Duff raised a brow. He was no dumb bunny. “In other words, you think he dumped the bodies somewhere in these hills.”

“It’s a possibility.”

The big man sighed, folded his hands on the table. “All right. So who’s your person of interest?”

“We don’t have a name yet, just a picture.” Sal opened up his dark green binder, took out a copy of the composite sketch prepared by Special Agent Sparks and Ginny Jones, and handed it over to the sheriff. “I have extras if you need them,” he offered. “We’d like to get this circulating to as many law enforcement agents as possible.”

“Hold on, hold on. One thing at a time.” The sheriff was fumbling around with his breast pocket. He finally extracted a pair of black-framed reading glasses and perched them on the edge of his nose. He regarded the sketch, grunting softly to himself.

The waitress arrived bearing platters of food. Duff raised his arms, still holding the sketch, and the waitress slid a platter of turkey and gravy in front of him.

“Got any pictures of him without that cap?” the sheriff wanted to know.

Sal shook his head.

Duff regarded the sketch a moment longer, then set it aside, picked up his knife and fork, and cut neatly into his meal.

“Well,” he said brusquely. “First things first. I don’t recognize the fella; then again, you white guys all look alike to me.”

Sal appeared startled. Duff shot him a grin. “That was a joke, son. When you’re peeling a sixteen-year-old you’ve known all of his life off the pavement after he decided to go Evel Knievel with his new motorcycle, you gotta learn to laugh a little. You big-city boys investigate strangers. I handle my own neighbors, day in and day out. If your subject, as you called him, lived around here, I’d probably know him, even with that stupid cap.”

“So he’s not local.”

“Probably not full time,” Duff said. “Then again, we got tens of thousands of tourists each year, not to mention the summer people, the day hikers, the weekend hunters. Mountains are a four-season resort and we got the traffic to prove it. Now, you tell me a few things, and we’ll see if we can’t whittle this down. Where were these prostitutes last seen alive?”

“Mostly around the greater Atlanta area. Sandy Springs in particular. The club scene, not streetwalkers.”

“So your subject is working the metro-Atlanta area. Why’d you come here?”

“According to one witness, he’s an outdoorsman. We also recovered a hiking boot from the subject’s vehicle that contained plant material consistent with the Chattahoochee National Forest-”

“Couple of acres,” Duff interrupted.

“The sole of the boot contained traces of gold. That got us thinking Dahlonega.”

Duff nodded his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Been to the gold museum yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Should. It was on those front steps that Dr. Stephenson, assayer at the mint, tried to stop all the Georgia miners from bolting to California for the 1849 gold rush by saying, ‘Thar’s gold in them thar hills,’ pointing of course to the Blue Ridge Mountains. See, even back then folks were being encouraged to work and buy local.”

No one had any comment on that, so Duff returned to the matter at hand:

“Well, let’s start with your subject. Let’s assume for a moment that he is a hiker or hunter or whatnot, and like most of ’em in the state, he spends his weekends up here. Guy like that needs to eat, sleep, buy supplies. Looking at Lumpkin County, biggest town is Dahlonega. And around here, people are gonna eat at the Olde Town Grill, the Smith House, Wylie’s Restaurant, couple of other places. For lodging you got the major chains-Days Inn, Econo Lodge, Holiday Inn, Super Eight. Also, the Smith House again, which is right around the corner. It’s got good food, reasonably priced rooms, and better yet for your purposes, a gold mine on the premises. You can wave your picture in front of the staff there, see if they can tell you anything.

“For supplies, there’s the general store, but that’s really for tourists. Most folks go to Wal-Mart. Given the crowds they see, not sure if the cashiers will be able to help you. If this guy is as serious a woodsman as you think, I’d head fifteen miles north of here to Suches, which is my neck of the woods.”

“Suches?” Kimberly interrupted.

“Valley Above the Clouds,” Duff assured her. “You haven’t seen pretty till you’ve been to Suches. Now, Suches is blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tiny. But given its access to the Appalachian Trail, couple of camping grounds, and the lake, it sees some traffic. You’re talking hikers, hunters, campers, four-wheelers, fishermen, bikers-”

“Bikers?” Rainie asked. “You mean like cyclists?”

“Motorcyclists. They cover the road like tar every summer. Now, if your guy is a hiker, chances are he’s stayed in Suches. Meaning he’s eaten at either T.W.O. or Lenny’s, and he’s purchased supplies at Dale’s. I’d start by taking your sketch to those three places. Face it, town that small, there’s no place to hide.”

Sal was taking copious notes. Now he looked up. “But by your own admission, Dahlonega and Suches are very busy places-”

“Sixty thousand tourists each year.”

Sal nodded grimly. “Well, see now, that’s a problem. Whole point is that this guy has been dumping bodies for over a year without anyone noticing. Given all the hikers, hunters, fishermen, motorcyclists, how would such a thing be possible? Forget the gold. There are tourists in them thar hills, and they photograph everything.”

Duff flashed a smile. He finished up his turkey, going to work on the mountain of mashed potatoes, before speaking again. “If your guy is dumping bodies, it’s not off a major hiking trail-you’re right, no way someone wouldn’t have run into him by now.” He held up a hand, starting to count off fingers. “That rules out Woody Gap, Springer Gap, the AT, the Benton MacKaye Trail, Slaughter Gap Trail-”

“Slaughter Gap Trail?” Rainie spoke up.

“Provides access to Blood Mountain-”

“Blood Mountain?” Rainie looked at Kimberly and Sal. “Personally, if I were looking for bodies, I’d start with Slaughter Gap Trail and Blood Mountain. But that’s just me.”

Duff grinned again. “As I was saying, Slaughter Gap Trail and Blood Mountain are pretty popular these days, making them not the best choice”-he gave Rainie an apologetic smile-“for hiding bodies. However, then we have the U.S. Forestry Service roads, many of them hard to find, easy to get lost, and almost always remote, crisscrossing all over the damn place.”

“The fish hatchery!” Kimberly remembered.

Duff nodded approvingly. “That’s right. We got the fish hatchery located off of USFS Sixty-nine. Then there’s USFS Forty-two, also known as Cooper Gap Road. But see, by USFS standards those two roads are like superhighways. It’s the dozens of other muddy, unmarked, nearly impassible roads that make life interesting. They’re used just enough that if a four-wheel-drive vehicle was spotted parked overnight, no one would question it. And yet, the roads and trails are also remote enough, you can go for miles without ever seeing another soul. For your guy, they’d be perfect.”

“How many of these roads are we talking?” Sal asked.

Duff shrugged. “Hell if I know. I’ve lived in these mountains my entire life and I doubt even I know all of ’em. What you need is a decent USFS map. And probably a USGS map, as well, because those government types don’t always talk.”

“That would be the other option,” Kimberly said immediately. “The U.S. Forestry Service and Geological Survey teams. You’re right, they’re the ones traipsing all over these mountains, collecting samples, building databases. I worked with a team out of Virginia once. They spend more time in the backwoods than any hiker out there. If we could get them our composite sketch, plus a description of the suspect’s vehicle, they might know something.”