It’s after 6 P.M. by the time I arrive at Jerrold McCullough’s place. I find Glock standing on the front porch, and we spend an hour or so walking the property on the chance the man fell or somehow injured himself and is unable to respond. But we don’t find any sign of him. Earlier, Glock was able to reach one of McCullough’s grown children, a son who lives in Sacramento. Jerrold Jr. hasn’t heard from his father in over a week. He didn’t sound too concerned. When I try McCullough’s cell phone, my call goes straight to voice mail.

We’re standing in the backyard, twenty yards from the shore of a very swollen Painters Creek, looking out at the woods. It’s raining again and I can hear the water crashing over rocks and rushing around the trees that grow along the flooded bank.

“You don’t think he fell into the water, do you?” Glock asks.

“I think it’s probably premature to start dragging the creek.” I say the words lightly, but the notion that at some point it could be necessary bothers me. “He’s not even officially missing yet.”

“Yeah, but you’re worried or you wouldn’t be here.”

I sigh because he’s right. “Did anyone you talked to mention his favorite watering hole?”

“He’s been known to stop in for a beer at McNarie’s. I thought I’d swing by on my way home.”

I nod, but I don’t think he’ll find McCullough at the bar. “Apparently, we’re the only people who seem to be worried about him.”

“That’s pretty sad.” Glock grimaces. “You think he flew the coop? Maybe he had something to do with the murders.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t think he’s our guy.” I consider that a moment. “For one thing, he’s an amputee. He doesn’t use a prosthesis.”

“That we know of.”

“Look, I’m going to put out a BOLO.”

Around us the rain increases, fat drops slapping against the trees and the saturated ground. Despite the fact that we’re both getting wet, neither of us seems to notice.

“I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight,” I say after a moment.

He nods. “I’m going to swing by McNarie’s.”

“We’ll pick up Blue tomorrow,” I tell him. “Put some pressure on him.”

Glock gives me a mock salute and then turns and starts for his vehicle, leaving me in the pouring rain with the sound of rushing water in my ears and my own thoughts echoing in my head.

*   *   *