"Craig would never go off and not tell us, Lieutenant, I know he wouldn't. I think something bad has happened to my boy." Mrs. Steen, a shredded tissue balled in her hands, was leaning forward on the flowered sofa. Her pre-teen daughter, a tiny dark-haired girl with a pageboy haircut, had her hands wrapped around her mother's arm.
Mike glanced sympathetically at Craig's sister before he reached out and laid a comforting hand on her mother's forearm. "Mrs. Steen, my partner and I will do everything we can to bring your son home, I promise." Beside him, Steve nodded with an encouraging smile.
The distraught woman nodded, trying not to cry.
"Like Mike told you," Steve began softly, "we've talked to Katie and Johnny Mitchell already. Johnny said Craig went to the Patches Bar & Grill in Crocker the night he disappeared. He said that Craig drove his own car there 'cause he'd had to work later than he expected." He paused, as if collecting his thoughts. "Johnny said he wasn't sure if Craig followed them home that night or not. By any chance do you know if Craig drove straight home that night?"
The older woman started to shake her head. "Oh, Craig doesn't live here, Inspector. He has a little place over on Cottonwood. He just moved out about two months ago… He and his daddy haven't been getting along so good since the mill closed…"
Mike nodded sympathetically. It was a story they were hearing a little too often lately.
"But his car isn't there," Mrs. Steen continued. "That's the first thing we checked when we figured out he was missing."
"You didn't know right away?" Mike asked with a frown, glancing briefly at his partner.
"No, you see, sometimes we'd go for a couple of days without talking… you know, Craig had his job at the gas station and he was living on his own. But I'd talked to him the day before because he told me he'd proposed to Katie…" She stopped talking and a warm smile lit her haunted face. "He was so excited… we all were… weren't we?" she asked her daughter, who stared up at her and beamed, nodding her head.
Both detectives smiled as well.
# # # # #
Mike was sitting on the neatly made bed in the tiny bedroom of Craig Steen's apartment. They had borrowed the extra key from his mother and had spent the last half hour going through the missing young man's meagre belongings. They had found nothing that gave them any indication of what had happened to precipitate his disappearance.
Mrs. Steen had been right; the car, a burgundy '66 Toyota Corolla, was nowhere to be seen. And they hadn't found his wallet or keys, which no doubt meant they were still with him… wherever he was.
Mike sighed loudly. "Okay, buddy boy, we're definitely going back to Patches tonight. I want to get to Crocker a little early, look around town a bit and see if we can spot his car anywhere. I doubt very much it's here in Colville; somebody would've spotted it by now, I'm pretty sure of that."
Steve wandered back in from another tour of the small living room and kitchen. "Well, he was neat, for a single guy; I'll give him that." He held out a handful of colour prints. "I found these."
Mike took the photos and sifted through them. They were candid shots of Craig with Katie and Craig with his friends, one of whom he recognized as Johnny Mitchell. A few of them showed the Toyota. Mike put a couple of the prints in his inside jacket pocket and handed the rest back to his partner.
"Come on, let's get out of here," he said with a frustrated sigh as he got to his feet.
# # # # #
"It all keeps coming back to Patches, doesn't it?" Mike mumbled almost to himself as the tan Galaxie drove slowly down a two-lane blacktop bordered by warehouses, small body shops and garages on the outskirts of Crocker. They had already visited the town's two wrecking yards with no results.
Nodding slowly, Steve's eyes were raking both sides of the road as he kept the sedan just at the speed limit; there was no other traffic. "And I don't think any of those kids were into drugs… do you?"
Watching the buildings slide by, Mike shook his head with a facial shrug. "Naw, I don't think so either…" he said slowly and softly. "Then why did they disappear…?"
He heard Steve sigh in agreement. With a sudden burst of energy, Mike shot his left cuff and looked at his watch. "It's almost five. Let's head over to Patches. I want to get there early so we can wrangle our usual table at the back. We can shoot a few games then gravitate to the main room and check things out." He looked at Steve and his brow furrowed. "I don't know about you, but I have a feeling something's going to go down tonight."
Steve looked across the front seat and met the older man's eyes. Neither of them smiled.
Steve turned his attention back to the road. One of the many things he'd learned in the time they'd been partners was that Mike Stone's hunches were rarely wrong. He swallowed heavily, hoping that if something did go down tonight, they would both be laughing about it in the morning.
# # # # #
The solid burgundy ball hit the corner of the pocket and rolled back out to the middle of the table. Mike straightened up and shook his head as he walked back to the stools against the wall. "I'm off my game tonight, buddy boy. You just might clean my clock tonight," he chuckled.
"That works for me," Steve laughed as he got up, reaching for the cue leaning against the wall. "I might get to win my money back."
He approached the table as the older man sat with a heavy sigh; he had a few options. He pointed at the striped blue ball with the end of his stick. "Ten in the corner," he said as he started to lean over the table.
The sound of motorcycles suddenly filled the room. Steve hesitated, raising his stick and standing up; he glanced at his partner. They both froze and listened as the drone of the engines got louder and louder. It seemed to go on forever until slowly the roar began to diminish then died out completely, eclipsed by a cacophony of voices as the bikers stormed through the front doors.
Within seconds, about two dozen black leather-clad, hirsute men and women began streaming into the poolroom. Several of them stopped short when they caught sight of the two strangers at the far table; the volume of their voices dropped and dark looks were passed around.
Mike glanced at his partner. "You get the impression this is their regular pool night?" he asked sotto voce, his expression remaining neutral and non-threatening as scowls were thrown in their direction.
Steve turned back to the table, lining up his shot. "Well then, they're shit outa luck, aren't they?" he whispered with a slight smile. "'Cause we're not done yet, are we?"
Mike chuckled just loud enough for his young partner to hear. "No, we're not."
The bikers moved deeper into the room; every cue from the two large racks near the entrance was now in someone's hand, and the balls of the three remaining tables were being racked, loudly. The room was almost full, and those surrounding the adjacent table began to encroach on the playing field around the table already in use.
Steve, having sunk the ten ball, circled the table to get an angle on his next target: the two ball about six inches from the side pocket. As he began to bend over to take the shot, one of the women walked closely behind him and he had to check his backstroke.
He turned quickly, trying to curb his anger at the deliberate intimidating move, stopping when he met her eyes. Her stride hesitated slightly and she looked him up and down slowly, almost lasciviously. He stared back impassively. She smiled and licked her lips as she returned to the other table; he could feel the angry stares of a number of bikers. He made eye contact with no one as he turned back to the table, his gaze flicking to Mike, who was staring at him intently, as if willing him control. With a slight, acknowledging nod, he leaned over the table and took the shot. The ball hit the corner of the pocket and rolled away.
With a dry chuckle, Steve straightened up again and turned from the table. He took the two steps to the stool beside his partner and sat with a heavy sigh. "Is this what you meant by 'something going down tonight'?" he asked quietly before Mike had time to get to his feet.
The older man snorted and raised his eyebrows. "I'm not sure. Let's see how this plays out." He approached the table, studying the layout, then crossed to the far side. "Six in the side," he said, pointing with the stick, then dropped the ball neatly. He crossed to the end of the table where a number of the bikers were leaning against the wall, beer bottles in hand, staring expressionlessly as they watched every move the cops made.
"Do you mind, fellas?" Mike asked genially as he moved into position to take his shot, gesturing vaguely towards the angle he needed.
With not so subtle grumbles, most of the bikers pushed themselves away from the wall and drifted deeper into the room. Mike bent over the table, stretching to steeple his left hand on the felt and resting the end of the cue between his thumb and forefinger. Satisfied he had the right angle, he brought the stick back, and hit something.
"Hey, watch out!" a loud voice roared angrily and he straightened up quickly and turned. A large, almost bald biker, beer bottle in hand, met him nose to nose. "You better watch yourself, old man!"
Steve sat up straight on the stool, every nerve and muscle suddenly on alert. He stared at the unexpected tableau in front of him. The biker, a couple of inches taller than his lanky partner, was glaring at the older man as if daring him to do something. Steve watched as Mike, meeting the threatening look evenly, finally blinked then swallowed heavily. As he began to take a step back, the biker grinned coldly and snorted. "Coward," he sneered as his eyes slipped into the crowd and a grin began to build.
As Steve relaxed slightly and Mike turned back to the table, another biker, who had been propped against the far wall, stepped closer to the table and body-checked the older man as he leaned over the table. Taken by surprise, Mike staggered, almost losing his balance.
Steve shot to his feet. "Hey!" left his mouth before he could stop it, and suddenly all hell broke loose. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and he was pulled to his left, away from the stool.
The biker who had deliberately walked into Mike grabbed the older man by the arm and spun him around, his right fist shooting out and catching the cop on the chin. Mike's head snapped back and he stumbled back against the pool table. He tasted blood as he tried to straighten up, ignoring the pain of his split lip. Rough hands grabbed him and threw him hard against the wall, his head slamming into the wood panelling, stunning him.
Steve was spun around and there was a blur of motion as a fist slammed into his belly. He doubled over, unable to breathe, and both arms wrapped around his stomach as he heaved, trying to get air back into his lungs. He felt his hair being grabbed and his head was jerked back as he was dragged upright, still struggling to inhale. He caught the blurry image of his partner being held against the wall then he was punched in the stomach again and his legs gave out, dropping him to his knees.
Somewhere the sound of glass being broken penetrated Mike's foggy brain as he tried to push himself away from the wall. Strong hands were holding him in place and he couldn't move. There was a flash of movement as a fist shot towards him again, and suddenly his belly exploded as white hot tentacles of pain shot through his midriff.
A coldly grinning face, the face of the bald biker who had blocked his shot, hovered mere inches from his own. The grin grew wider as the broken bottle was twisted and, unable to stop himself, Mike screamed in pain.
Gasping for breath, on his knees, his hands wrapped around his abdomen, Steve looked up to see Mike sink slowly to the floor as the bikers released him and took a step back. Blood was beginning to spread on the front of his shirt and the older man's hands groped blindly towards his stomach as he fell.
Almost overwhelmed with the pain, Mike managed to open his eyes as his head connected with the hardwood. He could see Steve, eyes wide and mouth open, on his knees, staring at him in agony, horror and fear.
Suddenly a large black leather-clad figure stepped behind the young cop and Mike tried to refocus. He caught his breath. "Steve…" he tried to yell as the pool cue flashed through the air, catching his partner on the side of the head. Steve's limp body fell heavily to the dirty plank floor.
"Noooo…" Mike cried through the pain. He was trying to push himself up when the toe of a black boot caught him on the right temple and he crumpled back to the floor.