I checked in and pulled my motorhome into what I considered a luxury site. It was a pull-through space, so I didn’t have to detach the Malibu and back in, and it had a wooden deck, patio furniture and a small hot tub right off the cement pad, which was perfectly level. Everyone who saw me waved — a bit weird but nice.

  After I set up I took Guy to the dog park, a fenced-in off-leash area for socially active dogs of all sizes. There were five dogs already in the park — a husky, a beautiful Dalmatian, two large beagles and a medium-sized poodle. I wasn’t sure how social Guy was, but since he had such a great personality, I wasn’t too worried. Sure enough, he took to playing with the other dogs like they were long-lost pals.

  The other dogs left the park with their owners one-by-one until only the poodle and Guy were left, and Guy returned to me, apparently also ready to leave. We got back to the motorhome and he drank all the water in his bowl and laid down, still breathing hard from all his running around. I noticed that he was filling in nicely, ribs no longer showing and a belly starting to form.

  That evening I fed Guy and locked him in the rig while I went to the restaurant. I wanted the special I saw advertised, a 16-ounce prime rib for only $14.99, with potato and vegetable. It was at least as good as the one I had eaten in the last steakhouse I took Maggie to in Denver a few months earlier, maybe better. I adjourned to the attached sports bar and sat right in the middle of the 30-foot bar table.

  “What’ll you have, Mate?” The bartender was a cute Aussie girl of about 30 years with short, bleached blond hair and tight black leather sleeveless top with several biker-style buckles. Her Australian accent seemed authentic, although I wasn’t entirely sure I could tell.

  “What do you suggest?”

  She giggled, her bubbly personality obviously geared to maximize tips. But I didn’t mind. “I always suggest Sex on the Beach, but everyone takes it the wrong way.” She laughed again. “How about a Moscow Mule?”

  “That has Ginger beer in it, doesn’t it? Not for me.”

  “Okay, how about a Sazerac? I served them last summer in New Orleans.”

  “Never had that,” I replied. “What’s in it?”

  “Let’s see, rye whiskey or cognac, bitters and absinthe. I use whiskey ... they’re very good.” When I hesitated, she added, “If you don’t like it, it’s on me.”

  “I can’t turn that down, can I?”

  She smiled vivaciously and replied, “Fair dinkum!” She held out her hand and shook mine. “Hi, I’m Olivia. You are?”

  “Pat.”

  “Hi, Pat. Coming right up.” She turned around and expertly grabbed this bottle and that container. For some reason her butt attracted my attention. She turned her head in time for her to notice I was staring. She smiled and wiggled her cheeks back and forth, then continued to create my concoction. She turned back around a minute later with a rocks glass filled with a dark amber liquid. “Here y’go, Pat. Tell me what you think.”

  I took a sip — spicy with an unmistakable licorice flavor. It was so good I downed the rest of the sample and asked for more. Olivia giggled and brought me the rest of the drink in a chimney glass.

  She got busy with another customer — Bob, I heard him say — a grandfatherly man in long brown shorts and a khaki muscle shirt, neither of which was flattering, showing way too much bright white skin. He was wearing the typical old-man combination of sandals and white socks and had a scraggly salt-and-pepper goatee that was not kept trimmed very well. Olivia was even more bubbly with him, reminding me that I really wasn’t such a hot commodity for younger women.

  While she was entertaining Bob, my thoughts went to Jordan, the missing camper. I had folded his photo and shoved it in my pocket, and I found it was still there. I pulled it out and waited for Olivia to return.

  When she did, she said, “Hey, Patty, want another?”

  “I sure do, but hey, before you do that, can you take a peek at a photo for me?”

  “Not a dick pic, is it?” She laughed. “I’ve seen too many of those lately.”

  “No,” I replied, chuckling. “Not a dick pic.” I pushed it across the counter toward her and she picked it up.

  “Wait,” she said. “I think he was in here a while back, maybe a couple of months ago. Joe, George, not sure …”

  “Jordan?”

  “Yes! That’s it. Jordie. He was quite funny, knew a hundred jokes. Is he in trouble?”

  “Maybe, not sure, that’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  Her attitude turned somber. “You a cop?”

  “No, well, retired. A friend asked me to find this guy. He’s been out of touch for a while.”

  “That’s nice of you. I haven’t seen him lately. Sorry.” She turned and began making my drink.

  She appeared to know more than she let on, but I dropped it for the moment. When she served my second Sazerac, I smiled and complimented her bartending skills. “You should be in a big city, Denver, Chicago — anywhere but here in the middle of the mountains. You’d clean up.”

  “Thanks, but I like it here in the mountains.” She waited for me to take another sip.

  “Fair dinkum.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Fair dinkum. You said it earlier. What does it mean?”

  “Oh, that. It means …” she looked out into nowhere while she thought about it. “It sorta means truth or genuine. You said you could turn me down and I said that was the truth. Make sense?”

  “Wow. I love colorful language like that.”

  “I know what you mean. The other day a Brit was sitting right here where you are and said ‘beggar belief.’ I thought he had said ‘you better believe it,’ and he corrected me.”

  “What does ‘beggar belief’ mean? I never heard that one before.”

  “I know, right? I thought I knew all the Brit talkers. After asking him, I think that it was something that couldn’t be put into words or maybe ‘unbelievable.’ That’s probably a better way to put it.” She shook her head. “Colorful, like you said. Want another? Or a beer?”

  “A beer,” I answered after downing my spicy drink. “A light beer, whatever you have on tap.”

  “Coming up.” She turned and walked toward the draught spigots.

  When she returned with my beer, I asked, “That Jordie fellow. Do you remember if he was with anybody? Friends, or a special friend?”

  “Not that I remember, Patty-boy.”

  I laughed when she said that. I answered her inquisitive look. “My old partner, and really good friend, used to call me that all the time.” When she began to look sad, I added, “Oh, he’s not dead. He’s back in Denver with his family. Everything’s good.”

  “Thank you! I thought you were going to tell me some terrible story about your dead best friend.”

  “Nope, sorry, you just made me think of him, that’s all.”

  We both smiled and she left to take care of other patrons who had just entered the lounge.

  I hadn’t felt like going back to my RV and instead had a burger and more light beer. Olivia was delightful and I enjoyed her intermittent company. By nine or so I was the only one in the bar and she said she needed to close up. I started to stand and got a bit dizzy. I sat back down and took a couple of deep breaths.

  “What’s wrong, Patty? Too many drinks? I should’a warned you, those Sazeracs pack a punch. You don’t see it comin’.”

  “I guess so.” I stood up again and staggered to the door. “Good thing I’m parked nearby.”

  “Wait, let me help you.” She ran over and propped her shoulder under my armpit. The lass, as I had come to call her, was stronger than she looked. She helped me out and I pointed out the Malibu. “Now, that’s a car!”

  We walked to the passenger side and she opened the door to deposit me. “Move your feet,” she said and I barely got them out of the way before she closed it. She got in the driver’s seat and held out her hand. “Keys.”

  I fished them out and dropped them in her hand. “What’s your site number?” She started up the engine and the sound made her jump a bit.

  “It’s 145,” I answered. “Over in the west side of the park.”

  She put the gear in reverse and backed it up, then in drive to move forward. She headed to the exit. “Mind if I make a side trip?”

  Apparently that had been a rhetorical question, because she drove out of the resort before I even answered. She opened up the gas and we headed south on the Oblivion Highway.

  Chapter 9

  “That’s not him.” Olivia’s friend seemed adamant. “The picture is someone else.”

  I could just make out what they were saying. I looked around from the dirt driveway Olivia had parked in. The house was similar to a cabin except it had an ancient travel trailer on one side and an outdated closed-in patio on the other side, doubling the space in the “cabin.” The grounds were clean but rough — what you would expect a house in the woods to look like.

  My head was still spinning and it hurt, so I decided against joining them. Soon, Olivia stomped angrily back to the car, opened the driver’s door, climbed in and shoved the photo back in my shirt pocket. I hadn’t even realized she’d taken it. She slammed the door closed.

  “Sorry, Patty. My boyfriend said he might have seen this guy you were looking for so I wanted to show him the picture. He said it wasn’t the guy he saw.” She started the car back up and spun my back wheels as she zipped out of the driveway. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Sounds good. Everything okay?”

  “Not really.” She seemed like she didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t push.

  It wasn’t long before we got back to the motorhome. I pointed out the rig’s door key on my keychain and she unlocked it, letting out Guy, who ran to the edge of the shrubs nearby and pooped, then disappeared into the forest. That made Olivia laugh.

  “Now, that’s more like it,” I said as I slowly staggered and swayed to the RV. “Don’t worry, he’ll come back when he’s hungry. Would you like a tour?” I asked, laughing at the thought of me doing anything coherently.

  “No, that’s okay,” she said as she helped me up the motorhome steps. “But I wouldn’t mind staying the night. I don’t think I want to see my boyfriend right now.”

  “Okay with me, but I don’t expect I’ll be up for anything tonight.”

  Olivia laughed a little too hard for my liking. When she could finally talk she replied, gently, “No, Patty, sorry. I love Matt. We’re fighting but he’s the only one for me. I’ll just sleep on your couch.”

  “Matt won’t mind you spending the night with another guy?”

  “Right now, Matt can piss off.”

  “Suit yourself.” I grabbed a spare blanket and pillow from the bedroom closet and returned to Olivia to give them to her. In a mocking voice I said, “You don’t know what you’re missing,” then laughed.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she replied, and she began to unfold the blanket. She gave me a “do you mind?” look and I took the hint.

  I retreated to my bedroom and took about four ibuprofens, just the thing to ward off a morning headache. I collapsed on the bed without undressing and the next thing I knew, I was waking up. Sure enough, no headache, but my stomach was a bit queasy.

  I got up and checked on Olivia, who was still lying on the couch but now had Guy laying on the floor next to her. “Olivia?” I called out quietly. With no reply I decided to take a shower and give her more time to sleep in. I gathered a fresh pair of faded black jeans, a blue and maroon Avalanche shirt, socks and underwear and quietly entered the bathroom.

  After I showered and got dressed, I opened the bathroom door to find a folded blanket stacked on a pillow where Olivia had been sleeping, but no Olivia. Guy was sitting up and seemed to be waiting for me. I walked to the door and opened it up. Guy shot out and was thankful to see my Malibu still parked outside.

  I wondered about what had transpired at the end of the night. I took out my phone and opened the Google GPS app that showed on a map where I had been, red dots lining the road away and back to the campground. I picked the spot where it looked like we had stopped to talk to Olivia’s boyfriend, Matt? Yeah, Matt. I set up the navigation app to direct me there and climbed in the car, slamming the door. As soon as I turned it over and revved it once or twice, Guy appeared out of the woods and jumped up on my door. I got out and let him jump in, then returned to the seat and closed the door. He sat upright in the passenger seat and waited. I slowly shook my head and started driving.

  It only took about 20 minutes to get to Matt’s house and I recognized the makeshift trailer-turned-cabin. I thought about how to approach him and decided to grab my Ruger 9 mil out of the glove compartment. I checked it for ammo and got out, leaving Guy in the car, then I tucked the gun inside my belt in the back of my jeans. I went to what looked like a front door and tried it. It was unlocked. I entered the enclosed patio and knocked on the actual trailer door.

  I heard some thumps and scratches inside and finally the door opened. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Pat Ruger, a retired investigator. Are you Matt?”

  “Yeah, I’m Matt, Mister ‘Pat Ruger,’ he said with an unmistakable New York accent. “Whadya want?”

  Matt was an imposing figure — I figured 6 feet 4 inches, 220, maybe 230, around 32 years old — a dark-skinned Italian with short black hair and about two days of black beard stubble. He was wearing khaki-colored slacks, green and tan hunter-style camouflage T-shirt and old brown hiking boots.

  “I was here last night — with Olivia — and she showed you a photo, someone I’m looking for. She said you might have seen him but decided that it was someone else. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s about the gist of it. Why’re you here, old man?”

  “Olivia was pretty pissed at you last night. She slept on my couch, in case you were worried or anything.”

  “She called me and told me, so get outta my face about it.”

  I decided not to pursue that for now. I took out the photo and held it up. “I think you do know this guy. I think you had something to do with him being missing. If you don’t tell me what you know right now, I have the Feds on speed dial. I’m sure they would love to take you to their office and sweat it out of you.” I reached back behind me and prepared to pull the gun out.

  “Wait. Don’t do that. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  I relaxed briefly but left my hand behind me. “And what would that be?”

  “I’ll tell you as soon as you take your hand away from that handgun in your belt. I’m not gonna jump you or anything, and if I did, that gun wouldn’t help you. You’d be dead already.”

  “Is that right?” I said, pulling my arm back to my side.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I spent five years in the Army in Qatar and two more in Egypt. The area rug you’re standing on? It’s rigged.”

  I looked down and saw a pair of nearly invisible wires leading to the rug from the wall of the house. I quickly stepped off the small rug.

  “That wouldn’t have killed you, but I would have.”

  “I believe you. Special Ops?”

  “No, nothin’ like that. Just a soldier who learned a lot.”

  “So, you’re going to tell me about this guy?” I looked at the photo and back at Matt.

  “Yeah, okay. You seem like decent enough guy. I didn’t want Livey — Olivia — involved. That’s why I told her I didn’t know him. I saw him at a gas station up the road here.”

  “And you remember him from that?”

  “Yeah, it was strange. He had a small pickup and a cool-looking trailer, a real small trailer. But he didn’t get back in his pickup. He climbed in a white cargo van and some chick got in his truck. She followed the van out of the station.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No, why would I? The guy wasn’t asking for help. It was just … odd.”

  “So, when Olivia showed the photo to you, you figured something bad had actually happened.”

  “I guess so. Just ‘cause he’s missing doesn’t mean something bad happened.”

  “You keep telling yourself that. What gas station was it?”

  “The Shell station in Mill Creek.”

  “Do you remember when this happened?”

  “Actually, I do. It was on April 15th, tax day. That’s why I was in town, to file my taxes. I’m guessing around 3 p.m.”

  “Thanks.” I put the photo back in my pocket and looked back down at the booby-trapped rug. “What would have happened if that went off?”

  Matt laughed. “Well, it might have taken your foot off, but probably not.”

  “Why did you set up a booby trap in your own house? What if Olivia set it off? Or a friend?”

  “I don’t have friends, not the kind to come over to shoot the shit. Livey knows to disarm it before she comes in. She likes the security of it, I guess. Anyway, I know too many guys who didn’t take precautions and got hit. I’m not taking any chances. Call me paranoid.”

  “That about sums it up,” I said under my breath. I thanked him and left, then punched Mill Creek into the navigation app and found it was about a half-hour away. I hit the road and when I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to see small video cameras set up in several places around the Shell station.

  “We were having a lot of drive-offs,” the owner said when I asked him about it. He was of Middle East descent and was eager to talk about what he had accomplished. “People pumping and leaving without paying ... Truckers don’t usually like to pre-pay, so we let them pump diesel first, then come pay. That doesn’t happen anymore, and when it does, pow! We get him and his plate on video.”

  “Do you keep all your video?”

  “Yeah, now that the cloud is cheap, it all goes there. I probably have about a year’s worth up there.”

 

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