Indeed, I saw nothing akin to humor in either pair of Bealean eyes, nor anything resembling stern-jawed integrity. They looked more like members of Ike Clanton’s gang than Eliot Ness’s crew.
The desk phone buzzed. I heard a burp and Beale Junior’s voice.
“Ryder still there, Louella?”
“Yup, Sherf.”
A pause. “Send him on back, I guess.”
I nodded thanks to Louella, pushed through the door to the rear, found Beale leaning back in his chair with his feet on a desk holding no visible sign of activity save for the lone Hustler half-tucked under a local newspaper. In one hand was a cigarette, in the other a bottle of Ale-8-One, a regional soft drink consumed like water by seemingly everyone in Eastern Kentucky. His eyes were bloodshot and I wondered if he’d spiked the drink.
“You’re not up in Augusta, Sheriff?” I said by way of greeting.
“Ain’t my party, Ryder. What am I gonna do that the FBI can’t?”
“You never knew William Taithering? You’re both about the same age, from the same county.”
“I used to see him around when I was in school. He was one a them geeky types, always looked like if you slapped your hands hard, he’d jump outta his shoes. You never know who’s gonna turn into a serial killer, right?”
“That’s what Agent Krenkler thinks? That Taithering’s the killer?”
“You don’t?”
I shrugged, not wanting to debate psychology with someone who would spell it with an S in front. Beale yawned, showing teeth that saw more repair than maintenance. “Guess it don’t really matter. Looks like the FBI nailed it where Cherry couldn’t. Be nice to have some peace an’ quiet around here again.”
It suddenly occurred to Beale that I wasn’t usually standing in front of him.
“Why you here, Ryder?”
I held up a sheaf of posters. “My dog’s lost. I hoped you could distribute posters to the guys on patrol, have them keep an eye out.”
Beale sucked in smoke and waved the poster away. “We got more to do than look for a lost dog, Ryder.”
“There’s a five-hundred-dollar reward, Sheriff.”
Beale’s eyes widened. He rocked forward in his chair, hand waving the gimme motion.
I went from Beale’s office to Cherry’s. Her desk was antithetical to Beale’s, a visual cacophony of files, folders, and photos.
“I made these up,” I said, handing over a dozen posters. “If you’re out, could you please—”
“I’ll put ’em all over the place. Give me all you have and I’ll take care of it.”
I gratefully handed her the stack. When I looked down at her desk, I saw it was covered with her handwritten notes and photos of Burton and Powers and the man in the shack.
“You’re pondering the cases?” I said.
She frowned, tossed her pen atop the mound of papers. “I’ve been thinking …”
“And?”
“What if Taithering really is the killer? Or was. What if Charpentier was wrong with all that academic symbol and metaphor hoo-hah, and Taithering was another Manson or Gein or …”
“You mean someone more like the Zodiac Killer,” I said, lapsing into my detective persona. “The Zodiac left cryptic messages.” I went to the whiteboard and picked up a red marker, scrawled the odd geocache sign on the clean white surface.
=(8)=
“How does that relate to Taithering?” I asked.
“I don’t know … yet.”
Cherry crossed the room to the board and wiped the symbol away. I figured she hated the damn thing. She hopped atop the small conference table and pulled her feet beneath her long legs, sitting cross-legged. She fixed me with the right eye.
“Do you ever think we were wrong, Charpentier was wrong … Taithering was the killer?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
She nodded toward the paperwork jungle on her desk. “I’m revisiting Tandee Powers and Burton. Soldering-iron Man’s still a cipher, but he’s wired into this somehow, no pun intended. I want to see if Powers ever crossed paths with Burton.”
“You sharing anything with Krenkler?”
The eyes darkened. “As much as she shares with me. At least until I find something solid.”
“She still using you as a messenger service?”
“No. Sometimes she has me make copies.”
I thanked her for distributing the posters, and turned to carry on the search for my lost dog. I felt Cherry’s eyes inspecting my back as I left.
“Good luck finding your doggy,” she said quietly as the door closed between us.
The night brought little sleep, every sound causing me to sit up with the hope my companion had found his way home. Either that or I heard ravenous and red-eyed hell-hounds pursing my gentle giant of a dog.
Morning arrived with a siren’s call, literally, a long keening howl at seven a.m. I stumbled out to the porch, saw Cherry stepping from her vehicle. I saw her mouth move but heard nothing until she reached inside to kill the screamer.
“Sorry I’m becoming your alarm clock,” she said. “But a new entry on the geocache site arrived minutes ago.”
“It wasn’t Taithering,” I said, feeling like someone had kicked me in the gut.
Cherry sighed. “Doesn’t look that way. The coordinates are close to Rock Bridge.”
I’d hiked that trail my second day here. Rock Bridge trail inscribed a mile-long circle down into the Gorge to the trail’s namesake, a natural stone arch over Swift Camp Creek. It was basically a dilettante’s trail, the Park Service having poured a slender asphalt band most of the distance, winding through rhododendron tunnels and past towering hemlocks ringed with ferns. Though paved, the trail was no cakewalk, owing to the steep angle in and out of the valley.
Cherry looked past me toward the cabin, saw no happy mound of mutt. “Your dog back?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Look on the bright side. He’s probably found a girlfriend and they’re doing something that doesn’t involve you, at least for a day or two. So come with me, Ryder. We’ve come this far together.”
“What about the Feds?”
“Krenkler’s in Washington. Some kind of meeting not related to here. Her people are still in Augusta. Krenkler was so convinced Taithering was the killer she set up a command post there. The Feds are tearing Taithering’s house apart for evidence. They sent his computer to the forensic lab in Washington, that type of thing. I alerted her to the new geocache entry. She didn’t sound happy, and she’s heading this way on the red-eye.”
I startled internally, fearing the Feds finding my brother’s fingerprints in Taithering’s home. Then I recalled that, save to pat Taithering in camaraderie or consolation, my brother’s hands had never left his pockets. Always a step ahead.
“So we won’t have to deal with