Free The Missing and the Dead: A Bragg Thriller by Jack Lynch Page A

off the Whole Big Thing."
    "Where did he call from?"
    "A town up north on the coast. A place called Barracks Cove."
    From a downstairs telephone booth I made calls to Janet Lind and Marcie. So far as either of them knew, Jerry didn't know anybody living in Barracks Cove. They both wanted to ask questions of their own, but I stalled and said I'd get back to them later. I left the hospital, drove over to Park Presidio and turned north toward the bridge. It was beginning to shape up into a nice day. Donna Westover seemed pretty sure of her dates; she had good reason to be. And if she were right, she had spoken to Jerry Lind more than twenty-four hours after he'd dropped out of everybody else's life.
    Fifteen minutes later I was in my Sausalito apartment, packing. It didn't take long. I figured all I needed was enough for a day or two of motel living. In the event of emergencies, I always have junk in my car trunk for living off the land. Just before snapping shut the suitcase I went to the locked desk in a work alcove off the front room and took out a couple of holstered handguns and some ammunition. There was no indication I'd need them, but if it should turn out that I did, I wanted them in my suitcase rather than in my Sausalito apartment.
    There were two ways to drive to Barracks Cove. One was up the winding coast highway, and the other was to take Highway 101 north for about 150 miles, then turn onto the slow, loopy road over the coast range to the ocean. It was about a five- to six-hour drive either way, but I went up Highway 101 because during the early part of the journey it gave the impression youwere making good time. Of course I paid for that heavily on the loopy road part of the trip. I had forgotten that there was some serious logging going on east of Barracks Cove. The government was about to take possession of several thousand more acres of prime timber land to add to a national park. The lumbering people were working day and night and weekends to harvest as many redwoods as possible before the deadline and its ensuing cutting restrictions. As a youth driving roads on the Olympic Peninsula up in the state of Washington I had learned that there are few things as humbling as seeing 80,000 pounds of truck and timber in your rear-view mirror roaring up behind you and whipping past. Those people should have their own roads. But they don't, and several of the rigs made me hunch my shoulders on my way over to Barracks Cove, just like in the old days.
    It was early evening when I got there. I bought a tankful of gas and consulted a local phone directory. There was only one art supply store listed. It was called the Frame Up, and a small advertisement in the Yellow Pages said it was "On the Square." The Square turned out to be a great plot of lawn and trees in the center of town. It probably had been a parade ground back in the town's Army days. The town hall and police headquarters were at one end, and the rest was given over to a playground, picnic benches and a small rose garden. Across the surrounding streets on all four sides were the shops, restaurants and stores that marked it the hub of Barracks Cove. By now the sun had dipped behind an offshore fog bank, and a sharp breeze was blowing in from the sea. People were deserting the park as if a quiet warning had been passed. Most of the shops already were closed.
    The Frame Up was on the south side of the Square. A big, plate glass window provided a nice display area to pull in passing foot traffic. It now featured a huge mural filled with caricatures of local people and places. It was a busy piece of work, almost disjointed, with funny juxtapositions and oddly shaped forms in a variety of styles. It showed the Town Square, including theFrame Up, the ocean and state park up north, skinny dippers, service stations, firemen, sexy drive-in waitresses, humorless cops, dairy farms, bars, a chugging train, souped-up cars and enough other people and things to make a person