folder under one arm and flipping out his P.I. credentials. “I’m down from Seattle, investigating those three kids who went missing up in the hills at the beginning of the summer. You got a couple of minutes to talk?”

  Wheeler set the clipboard down. “I guess. You a fed?”

  “Private investigator. The families of the kids hired me.”

  “Come on back,” Wheeler said, and led him back behind the counter and through a narrow doorway that just about brushed both of Wheeler’s shoulders as he passed through. It was a cramped little office with some maps on the walls and a desk with a computer on it stood at an angle in the center of the room. A coffee machine belched atop an aluminum file cabinet in one corner. Wheeler dropped his considerable bulk behind the desk and motioned toward the empty chair that faced him. “Have a seat. Jeffrey, was it?”

  “Jeffers,” he corrected.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Wheeler sighed, a sound similar to the release of a steam valve, and reclined in his chair. He laced big meaty hands spangled with reddish hair across his abdomen. “So what’s it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “I’ve reviewed the kids’ bank records and it showed some purchases made here. Camping supplies, that sort of thing. It was just before they set out into the forest. I was wondering if you could remember anything about their visit that day.”

  “Yeah, I remember them coming in. Four of ’em, I think. A chick with ’em, too.”

  Jeffers produced photos from the accordion folder and splayed them out on Wheeler’s desk like a blackjack dealer.

  Wheeler nodded. “Yeah, that looks like ’em. The girl was pretty. Nice body.”

  “About what time of day did they come in?”

  “Late morning or early afternoon. Something like that.”

  “How long did they stay?”

  “Quite a while.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They looked around for a bit. I remember thinking they were just ogling the merchandise, you know? We got all these fancy displays, people sometimes just come in and look around, like it’s a goddamn petting zoo or something.”

  Jeffers nodded. “Sure.” He thought Wheeler was being generous calling them “fancy displays.”

  “I was surprised when they bought some gear,” Wheeler went on.

  “What did they buy?”

  “Sleeping bags and a petrol stove. Said they already had a tent, but they didn’t realize how cold it got here at night. They were staying at some place down by the sound—probably Lee Colson’s joint, it’s the only one I know of down there—but they’d decided to do some camping, sort of spur of the moment, I’m guessing. I thought they were gonna go down to the campgrounds, or maybe into one of the parks, not up in those hills.”

  “So you had some conversation with them?”

  “With one of the fellas, yeah.” He peered down at the photos then tapped the picture of Derrick Holmquist with a thick index finger. “This guy. Hair was longer, though.”

  Jeffers nodded, urging him to continue.

  “Then the girl come by and asked about the old logging road off Summit Pass. They must have seen it while out driving or hiking or whatever. You know the road?”

  “The one with the chain across it?” Jeffers said. “I’ve heard about it.”

  “It’s closed now. Has been for years. They don’t do no logging up there no more.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Almost disinterestedly, Wheeler cocked one shoulder and flashed his tongue out across his upper teeth. “Town’s dried up. Only logging company left moved across the sound or out towards Harbor. There ain’t been real honest-to-God industry here since I was a teenager.”

  “Why did she ask about the road?”

  “Curiosity, I guess. Wanted to know where it went. ‘Into the hills,’ I told her. Then I showed her on a map. It was…wait a minute…” He turned around in his chair and addressed a large wall map over his head with one hairy paw. “This part here. See? That’s Coastal Green.” He pointed to the southwestern corner of the state. Then he slid his finger up and to the right, into a patch of wilderness designated by a block of green and some cartoonish pine tree icons. “That’s the beginning of the forest that leads into the mountains. You got your pines, your redwoods. There are still some old flumes up there from when the logging companies used to go up that way. The ones that ain’t rotted and felled apart, that is. Ever seen ’em?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Look like big aqueducts. Know what those are?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve gone to pot now, though. Unsafe. County was supposed to rip ’em all out years ago but they never did. People don’t go up there much anyway, so I guess it don’t really matter.”

  “Those kids did,” Jeffers said. “Those kids went up there.”

  Wheeler nodded. “I heard. And only one come back.” Wheeler’s chair creaked as he leaned forward and placed one sturdy forearm on the top of the desk. “They say that one kid who come back went crazy and killed the other three when they was up there. That true?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Said he had his friends’ blood all over him.”

  “Who said?”

  “The cops.”

  “You spoke with the cops?”

  “Sure.”

  “When was this? It wasn’t in their official report.”

  Wheeler coughed up a dry laugh then eased back into his chair—creeeak. “Official what-now? I was just talking to Jimmy DuPont down at The Oval Tar one night over some beers, that’s all.”

  “And Jimmy DuPont is…?”

  “He’s a police officer. Ain’t you spoke to the police yet, Mr. Jefferson?”

  “I will this evening,” he said. “And it’s still Jeffers.” He collected the photos back up off Wheeler’s desk. “So you guys were just talking while having some beers, you and DuPont. The police never officially interviewed you for the record?”

  “What record?”

  “The…Mr. Wheeler, the investigation into the missing hikers. What happened to the Downing boy.”

  “Don’t know nothing about no Downing boy.”

  “The one with the blood on him.”

  “Oh.” Wheeler seemed instantly bored. “Didn’t know his name.”

  “Do you ha
ve tour guides working here?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like to hire someone to take me up into the hills.”

  “No, sir. My guides don’t go up into those hills. They don’t mess around in that forest. You want a guide to take you down through the parks, or across the sound, or even push a kayak back and forth along the coast, I can hook you up. But my guides don’t go into those hills.”

  “How come?”

  “I told you. Dangerous.”

  “I think we could be careful enough and avoid those old logging flumes.”

  Wheeler grimaced, peered down at his wristwatch. “I got to get back to work, Mr. Jeffers.”

  8

  He felt foolish and angry, like he was being toyed with. To make matters worse, once he left Redwood Outfitters, having decided to take to the main thoroughfare on foot so he could survey the neighboring shops, he began to feel like someone was following him. Several times he turned around, but saw nothing but his shadow behind him. Thunder rolled around in the low-hanging clouds, a sound that seemed to go on for eternity and never fully dissipated. With the water to one side and the looming redwood forest on the other, Coastal Green was certainly a picturesque place…but with each passing minute, Jeffers grew more and more uneasy.

  A neon sign in one smoked window along the cusp of the forest read the oval tar, which was the bar Wheeler had mentioned just moments ago. Jeffers stopped inside, with no real designs aside from knocking back a glass.

  The place was empty, maudlin, forgotten. Had it not been for the bartender, who was a fresh-faced young girl who looked barely old enough to drink let alone work as a bartender, Jeffers would have thought he’d stumbled into an abandoned warehouse. He straddled a barstool and smiled wearily at the girl, setting his folder beside him on the dull and pitted mahogany bar.

  “We got no lunch menu,” the girl said coldly.

  “It’s okay. I just want a scotch.”

  “Is Jameson okay?”

  Jeffers shrugged. “In a pinch.”

  The girl poured a shot and set it down on the bar in front of him. He downed it then asked for another, only this time in a rocks glass with ice.

  “My mother says this stuff cures cancer,” the girl said, pouring his drink.

  “Cures a lot of things, where I come from,” Jeffers said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Seattle.”

  “Just passing through?”

  “In a sense. Doing some work.”

  “What do you do?”

  He waved a hand at her, though not rudely. It made her smile. She was pretty. “Forget what I do now. You know what I used to do?” He brought one hand up before his mouth and fingered invisible keys. “Used to play the trumpet.”

  “For real?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’d you play?”

  “All over.”

  “Like, in a band?”

  “A quartet. That’s four—”

  “Four people, yeah, I know.”

  “I know you know. I didn’t mean to insult your intelligence.” He drank.

  “Do you still play?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “Sold my trumpet,” he said, but thought, Vicki sold my trumpet.

  “Do you still remember how to play?”

  He considered this. Even when he still had the trumpet he hadn’t played it. It had sat in a box in the hall closet, buried beneath winter hats and wool scarves. How long had it been since he’d played? Years, of course. It was a good question. “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t.”

  The girl frowned. “That’s sad.”

  Jeffers finished his drink then slid the empty glass over to the girl. “Another, please.”

  “Wow.”

  “Cures cancer, remember?”

  She poured him another drink.

  “I guess you live around here?” he said.

  “My whole stupid life.”

  “You know where Summit Pass is?”

  She dropped a glass and it broke. “Shit!”

  Jeffers peered over the bar as she went down to pick up the broken pieces. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Crap. No.”

  She dumped the broken bits of glass in the trash behind the bar then wiped her hands on a dishrag.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” said Jeffers. “Summit Pass?”

  “Southeast part of town, just before the foothills. It’s a dirt road that goes into the hills and down into California.”

  “There’s supposed to be some old logging road off it somewhere. Do you know the one I mean?”

  She tossed the dishrag over one shoulder then proceeded to stack pint glasses. “Lots of old logging roads back there.”

  “I’m looking for one in particular. You remember those kids who went missing at the beginning of summer?”

  “Yes.” Her voice had changed, Jeffers noted. She was wary of him now. He could tell.

  “I’m looking for the logging road that they found.”

  “You knew those kids?”

  “I know their parents.”

  “They were murdered.”

  “Yeah? Says who?”

  “Some folks. Said the one who killed them came back down into town covered in blood.”

  “Well, that’s true.” Then he added, “About him coming into town covered in blood.”

  “But he didn’t kill them?”

  Christ, I’m starting to wonder what I believe myself, he thought, quickly shaken by his own indecisiveness.

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to them,” was what he eventually said. “Do you know the road I’m talking about?”

  Dumbly, she nodded. She wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

  Jeffers took a map out of his breast pocket and unfolded it on the bar. He’d bought it back at Redwood Outfitters. “Could you show me where it is on this map?”

  “I don’t really know from maps.”

  “Or just give me directions.”

  “Wouldn’t know from directions, either. I mean, I never paid attention to the street names or anything. It’s what happens when you live in a place your whole life, I guess. You just know where to go when you’re going there, by instinct or something. Couldn’t explain it.”

  On the map, Jeffers located a nameless twist of roadway that traversed into the green patch of the forest and down into California. “Is this Summit Pass?”

  The girl peered down at the map, her brows furrowed. “Yeah. I mean, I think so.”

  “It doesn’t look like there are any roads coming off it until it crosses into California. And what’s that over here? A national park?”

  She pointed to each spot on the map as she spoke the names: “Smith River. Redwood National Park. To the east, that’s Klamath.”

  “Are the logging roads not listed on the map?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.” Then she looked up at him, her face suddenly so close he could see the tiny pores on her nose, the flecks of copper in her green eyes, the delicate white hairs above her upper lip. It looked like she wanted to tell him something. Either that or kiss him. Jeffers was a decent-looking guy, even for someone in their early fifties…but this girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-one.

  “What?” he said, his typically gruff voice unaccustomed to whispering but managing it nonetheless. “What is it?”

  Then she broke out of her trance and smiled widely at him. Yet her eyes went dull. She straightened her back and whipped the dishrag from her shoulder, tossing it in a nearby steel sink. She grabbed the bottle of Jameson and poured him another drink in a fresh glass.

  “This one’s on the house,” she said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Looks like you could use it,” she said. “Looks like you have lots of things that need curing.”

  Despite the sudden wave of discomfort that swam through him, Jeffers couldn’t help himself: he laughed.

  9

/>   The Lighthouse was rustic and dark, but maintained a surprisingly impressive selection of high-end alcohol. The rear of the place opened up to an outdoor deck that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. Despite the chill that had crept into the air, Jeffers requested a table for one out on the deck so he could watch the sun go down. It was seven o’clock and he was an hour early for his meeting with Detective Lyndon, but he wanted to pop in and scope out the joint ahead of time. Besides, by the time he walked back down to Redwood Outfitters to get his car then drove all the way back, he’d be cutting it close.

  Popping out his cell phone, he saw that he had enough bars to execute a call. He scrolled through his dialed calls until he found Chief Horton’s office line, then pressed send. It took several seconds for the line to connect, filling Jeffers’s ear with a fuzzy ring on the other end of the line. As expected, it went straight to the chief’s voice mail.

  “This message is for Chief Horton,” he breathed into the mouthpiece. “You’ve just won the lottery. Ten million bucks. Please call me back right away or it all goes to charity.” Grinned. “It’s John Jeffers.” He prattled off his cell number then hung up.

  Out across the ocean, the sun sank down behind the horizon. The moment it was gone, the frigidity of night settled quickly down around him; while he sat there shivering and sipping his third scotch, he realized he was only one of two buffoons freezing their butts off out here. The other fellow sat at the next table over, sketching something in a spiral-bound pad. Occasionally, the man would glance up and out over the water, then back down at his sketchpad.

  He caught Jeffers staring at him the next time he looked up. “A fellow Scotsman,” said the man, saluting Jeffers with his own glass of scotch on the rocks. His fingertips were black with graphite.