Fog 
Chapter Three 
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Fritz's Tap 
Washington, IA 
Friday, August 31, 2001 
5:32 p.m. 
The bar was grimy and cluttered.  It was also dim and dusky, with sunlight 
having to fight its way in through windows that looked as if they hadn't been 
washed in at least twenty years.  Monica stood in the doorway for a moment, 
waiting for her eyes to adjust. 
John showed no such hesitation, but strode forward with confidence, smoothly 
evading obstacles as he crossed to the bar that ran along one side of the room.  
After a few seconds, Monica hurried after him. 
The afternoon had been just as aggravating and unproductive as John had 
predicted back on the plane.  This wasn't a big surprise; after all, they were 
for the most part going over ground the local police and the state investigators 
had already covered.  But it didn't make it any less frustrating -- and of 
course, it didn't excuse them from doing a thorough job. 
"What can I get for you folks?" the bartender asked, as Monica came to a stop.  
John slipped onto one of the bar stools and pulled out his badge. 
"Actually, we're not here for a drink," he said.  "Are you Matt Walters?" 
"Yeah."  The man's gaze flicked to Monica, then back to John.  "Cops?" 
"I'm Special Agent Doggett, and this is Special Agent Reyes," John replied.  
"We're with the FBI, and we're investigating the disappearance of Linda White 
and Mara Stenley." 
The bartender sighed.  Monica and John had heard a lot of sighs this afternoon.  
Everyone was tired of the subject, most especially the short list of people whom 
the authorities had thought worth questioning. 
"Fine," Walters said.  He was a tall man in his mid 40s, with thinning gray 
hair.  He looked to Monica as if he'd once been pretty well built, but most of 
it had gone to flab years ago.  He continued, "I guess we go over it again.  
What do you want to know?  The girls were in here every night for a week.  I'd 
never seen Linda before, but Mara was a regular." 
"They were both underage," Monica pointed out. 
"No shit," the man replied.  His voice was uninflected.  "I went to high school 
with Toni Stenley -- her name was Gregor back then, of course.  You think I 
don't know how old her daughter is?  This is not a big town." 
"But you served them," John said.  The man didn't answer.  After a few seconds, 
John went on, "Tell us what happened on August 15." 
"I've been over it a hundred times," Walters said with a shrug.  "They showed up 
around nine.  They shot some pool," -- he nodded at a couple of rundown-looking 
pool tables in the back right corner-- "had some beer.  After a while, they 
left." 
"Did they talk to anybody?" Monica asked. 
"Sure," he answered, giving another shrug.  "Coupla pretty young girls in a bar 
all by themselves?  They got hit on.  The place was busy, but I tried to keep an 
eye on it.  Toni's kid, y'know?  The two of 'em seemed to be handling it okay, 
so I left it alone." 
"Anyone in particular?" she persisted. 
"Nah.  Just the usual crowd.  You probably already got the list of names."  
Monica nodded, and he continued, "A guy would wander over, or maybe a coupla 
guys.  They'd watch the girls shoot pool, buy 'em some beer.  Then after a while 
I'd look over and the guys would be gone.  I guess they got the message." 
"What message was that?" John asked. 
"That they weren't interested," Walters said.  Something flickered in his eyes, 
there and gone so quickly that Monica wasn't sure she'd really seen it.  But 
then she felt that cold, internal *shiver* that confirmed it.  This man was 
hiding something. 
"Why weren't they interested?" she said, just letting the words flow without 
prior examination.  Sometimes that was the best way.  Just let whatever was 
inside her come out, unfiltered. 
"How would I know?" the man replied.  "I gotta bar to tend.  None of the guys 
were their type -- too old, too young ... something.  Maybe the girls just 
weren't in the mood." 
Monica gave a slow nod, unable to shake the feeling that the man was lying -- or 
at least, not telling the entire truth.  She was about to call him on it when 
something else intruded.  She frowned, letting her gaze drift to the pool tables 
where Linda White and Mara Stenley had last been seen.  The pool tables were old 
and beat up, but there was something about them that attracted her.  Almost as 
if they were calling to her .... 
She moved away from the bar, leaving John to continue the questioning, and 
walked over to the pool tables.  As she approached them the feeling intensified. 
 She could sense ... she could sense *something*.  Something familiar.  She 
closed her eyes and rested her hands on the edge of one of the tables -- 
*CLACK* 
The cue ball struck the rack, sending balls skittering across the table.  She 
could almost see them -- almost, but not quite.  She heard bubbly, feminine 
laughter, and then a man's voice.  A voice she recognized.  She opened her eyes 
and looked at Matt Walters, who was still talking to John on the other side of 
the room. 
"It's you," she said.  Neither of them heard, so she raised her voice and 
repeated, "It's you." 
"What?" 
Walters wore an expression of confusion, and John was furrowing his brow at her. 
 Monica shook her head, tightening her grip on the edge of the pool table. 
"You were here," she said, continuing to look at Walters.  "With them.  You 
played pool with those girls.  With Linda and Mara.  Didn't you?" 
The man was shaking his head before she'd even finished speaking.  "No," he 
said.  "I told you -- I gotta bar to tend.  I don't play pool with the customers 
-- not in the evenings.  It's too busy.  The only times I talked to Mara and her 
friend was when they wanted another beer.  That's it." 
Monica stepped back across the room, keeping her gaze fixed on Walters.  He was 
telling the truth.  She was sure of it, as sure as she had been a moment ago 
that he was lying.  But she knew what she'd felt.  He *had* been shooting pool 
on that table with the two girls.  She was sure of *that*, too. 
"Mr. Walters," John said, "I think you should be aware that it's a Federal 
offense to make a false or misleading statement to the FBI."  Monica glanced at 
him in surprise.  Had he caught a flash of it, too?  Or was he just backing her 
up?  "Now I want you to think about it carefully," her partner continued.  "Are 
you absolutely certain you had no interactions with those two young ladies, 
other than to serve them alcohol?" 
"Positive."  Walters folded his arms across his chest.  He didn't say anything 
further. 
"What about those damned woods?" Monica asked.  Once again, she let her words 
run ahead of her thoughts.  All her instincts were clamoring that the woods were 
significant. 
"Woods?"  The man hesitated, and once again she felt that cold little tingle 
inside.  "What woods?" 
"Those damned woods," she repeated.  "The ones Sheriff Benson mentioned when we 
interviewed him earlier this afternoon.  Apparently he thinks Linda and Mara 
could be buried in them, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it." 
"You'd have to take that up with Darwin," he replied.  He stopped talking again, 
his arms still folded across his chest, but this time neither Monica nor John 
said anything.  Sometimes the best way to get a witness to talk was *not* to ask 
him anything.  People tended to be uncomfortable with extended silence.  And 
sure enough, after 15 or 20 seconds, Walters began to fidget. 
"I'm sure the cops have already been all over that place," he said at last.  He 
winced as soon as the words were out, but it was enough.  Monica pounced. 
"So you *do* know what he meant," she said.  "Where is it?  Why would Sheriff 
Benson think Mara and Linda might be buried out there?  And why wouldn't he want 
to look into it?" 
"Well ...."  Walters hesitated, but it was clear his heart was no longer in it.  
At last, he sighed.  "Kids go out there, you know?  Drink, make out, that kinda 
thing.  It's a little patch of woods south of town on the Brighton road -- kinda 
dark and spooky.  Hell, I used to go there myself, back in the day.  Coupla 
clearings back in there where you can pitch a tent, and you'd take your girl out 
there and tell her scary stories.  Then if you were lucky ...."  His voice 
trailed off, and he gave an embarrassed grin. 
"So you *do* think the missing young women went out with some guys?" John asked. 

"I didn't say that," the bartender said.  His tone was testy; annoyed -- and 
that cold tingle was back, deep inside Monica's chest.  He was lying again.  "I 
didn't see who they left with," he went on, "or even if they left with anyone.  
I don't have any idea why Darwin would think they were out there.  You asked 
about the woods, and I told you what I know."  He glanced at Monica, then back 
at John.  "Are we done now?" 
"What kind of stories?" Monica asked.  She could almost hear John's eyebrow 
raising, but this was important.  She could feel it.  Walters looked a little 
confused, so she added, "The stories you used to tell your girlfriends.  What 
were they?" 
"Oh."  The man looked uncomfortable, then shrugged.  "You know.  Ghosts and 
stuff."  He hesitated again, then went on, "The story is those woods are 
haunted.  Supposedly, sometimes people go in but they don't ever come out.  And 
some say if you go in there at night, you can hear the voices of the ones who 
are lost, trying to find their way back."  His eyelids flickered as he 
concluded, "Nothing like that ever happened to me.  But you hear the stories." 
"But you didn't mind using the stories to get laid," John put in.  From his 
tone, he pretty obviously didn't know what Monica was driving at, but he was 
still doing his part, trying to keep the witness off balance. 
"Hey, we do what we gotta do," Walters replied.  He smirked.  "I never got any 
complaints." 
Monica stared at him a moment longer, but it was clear they weren't going to get 
much more out of him.  At least, not for now.  They could always come back later 
-- or perhaps arrange for an interview in a more formal setting.  Sheriff Benson 
didn't seem likely to be very cooperative, for whatever reason, but there was a 
Federal courthouse in Cedar Rapids, only an hour's drive away.  She filed the 
idea away for future consideration.  She asked a few more questions, eliciting 
directions on how to get to the patch of woods in question, then caught John's 
eye.  He nodded, and they took their leave. 
"You saw something, didn't you?" John asked, as soon as the door had swung shut 
behind them.  They stepped down onto the sidewalk, then turned and headed in the 
direction of their rental car, half a block away. 
"Would you believe me if I said I had?" she replied.  John's skepticism about 
their previous shared experiences was still a sore point for Monica.  She 
understood he'd been grieving -- hell, he still was.  She'd vowed to herself 
never to discount that.  But regardless of the reason, it hurt to have him deny 
something she knew they both had seen. 
"Maybe," he said.  "I'm asking, aren't I?"  He dug in his pocket and pulled out 
the car keys, dangling them in the air and raising his eyebrows.  Monica took 
them without comment, and walked around to the driver's side. 
"I didn't actually *see* anything," she said, once they were both settled in 
their seats.  "I heard things."  She gave a brief description of the sounds 
she'd heard, including Walters' voice, right at the end. 
"Okay," John said, nodding.  "Okay.  So you think he knows more than he's 
saying.  I agree."  Monica glanced at him, raising her eyebrow, and he added, 
"The man was obviously lying, Monica.  Any rookie could see that."  A brief 
pause.  "I suppose now you want to go take a look at those woods he was talking 
about." 
"Yes." 
"You really think that's where those girls went?" he asked. 
"I'm not sure," Monica replied.  She hesitated, trying to recreate in her mind 
the feeling she'd gotten off of Walters.  Dishonesty, yes.  Something to do with 
the woods, and something to do with the two missing young women.  But was it the 
same feeling?  Or two separate feelings that just happened to be occupying the 
same 'space', so to speak?  She couldn't tell. 
"Would it be too much to ask that we finish our witness list first?" John said 
at last.  "And maybe grab a bite to eat?  I'm starving." 
"That's fine," she replied, suppressing a sigh of frustration.  He was 
cooperating, and it wasn't *his* fault she was so confused.  She started the car 
and pulled away from the curb.  "From the way Walters was talking, we probably 
wouldn't find much if we went there in the daytime, anyway." 
John's chuckle sounded completely genuine.  "Why am I not surprised to hear you 
say that?" 
==========END CHAPTER THREE==========