Part 32 (2/2)
I flipped to the back of the print. Nothing.
I rehung the sweater, dug out a magnifying gla.s.s, and sat down to examine the image. Within seconds I found confirmation on a gorilloid oaf in denim vest and fingerless leather gloves. An arm wider than a state highway reached across his chest, displaying swastika, lightning bolts, and the poetic acronym ”F.T.W.” While Kong's upper limb obliterated part of his T-s.h.i.+rt, the bottom words were fully legible.
”Myrtle Beach.”
Barely breathing, I began a close inspection of the persons pictured. Slowly, I worked the lens across the image, checking each face as it took form.
Within seconds I found her. Half hidden in a sea of caps and bushy heads, a frail figure leaned against a tree, little twig arms wrapped around her waist. Her head was tipped, and a ray of sunlight flashed off one of the huge lenses dwarfing her features.
Savannah Claire Osprey.
While I couldn't read her expression I could sense the tension in her body. From what, I wondered. Excitement? Fear? Self-consciousness?
I moved on.
The man to Savannah's right looked like a character from The Life and Death of Cormac the Skald The Life and Death of Cormac the Skald. He had shoulder-length hair and a beard that hung to mid-chest. Cormac was caught with chin raised, a can of Miller pressed to his lips.
The companion on her other side was very tall, with short hair and scraggly beard and mustache. His face was obscured in shadow, making his belly the most conspicuous trait. It had the tone of a used Ace bandage, hanging in fleshy rolls over a large, oval belt buckle. On it I could see letters. I raised and lowered the lens trying to make out the message, but too much was obscured by paunch.
Frustrated, I slid the lens up the torso and studied the face, hoping something would click. No go. I dropped back to the buckle and brought my face close to the gla.s.s.
A random synaptic firing, and there it was. Back to the face. Could it be?
No. This man was much larger.
But maybe. I couldn't tell. I'd gotten there too late. Too much damage.
Yet, there was a resemblance.
Had George Dorsey known something after all?
Heart pounding, I reached for the phone.
29.
WHEN C CLAUDEL ANSWERED I I IDENTIFIED MYSELF AND DIVED IDENTIFIED MYSELF AND DIVED right in. right in.
”There's something I didn't tell you. Spider Marcotte wasn't the only one Dorsey mentioned. He claimed to have information about Savannah Osprey.”
”The young girl we found in St-Basile-le-Grand?”
”Yes. I think he may have been telling the truth.”
”Dorsey's trademark.”
I ignored the sarcasm.
”Did you leave a picture on my desk?”
”No.”
”Someone did. It's an old snapshsot taken at a biker gathering.”
”Probably a prayer meeting.”
”It looks like a picnic or camp-out.”
”Uh-huh.”
I took a deep breath to steady my voice.
”Savannah Osprey is there.”
”She is?” His tone told me he didn't believe it.
”Absolutely.”
”What does that have to do with Dor-”
”The picture was taken in Myrtle Beach.”
”How do you know?”
”At least one of the believers is wearing a Myrtle Beach T-s.h.i.+rt.”
”My son has a Kansas City Chiefs' s.h.i.+rt.”
”I know honeysuckle and kudzu when I see it. And I recognized a Piggly Wiggly logo on one of the grocery bags.”
”What's a Piggly Wiggly?”
”It's a chain of supermarkets, with several in the Myrtle Beach area.”
”Why would anyone call a supermarket Piggl-”
”And one of the picnickers may be Cherokee Desjardins.”
There was a moment of dead air.
”What makes you think that?”
”He's wearing a belt buckle that says 'Cherokee.'”
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