Sense of Evil - Kay Hooper [25]
Some things damned well couldn't be denied.
There was something evil in Hastings, and the fact that it was walking around on two legs passing itself off as human didn't change that fact.
“How many times have I told you to pick up your own damned mail, Alan?” Callie Rosier, the Chronicle's only full-time photographer, dumped several envelopes on his already cluttered desk. “It's in a little box with your name on it right on the other side of that wall. You can't miss it.”
“I just said you could pick up mine while you were getting yours, what's wrong with that?” Alan retorted.
“What is this ‘while you're up' thing with you men?” She continued to her own desk, shaking her head as she sat down. “You sweat your brains out running miles every morning and lifting weights in the gym so you'll look good in your jeans but pester other people to get stuff for you when it's in the same damned room. Jesus.”
“Don't you have film to develop?” The question was more habit than curiosity, and absentminded to boot since he was leafing through his mail.
“No. Why are all these places offering me credit cards?”
“The same reason they're offering them to me,” Alan replied, tossing several into his overflowing trash can. “Because they haven't checked our credit records.” He eyed his final bit of mail, a large manila envelope with no return address, and hesitated only an instant before tearing it open.
“I think these telemarketers are morons,” Callie said, studying the contents of one envelope marked URGENT! “They don't even bother to be accurate in who they're sending this stuff to anymore. I ask you, does the name Callie sound like it belongs to a man? This one should have been addressed to you. Take a little blue pill and get another inch or two. I'm sure you'd like another inch or two. And more staying power, says here.”
“I'll be a son of a bitch,” Alan said.
“Aren't you usually?”
He looked at her, saw that she was focused on her own mail and not even paying attention to the conversation. With only an instant's pause, Alan said casually, “Oh, yeah, always.” Then he looked back down at his mail and, this time under his breath, repeated, “I'll be a son of a bitch.”
Rafe accepted the message slip, absently introduced Officer McBrayer to the federal agents, then read the information she had offered. “Her husband says she's been gone since Monday?”
“He thinks since Monday.” Ginny made an effort to sound as brisk and professional as she could, even though she was nervous and knew it showed. “He didn't see her that afternoon, and with two cows calving he was out in his barns all night. He says it could have been Tuesday; that's when he realized she wasn't in the house. He thought she'd gone to visit a friend in town, since it's something she often does, but when she didn't come home, he checked. She wasn't there. Isn't anywhere he could think to check. I think it only slowly dawned on him that maybe he should be worried.”
“Yeah,” Rafe muttered, “Tim Helton isn't the sharpest pencil in the box.”
“Understatement,” Mallory offered. “The way I heard it, he once decided that moonshine would work just as well as fuel in his tractor. Dunno if he got a bad batch or what, but it blew the sucker all to hell and nearly took him with it.”
“Moonshine?” Isabel asked curiously. “They still make that stuff?”
“Believe it or not. We've had the ATF out here a few times over the years because of illegal brew. Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, if you ask me, but the bootleggers seem to feel it's worth it. Either that or they just don't want to pay The Government a cent more than they have to.”
Rafe said, “And there's at least one survivalist group in the area. They consider it the norm to make everything they need themselves. Including booze.” He made a note on the pad before him, then handed the message slip back to his officer. “Okay, standard procedure, Ginny. I want a detective out there to talk to Tim, and let's get a list of places she might possibly be. Friends, relatives, anybody she might be visiting. From