A Marriage for Meghan (19 page)

It must be time to go home if I’m thinking in barnyard analogies.
But considering the tip from the unlikely source, he couldn’t go anywhere but back to the Wooster Best Western, hoping his room-with-a-view was still available. The supposed Southern job hunters could be the thugs who beat up the Yost brothers and their friends out for a pizza. And the motivation could very well have been culturally oriented. With the new lead, he would call his director at the bureau and change his status update. Next, he would ask his landlord in Cleveland to water his two houseplants, both gifts from his mother. And then he’d swing by the Justice Center to discuss the case with the sheriff instead of filing the report he had ready in his laptop.

But at least he wouldn’t have to make excuses to a girlfriend as to why he wasn’t coming home. His last relationship had ended right before he accepted the Wayne County assignment. The breakup had left a bad taste in his mouth, besides a crater-sized hole in his wallet. But better a nasty breakup than the constant emotional turmoil and financial drain that Victoria Hamilton had been for two years. High-maintenance didn’t begin to describe the woman’s insistence on being the center of attention every minute of every day. No handy controversy or mini drama? Victoria could create one on demand, systematically alienating every one of his female friends or any males who didn’t fall victim to her siren song.

Tall and thin but curvy, with waist-length dark hair, big brown eyes you couldn’t find your way back out of, and creamy porcelain skin—Victoria was hard to ignore but also difficult to be with. Gym memberships, spa treatments, weekly sessions with yoga masters and fitness trainers, hair stylists, massage therapists—not to mention designer clothes and shoes—didn’t come cheaply. And because she considered
him
the beneficiary of those beauty enhancements, he had been expected to pick up most of the tab.

Yet the drain on his bank account hadn’t been the deal breaker.

What had pushed him over the edge had been Victoria’s decision that they should get married…spur-of-the-moment and nonnegotiable. He hadn’t
asked
her to become his wife, whether on bended knee or otherwise. It seemed as though one too many girlfriends had become engaged, and Victoria had suddenly felt left out or worse—passed over. Their Sunday drives to the country now included open houses featuring five-bedroom Colonials in excellent school districts. Any visit to the mall must include the expensive lingerie shop, where she added pieces to her trousseau—a word he’d never heard of until recently. The final showdown arrived when she announced her trip to New York with her mother to check out samples of designer wedding dresses. After college he’d worked for the federal government in crime investigation, yet she’d somehow confused him with a Wall Street investment banker.

Her determination to run each and every show had driven him away. He was no chauvinist, but he also didn’t wish to be led around by a rope through his nose. What was wrong with two people sitting down to plan their future together? And whether it was sexist or old-fashioned, he believed the man should propose, not the woman.

Maybe the Amish had it right. They had rules set in stone that everyone knew, accepted, and rarely challenged. Although he wouldn’t want to give up his plasma TV, espresso machine, or the vintage Thunderbird he and his dad had restored, much could be said about agreed-upon expectations. In the Amish world women didn’t back men into corners or think of dating as a blood sport.

As Thomas drove into the quaint town of Wooster, leaving rolling farmland with tidy white houses behind, he felt his muscles begin to relax. Maybe spending more time in God’s country, away from the nightlife and competition of the big city, was exactly what he needed.

I
thought I’d find you in here.”

Thomas had just finished sopping up the last of his sausage gravy with a piece of toast when he heard Bob Strickland’s low, baritone voice. “Good morning, Sheriff. This breakfast spread is hard to resist. How about some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had three cups already.” Strickland slipped into the seat across from Mast. “I got the message you left with one of my deputies and thought I’d save you a trip to the office this morning. I’m riding with you out to that campground. I’ve been hearing reports for quite some time about that place. I want to check things out for myself.” He leaned back in his chair. “I liked it better when that campground closed at the end of October. We didn’t get that many complaints from the summertime vacationers—just the occasional noise disturbance.” The sheriff waited until the waitress finished refilling Thomas’ cup before continuing. “There are two types of campers: Ones who get up to see the sunrise. Those folks are usually tucked in bed by nine o’clock with a warm glass of milk.”

Thomas wrapped both hands around his coffee mug. “What about the other type?”

Strickland smiled. “They love to sit around the campfire until the wee hours, telling jokes, ghost stories, or rehashing the good old days. Problem is, they often consume vast quantities of beer while reminiscing and get louder as the evening unfolds. Too bad we can’t segregate the type A’s from type B’s, but that probably wouldn’t be politically correct.”

Mast rose to his feet and left enough cash on the table to cover a healthy tip for the attentive waitress. “I gather there’s a type C now that the place is open year-round?”

“Yeah, now it really gets complicated,” Strickland said as they walked out of the hotel. “Most of those who stay year-round are decent people who have lost homes to foreclosure. They send their kids to local schools, watch out for their neighbors, and help maintain the grounds. Then there’s a fourth type of folk living on the fringe of society—most with a secret or two. That’s why I’m riding shotgun today. You never know what it is they’re hiding.”

“You’re thinking fugitives on the run?”

“Or just people trying to hide from back taxes, overdue child support, or irate relatives they owe money to.” Strickland peered up at the sky, gauging the weather. “Let’s take your sedan instead of my well-marked Expedition. We’ll stay more low-key that way.”

For much of the drive, Strickland spoke on his cell phone, while Thomas contemplated cases he had studied at the academy about FBI agents who had entered the compounds of religious cults or hippie communes and then run into well-armed, well-trained domestic terrorists. He was a semi-experienced agent headed to Misty Meadow Campground with a rural sheriff—and they both had only their sidearms. Yet gazing over the rolling countryside, he couldn’t generate much anxiety. White picket fences, purple martin birdhouses, and half-melted snowmen wearing tattered straw hats lull a man into a false sense of security.

After arriving at the campground they parked near the log cabin marked “Registration” and slowly unfolded themselves from the vehicle. For a moment both men listened to the utter silence of early spring. Then the sounds of barking dogs, a ringing telephone, and a faraway train whistle broke the peace and quiet.

Inside the office, a man sat on a tall stool at the counter reading the paper. A small TV, tuned to the Weather Channel, hung on the wall above his head. He glanced up when they entered and smiled. “What can I help you gentlemen with? You two don’t look like campers.”

“How ya doin’ today?” Strickland asked lazy-like, propping one elbow on the counter. “We have just a couple questions. Do you remember renting spaces to a group from the South that came up looking for work? They might get a little frisky from time to time, maybe too loud in general?”

The manager wasted no time pointing them in the right direction. “I know the ones you’re looking for. They arrived about six weeks ago in three different silver bullets pulled by pickup trucks. Considering the condition of their trailers, I have a feeling it’ll be the final destination for two out of the three.” He hooked his thumbs beneath bright red suspenders over a red plaid flannel shirt. “They’re on three adjacent sites down by the pond. They said they wanted to do some fishing, but I haven’t seen anybody throw in a line yet.” He opened a campground map across the counter and marked some sites with a big red
X.

“Are the people in the three campers related?” asked the sheriff, leaning over the map. “May I see their registration cards?”

The manager dug around in the file box and produced two cards with block letter printing. “They might be two married sisters with their husbands, kids, and grandkids spread over the three sites. I’ve never talked to the men. The women come up to pay the weekly rent, use the pay phone, and wash clothes. I’ve got a little coin Laundromat through those swinging doors, but it barely generates enough quarters to pay the water bill for this building.”

While the sheriff looked over the map, Agent Mast studied the registration cards. As usual among those on the run, only female names appeared on the forms. Fewer women than men had outstanding warrants. “Have they been making trouble among the other residents?” asked Thomas.

The manager’s expression turned wary. “There are four or five punks I could live without. They tear up and down the lanes, not minding the speed limit, blaring their radios at all hours, and doin’ way too much cussin’. They endanger the lives of pets and children alike. If those were my sons, I would have taken away their keys and applied a bar of soap to their mouths long ago. This is a family-run business for families. We hold church services on Sundays in the pavilion, no matter what the weather.” He narrowed his gaze to Thomas in particular. “But the problem with me complaining to you is you’re likely to throw out the baby with the bath water. I see six or seven youngsters waiting for the school bus every morning from that group. I don’t want their parents pulling up stakes like caravan gypsies without real cause.” He turned back to the sheriff. “I prefer to look at the whole picture.”

“We understand your concerns,” interjected Strickland. “We’ll do our inquiring tactfully. Thanks for your information and the directions.” He tucked the map inside his jacket. The manager cast Thomas one final distrustful glance before returning to his morning paper.

Back in the sedan, Thomas scanned the FBI database on his laptop, but it yielded nothing of interest on the women. As they drove through the mostly empty camping park, he said to the sheriff, “Good thing you decided to come along. That manager didn’t seem to like me much.”

Strickland laughed. “Don’t take it personally. Some folks like the idea of ‘local’ cops over the feds. But I would bet that where we’re headed, they will despise us equally.”

Mast could have found the campsites even without the map with its red
X
mark. Three old-fashioned silver trailers sat on the bank of pond that was rimmed with cattails and overgrown with lotus and water lilies. With no nearby neighbors, the trailers were surrounded by cars and trucks in various levels of disrepair. Some vehicles looked roadworthy but suffered from terminal body rust. One car had four flat tires, while another rested on concrete blocks, missing two of its three wheels. Among this motley assortment sat a new four-wheel-drive pickup with oversized knobby tires.

Strickland shot Thomas a cursory glance as they approached two young men huddled under an upraised hood. “Morning. I’m Sheriff Strickland and this is Special Agent Mast. Do you boys live here?” He nodded toward the closest silver trailer.

One young man stepped back from the truck, while the man holding the tools barely glanced up from his tinkering. “For the time bein’ we do, but we ain’t boys, if you catch my drift.”

“Duly noted,” said Strickland, “but I’d like your full attention for a couple minutes for a few questions. And let’s start by showing me some ID.” His tone didn’t imply another option.

“What for? You ain’t showed me a warrant or nothing.”

Strickland shrugged his shoulders. “It’s like this. You’re new in the area, we’ve had some complaints of vandalism, and both you and your vehicle fit the general description involved in the crimes. I need far less than that to demand identification.”

After a short eyeball showdown, the mechanic pulled a wallet from his back pocket and extracted a driver’s license.

“Welcome to Wayne County, Mr. Justin King.” The sheriff studied the license another moment before handing it back.

Thomas watched the other beefy youth during the exchange with King. He shoved a greasy rag into even greasier work pants and then tucked a hank of stringy hair behind one ear. As though on cue, two more disheveled-looking men stepped from the trailer, using stacked cement blocks for stairs. Although careful not to as much as blink, Thomas felt a frisson of electricity shoot up his spine.