Page 27 of The Sister's Curse
I ground my teeth and radioed for backup, for a tow, and for Vice to bring me a loaner from their stash of undercover cars. I sat on the bumper of my SUV, with my gun unholstered, staring at the trailhead. If that tweaker kid climbed out, I’d cuff him, though I had the urge to smack him in the back of the head. My car was old, but it was my baby. It pissed me off that some fucker was trying to put me off the case.
Deputy Detwiler rolled up first. Didn’t surprise me that he was Johnny-on-the-spot. But it must have been a slow night for Patrol, because two other cars showed up, too. I filled them in, minus my fucking with my pursuer. I told them that I had taken a walk to clear my head and I’d realized someone was following me. Detwiler and the patrolmen headed down to the ravine to search for my pursuer. They came up with bupkes. The tweaker must havebeen ambulatory enough to slink away downriver. I was pissed, pissed at myself. If I hadn’t played with my quarry, I could have marched him up here and had a healthy subject to question.
I asked a patrol deputy to rustle me up a battery-operated trail cam from the local feed store. I took it down into the ravine with me.
I couldn’t access it remotely—there was no cell service—but what it saw would be saved on an SD card. I found an unobtrusive spot on a tree to affix it to, aiming it at the graffitied wall beneath the witch’s profile. I wasn’t sure I’d catch anything, but I hoped I’d be able to see who was leaving these ourobouros symbols.
As far as loaner rides went, all that was available was a dusty brown El Camino from the seventies that looked like it was entirely glued together with Bondo. Sykes from Vice dropped it off for me with a great deal of ceremony, extending the keys to me as if he were presenting Excalibur. He was dressed in a band T-shirt and skinny jeans that looked spray-painted on, and he was rocking a pair of hiking boots that looked like they were solid clods of mud.
“Thanks, man. Dare I ask what you’re working on right now?”
“It’s more fun than you’re having.” He frowned at my tires. “Interestingly enough, we’re looking for Timmy, too. Heard some rumors he was back in town.”
I filled him in on what I’d seen, and on the guy in the ravine.
“Hmm. Sounds like a guy I busted for possession last year. Give me a minute.” Sykes pulled out a cell phone in a sparkly case and summoned some mug shots to show me. “Is this your dude?”
“Yeah. That’s him. But he’s got fewer teeth now.”
“Zach Draper. This is weird for him. Dude is strictly small-time. I just popped him for possession of a small amount. Didn’t resist arrest or anything.”
“Sounds like he may have upgraded his talents.”
“I’ll put out the word that we’re looking for him. He won’t get too far. All the meth heads in the surrounding counties seem to be converging here, and I don’t like it.”
“Usually a big bust like last night’s drives them away, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It was deeply, deeply weird.” Sykes rubbed his stubble. “I saw shit in that barn I’d never seen before. The cookers weren’t using the usual components. There weren’t any pool chemicals or lighter fluid, you know? But the end product was definitely meth. That worries me.”
“New recipe?”
“Seems like it. I sent samples off to the state crime lab for ID, to see if they’ve seen anything like this before.”
“Keep me posted. I’m curious.” I leaned forward to squint at Sykes’s collar. “Is that a puka shell necklace? You know what year this is?”
Sykes’s face fell, and he lifted the necklace with his thumb. “Not cool?”
“Not cool. You don’t have any temporary tribal tattoos going on?” I teased.
“No comment.”
I opened the El Camino’s door and wrinkled my nose. A forest of tree-shaped air fresheners danced from the rearview mirror, but they were powerless against the onslaught of decades’ worth of cheap stogies. I couldn’t complain. Beggars, choosers, and all. I moved all my stuff from the SUV to the El Camino.
A flatbed truck arrived to load up my SUV, looking forlorn on the bed.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
I was going to make this worth my while, to interrogate asmany of the Kings of Warsaw Creek as I could. There was one King I hadn’t spoken to, and he owned a car dealership.
“Lister Automotive, please.”
—
Lister Automotive was just off the freeway exit, so motorists could marvel at its selection of late-model cars and trucks. A red, white, and blue sign announced our arrival atLister Automotive—Ask Mister Lister for the best deals!
As I tooled down the access road behind the flatbed truck, I surveyed the cars. The lot was sparse, cars parked with plenty of space between them. Off to the right were the used cars, with a classic red Corvette on a pedestal.
We circled around to the back, to the shop. While the truck driver dropped my car in an empty spot, I went inside the shop to drop off the keys.
