Swan Peak by James Lee Burke

used handcuffs. You get Seymour mad, he’d take on three or four guys with fists and feet and anything else they wanted. He did it one night in front of the Oxford when some guys made a remark about Cindy. I bet there were handcuff burns on his wrists, weren’t there?”
    He stared up at me, waiting for my answer.
     
    I LET CLETE drive and used my cell phone to call Joe Bim Higgins. “We just interviewed Ben Hauser,” I said. “He told us Seymour Bell wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. He says if Bell was kidnapped, the perp probably used handcuffs.”
    “That’s a possibility,” Joe Bim said.
    “Say again?”
    “There were abrasions on Bell’s wrists. They didn’t look like they came from rope or wire. I thought I mentioned that.”
    He had not, but what do you say under the circumstances? “I was just double-checking, Sheriff,” I said.
    “Anytime,” he said.
    I closed my cell and looked at the highway rushing at us.
    “Where to?” Clete asked.
    “Let’s see what we can find out about the California couple who got killed at the rest stop. Let’s start at the saloon where they were drinking with Jamie Sue Wellstone.”
    “You got it, big mon,” Clete said, putting an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
    We drove up through the Blackfoot Valley, through meadowland and across streams and sky-blue lakes that eventually feed into the Swan Drainage. The weather had just started to blow when we pulled into the saloon, and the lake was chained with rain rings, the mountains gray-green and misty on the far side, like images in an Oriental painting. Some fishermen were drinking in a booth, but otherwise, the saloon was empty. A heavyset bartender in black trousers and a white shirt was looking out the back window at the rain falling on the lake. He turned around when he heard us sit down at the bar. “What are you having, fellows?” he said.
    I opened my badge holder. “I’m Detective Dave Robicheaux. My friend here is Clete Purcel. We’re helping out in the investigation of the double homicide that happened in a rest stop west of Missoula Monday night. It’s our understanding that the two victims were drinking here earlier the same day.”
    The bartender leaned on his arms. His cuffs were rolled, and his forearms looked thick and sun-browned in the gloom, wrapped with soft black hair. “You want to show me that shield again?”
    “Not really,” I said.
    “Because it doesn’t look local. I’m wrong on that?” he said.
    “No, you’re right. But you can call Joe Bim Higgins on my cell if you think we’re pulling on your crank,” Clete said.
    “It was just a question. What do you guys want to know?”
    I opened my notebook on the bar. The bartender told us his name was Harold Waxman and that he worked part-time at the saloon and sometimes drove 18-wheelers after Labor Day, when the tourist season shut down. “Lot of the mills have closed. There’s not that much log hauling anymore,” he said.
    “Did the California people have trouble with anybody here? Exchange words, something like that?” I said.
    “Not exactly,” the bartender said.
    “How do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” I asked.
    “The guy was a negative kind of person, that’s all. He wasn’t a likable guy.”
    “What did he do?” I asked.
    “Said the place was dirty or something to that effect. Look, there was a half-breed or a Mexican-looking guy hanging around. He was watching Ms. Wellstone or the California woman from the doorway over there. Maybe he’s a cherry picker. It’s not the season yet, but they’ll be showing up at Flathead Lake for the harvest pretty soon.”
    “You told this to the sheriff?” I said.
    “Yeah, or to the detectives he sent out here. You want a drink? It’s on the house.”
    I shook my head. “Give me three fingers of Jack straight up,” Clete said. “Give me a beer back on that, too.”
    “The woman and the guy with her?” the bartender said, fixing Clete’s drink. “The way