We walked toward the trailer, a lopsided trailer up on blocks, except for one end which kind of slouched down to the ground. All the windows were open—that was pretty standard— but curtains hung in them so you couldn’t see inside. Then one of the curtains twitched and a man’s face appeared, lined and scabby but not actually that old.
“Youse on private proppity,” he said, or something like that, hard to tell on account of his mouth being pretty much toothless. His eyes went back and forth and back and forth real quick, taking us in over and over. Also pretty standard. “Youse hikers?” he said.
“That’s right,” Bernie said.
His eyes did more back-and-forthing. Then he hooked his arm out the window—a real skinny arm with a fresh burn mark or two—and pointed around the corner of the trailer. “Road out’s thataway.”
“Much obliged,” Bernie said. “And en route we’d like to pay our respects to Mrs. Rendell, if you can tell us where to find her.”
“Turk’s mother,” Bernie said. “We want to offer our condolences.”
The man stared at us out the window. “You mean ’cause he’s dead?”
“Exactly,” Bernie said.
His face withdrew, the curtain falling back in place. Bernie took a quick step forward, like he was going to charge in there, but before he could, the curtains opened again and the man stuck his head right out the window, his neck long and scrawny.
“You hiking buddies of Turk?”
Bernie nodded.
“Look like hikers,” the man said.
Bernie nodded again.
The man’s gaze went to me. “’Cepting for the dog. Dog looks like a po-lice dog.”
“He’s actually head of the DEA,” Bernie said.
The man was silent for what seemed like a long time, enough for me to think, police dog? We were private operators, me and Bernie, meaning we answered to nobody, amigo. Then, quite abruptly, the man started laughing, a harsh and horrible sound, like he was trying to get rid of sharp things caught in his throat. Laughing gave way to hacking, and then a hork or two, and when all that was done, he hooked his arm out again and said, “Quarter of a mile down in the holler, purple double-wide, can’t hardly miss it.”
We followed a path around the trailer, a path littered with bottles and cans and empty pill containers and scraps of this and that. Trailers were scattered in the woods, some with smoke rising from stovepipe chimneys.
“It stinks in here,” Suzie said.
She was right about that—no putting anything past Suzie— but my mind was on other things, specifically jackrabbits. Jackrabbit Junction, so you’d be expecting jackrabbits out the yingyang and so far, not so much as a whiff. What was up with that?
The path split in two, one part leading out of the woods toward some little houses or shacks lining an unpaved street, the other turning into a two-rutted road and slanting down through the trees toward a stream at the bottom, its water kind of orange to my eyes, but Bernie always says I can’t be trusted when it comes to color. On the near side of the stream stood a purple double-wide, a satellite dish on the roof, and a big red SUV parked out front.
We went down into the hollow. Bernie knocked on the door. No answer.
“Maybe no one’s home,” Suzie said.
Maybe, but then how come eggs were frying in there? No missing that smell, and besides I could hear the sizzle. Bernie liked sunny-side up; I wasn’t fussy.
Bernie knocked again. “Mrs. Rendell?” he called.
No answer.
He turned to Suzie. “You could be right,” he said.
Sometimes life gets frustrating and you’ve just got to control yourself. I did my very best, barking, but not long or loud, and rising up on my hind legs to paw at that door, but not my hardest, not even close. Hey! The door swung open, taking me completely by surprise, and when that happens, I always get an urge to bark, which I would have done, except that I was already barking from before, if you see what I mean, kind of confusing.
And anyway, not the point. The point was that a short but strong-looking woman stood just back of the doorway, a butcher knife in her hand. Cleon Maxwell, owner of Max’s Memphis Ribs, had one a lot like it, not as big.
Bernie raised his hands. “No need for that,” he said. “We mean no harm.”
“Then how come you bust into my goddamn domicile?” the woman said.
“That was the furthest thing from our intention,” Bernie said.
Bernie talking fancy like that often makes bad guys screw up their faces, not quite following, but there was no sign of that on this woman’s face: a broad face with deep lines across the forehead, dark angry eyes, and teeth, plenty of them and in not-too-bad shape. Maybe she wasn’t a bad guy.
“We came to offer our condolences on your recent loss, Mrs. Rendell,” Bernie said.
Her eyes stayed angry but she lowered the butcher knife. “You knew Turk?” she said.
“We did some hiking together.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bernie.”
“He never mentioned any Bernie.”
Bernie didn’t reply. His face showed nothing.
“On the other hand,” she said, “there’s plenty he didn’t tell me.” She stared at Bernie, then at Suzie.
“I’m Suzie,” Suzie said. “Bernie’s friend. I never met your son, but Bernie’s told me about him.”
“Told you what?”
“Some things I’d like to discuss with you, Mrs. Rendell,” Bernie said. “If we could come inside for a few minutes.”
“Things having to do with the manner of his death,” Bernie said. “I was one of the last people to see him alive.”
There was a long pause. Then the woman said, “All right. And it’s Miss Rendell, not Mrs. Never married the asshole. Never married any of the assholes.”
We entered the double-wide, passing through the kitchen, where Miss Rendell hung the knife on a hook and turned off the burner under the eggs—sunny-side up, smelling out of this world— without breaking stride, and into a small TV room at the back; a small room but with a very big TV that left not much space for furniture. Suzie sat on the couch, Miss Rendell on the only chair. Bernie wandered over to the window and picked up a trophy that was standing on the sill.
“You won the chemistry prize in high school,” he said.
“Junior year,” said Miss Rendell. “My last.”
“Oh?” said Bernie. “Why was that?”
“Why do you think? We were dirt poor, didn’t have a pot to piss in.”
Stop right there. What was that? I needed time, lots of it, to think, but as is so often the case when we’re on the job there was no time, because Bernie was already talking.
“Did you grow up around here?” he said, or something like that.
“Partly,” said Miss Rendell. “If you think it’s the armpit of the world now, you should’ve seen it then.”
Pisspots and now armpits? Miss Rendell got more interesting every time she opened her mouth.
“Not following you,” Bernie said. “I thought this was one of the most beautiful parts of the West.”
“That’s because you’re from somewhere else,” said Miss Rendell. “It’s a high-altitude slum. Now can we get back to my son?”
“Sure,” said Bernie. “What do you know so far?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I think Bernie just wants to start in the right place,” Suzie said.
Miss Rendell swung around in her direction. “Right place? My son is dead and the county won’t even release his body so I can give him a decent burial. There is no right fucking place.”
“Understood,” Bernie said. “I’d think the same way in your position.”
“Just pray that never happens to you,” Miss Rendell said.
Bernie was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I will.” Suzie shot him a quick glance. He sat beside her on the couch and cleared his throat. Bernie has several throat clearings; this one was about making a fresh start. I can clear my throat, too, but it doesn’t mean anything.
“Did they say why they won’t release the body?” Bernie said.
“Because the goddamn medical examiner, Doc Laidlaw— totally senile for years, by the way—hasn’t …” Her voice thickened for a moment, and I thought tears were on the way, but none came, and she went on, “… finished with him.”
“When was the last time you heard from the county?” Bernie said.
“Couple days ago,” Miss Rendell said. “Maybe they tried since. There’s no service here—got to go twenty miles down the road before it clicks in. I was planning on making the drive tomorrow.”
“I can save you the trouble,” Bernie said. “Doc Laidlaw finished with Turk last night. In court this morning, he submitted a revised finding of death by suicide.”
Miss Rendell gripped the arms of her chair real tight, knuckle bones showing right through her skin. “What did you say?”
Bernie said it again.
Now I could see the bones under the skin of her face. Her mouth opened into a round black hole, and she let out a loud and horrible cry that went on until all the breath was out of her; but still no tears. Then Suzie was at Miss Rendell’s side with a glass of water. Miss Rendell drank some; most of the rest spilled down her neck, the glass so unsteady in her hand.
“Those monsters,” she said.
“What monsters?” Bernie said.
“The judge, the sheriff, those stupid deputies—all of them.”
Bernie nodded.
Miss Rendell finished what was in the glass. “Why are they doing this?” she said. “No one who knew Turk will believe it. He was happy and stable and straight up, wouldn’t go near my whole—” She cut herself off.
“Go on,” Bernie said.
Miss Rendell shook her head.
Suzie turned to Bernie. “Miss Rendell said just what you did.”
“About what?” said Miss Rendell.
“About the suicide finding,” Bernie said. “They’d have been much smarter calling it an accident, from their point of view.”
The lines on Miss Rendell’s forehead were getting deeper and deeper. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Didn’t they arrest some rogue cop? Oh, Christ—does this mean they let him go?”
Bernie nodded. “It wasn’t going to hold up.”
“How do you know?” said Miss Rendell.
“I’m the one they let go,” Bernie said.
Miss Rendell shot right out of her chair, like she’d touched the part of a lamp where the bulb goes when no bulb is in there, which happened to me once, right on the end of the nose. She backed away, hands up to protect herself. I shifted over a bit to get between her and the way to the kitchen, in case that butcher knife was on her mind.
“I didn’t do it,” Bernie said. “And I’m also a private investigator in good standing, not a rogue cop. I’m up here on a case, and I was the one who found your son’s body. There’s no doubt in my mind that he was murdered.”
“Because you did it?” Miss Rendell’s voice was high and wild. “Is that why you’re so sure?”
“If I did it, why am I here?”
She gave Bernie a long look, and in the course of that look the expression in her eyes changed a lot, ramping down through fear and rage to anger and worry, to confusion.
“Then who killed my son?” Miss Rendell said.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Who’s paying you?”
Bernie has great eyebrows, if I haven’t mentioned that already, with a language of their own. Right now they were saying something about being surprised; not them, but Bernie, if you see where I’m going with this. But forget all that. The point was whatever Miss Rendell had said, now gone from my mind, had caught Bernie by surprise.
“No one directly,” Bernie said. “But your son’s death is mixed up with this other case we’re working on.” He stopped right there, kind of abruptly, one of his interviewing techniques. We’d had good results from Bernie’s interviewing techniques in the past, but at the moment I felt disappointed on account of my curiosity about this other case.
Silence. It went on and on, like something pressing down on the double-wide. At last, Miss Rendell said, “What other case?”
“A missing persons case, which is mostly what we do,” Bernie said. “The missing person is a boy named Devin Vereen.”
Miss Rendell was very still, her face and body giving away nothing. But Bernie has this saying about how even the way nothing is given can give something—whew, what a thought: Bernie, the one and only! Was this one of those times?
“Name mean anything to you?” Bernie said.
Miss Rendell shook her head. Bernie was watching carefully. He also had a whole thing about how people shake their heads: how many times? too hard? not hard enough? and were they looking you in the eye while the head-shaking was going on? And even more! Just another reason the success of the Little Detective Agency, except for the finances part, should surprise nobody. Meanwhile, Miss Rendell wasn’t looking Bernie in the eye.
“Devin went missing during a hike from Big Bear Wilderness Camp,” Bernie said. “Turk was the guide.”
One thing about humans: they can not age for years and then do it right in front of your eyes. Like Miss Rendell now.
“What are you saying?” she said.
“I’m asking whether you know anything about this missing kid,” Bernie said.
“How many times do you want me say it?”
“You haven’t actually said it yet.”
“I don’t know anything about the missing kid. There—I’ve said it.”
“I was hoping for a more believable rendition,” Bernie told her.
She didn’t like hearing that, whatever it was. “This visit is over,” she said, pointing toward the door.
Bernie stayed put. So did Suzie. So did I.
“What you’re not getting,” Bernie said, “is that we’re on the same side.”
“No, I’m not getting that,” said Miss Rendell. “Not one little bit.”
“Your son was murdered,” Bernie said. “Do you want the murderer to go free?”
“What the hell do you think?” her voice rising.
Bernie’s voice went the other way, but it wasn’t gentle. “Then sit down.”
Miss Rendell sat down.
“How do you feel about Guy Wenders?” Bernie said.
“Never heard of him,” said Miss Rendell.
“You don’t have time for this.”
“How do you know what I have time for?”
“We’ll get to that,” Bernie said.
“Is that a threat?” said Miss Rendell. “I don’t take to being threatened.”
“I’m not the threat,” Bernie said.
Miss Rendell gave Bernie a close look, like she was trying to see inside him. Easy as pie for me—although what pies and easiness had to do with each other was a mystery; I’d sampled many of them and gotten nowhere on this—but maybe not for Miss Rendell, because she changed her mind about Guy. “I know Guy,” she said. “He’s from up this way originally.”
“Did you also know that the missing kid is his son?” Bernie said.
Miss Rendell was silent.
Bernie leaned forward a bit, put his hands in a wedge shape, fingertips together. I loved when he did that, wished he’d do it more. “Don’t you sense big trouble out there?” he said. “Out there and coming soon?” Miss Rendell didn’t speak, but she was scared; I could smell it. “We can help you—maybe not much, but some. First, we need a little cooperation. Did you know Devin is Guy’s son?”
Miss Rendell nodded, just the tiniest of movements.
“Where is he?” Bernie said.
Miss Rendell aged a little more. “How would I know that?” she said.
“Maybe you don’t,” Bernie said. “That just leaves the question of your business. Tell us about it.”
“You’re talking crazy,” Miss Rendell said. “I don’t have a business.”
“Then what am I smelling?” Bernie said.
That caught my attention, big-time. I waited to hear.
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Miss Rendell.
“Meth,” Bernie said. “This whole goddamn settlement smells like one giant meth lab.”
Oh, that.
Miss Rendell’s head bent slowly forward; she gazed down at the floor.
“I’m guessing,” said Bernie, “that you started right out of high school, what with your chemistry background and all. You discovered you were a good businesswoman and things took off. Also, you’re smart. Unlike your neighbor by the trail, you stayed away from the product, maintained that nice mouthful of teeth.” He paused. “Accurate so far?” he said. “Ballpark, at least?”
Miss Rendell didn’t answer or look up.
“After that is where I’m going to need some help,” Bernie went on. “What was Turk’s role, for example?”
Miss Rendell began to shake. And now came the tears. “He had nothing to do with it,” she said. Which was what I thought I heard through the sobs. “He was a good boy.” She looked up, her face blotched and streaming. “He loved the outdoors. That was his whole life.”
“I believe you,” Bernie said.
“I don’t give a fuck whether you do or not,” she shouted at him.
Bernie nodded like that made sense; it made no sense to me. Miss Rendell wiped her eyes on her sleeve, started pulling herself together, a thing some humans can do, others not, in my experience.
“That leaves the judge and the sheriff,” Bernie said. “Or is it the sheriff and the judge? Still not sure which one’s in charge.”
“Monsters, both of them,” said Miss Rendell. She did some more face wiping, also did some sniffling. “But the judge is the smart one.”
“When did they start horning in?” Bernie said.
“Almost from the get-go—I found out there are no secrets up here,” Miss Rendell said. She took a deep breath and—and gave herself a little shake? What a case this was! “They wanted protection money, of course, ten percent at first, sounded reasonable. Now they’re taking just about everything.”
“So cleaning up all that cash became an issue,” Bernie said.
She nodded.
“Some of it went into the camp?”
“One of Guy’s clever ideas,” Miss Rendell said. “But I never knew much about what they were up to, and never wanted to.”
Bernie rose, went to the window. I went with him. We gazed out at the strange-colored stream. Without turning, Bernie said, “I assume you have some escape hatch all set up, somewhere to go, money stashed away, that kind of thing.”
“Why?” said Miss Rendell. “What are you telling me?”
“The feds are coming,” Bernie said. He turned to her. “And soon.”
Miss Rendell rose, not quite steady on her feet. “Thank you,” she said.
Suzie stood up.
“And you, too,” Miss Rendell said.
Suzie’s eyes were locked on Miss Rendell, and they were hard and unfriendly. I didn’t quite get that, not coming from Suzie.
Miss Rendell squared her shoulders, met Suzie’s gaze. “I have an idea—no guarantees—where the boy might be,” she said. “I can drop you on my way.”
Sometime later, we were all pulling away from the double-wide in the big red SUV, Miss Rendell driving and Bernie up front with her, me and Suzie in the back. I found I had a bit of egg—the sunny-side up kind—on my face, and licked it off.