“You want to see my airplane?”
“Sure, when?”
“How about right now?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on the Piper ramp at the Vero Beach airport.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“The tail number is November one, two, three, tango foxtrot.”
“I’ll find you.” She punched off and took a right on Highway 1.
Stone Barrington was standing next to his new airplane, talking to another man as she pulled up. “Stay, Daisy,” she said, and got out of the car.
Stone introduced the man as his instructor, then the man left. “Climb in,” he said.
She walked up the airstair door and into a leather-upholstered cabin. Four seats in club style made up the rear portion, and she climbed forward into the copilot’s seat.
Stone followed her and sat in the left seat. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful; it even smells beautiful. Awful lot of gauges and instruments, though. I’m used to simpler airplanes, like Cessna 172s.”
“It’s a much more complicated aircraft,” Stone said.
“When do you fly her home?”
“Probably the day after tomorrow. My first flight went well.”
“Let me run something by you.”
“Okay.”
She told him about following Emily Harston and about the little town she discovered.
“Seems strange, doesn’t it?” Stone said.
“Yes, it does. Have you ever run across anything like that?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Could you call the guy in New York and see if you can find out anything more about the place these people lived, the ones who disappeared?”
“Sure, glad to.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d call me at home tonight and tell me what you find out. Ham and I are going out there tomorrow.”
“Ham?”
“My father. He’s a retired army master sergeant and a fisherman. We’re going to poke our noses into that place, on the pretext of looking for some fishing, and see what we can see.”
“This is all very interesting. I’d want to come, if I wasn’t flying again tomorrow.”
“Maybe next time,” she said. She looked at her watch. “Well, I’d better get back to the station.”
They both got out of the airplane.
“She’s a lovely color, too.” The airplane was a rich cream on top and a deep red on the bottom.
“Thanks. Holly, I think you ought to be very careful tomorrow. Don’t press your luck in this place.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Good idea. I’ll do that.”
They shook hands.
“I’ll call you tonight after I’ve called New York,” he said.
“Thanks, Stone.” Holly got back into her car and, with Daisy, drove back toward Orchid Beach.
Twelve
HOLLY REACHED HOME AS THE SUN WAS SETTING over the island. Preoccupied with thinking about the little town she had found, she entered the house expecting Jackson to be watching the evening news with a drink in his hand, and the cold darkness shocked her.
She found a light, fed Daisy and let her outside, then went and sat in Jackson’s chair, feeling bitterly lonely. She flicked on the news, just to have some noise in the house, but the screen was a blur in her mind, and so was the sound.
Then Daisy scratched on the door, and Holly went to let her in. She stood, looking out at the sea reflecting the dying light in the sky, and she thought it made the water look as if it were lit from underneath. She loved this time of day. Sometimes she’d lure Jackson away from the TV, and they’d sit on a dune with a drink and watch the light die.
She was surprised by a hunger pang and went to the fridge to see what she could have for dinner. She settled for a frozen meal, since Jackson had pretty much cleaned out the fridge in anticipation of their honeymoon absence. She sat in front of the TV while a rerun of
Law & Order
played. She’d seen it already, and even though she had, she wasn’t able to follow the plot anyway, in her present state of mind. She seemed unable to organize coherent thoughts about anything, and her mind wandered. Fragments of days with Jackson played around in her brain, and sex entered into the mental pictures. She would never make love again, she was sure. After Jackson, what would be the point?
The phone rang, and she picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Oh, hello.” She had forgotten she had asked him to call.
“I talked with the ex-trooper personally this time, but he wasn’t able to help much. This group, this religious sect that disappeared, apparently did so in an orderly fashion. I think I mentioned before that they had sold their property and their vehicles. In the months after the bank robbery, the trooper ran a check to see if any of their driver’s licenses had been transferred to another state, but nothing turned up.”
“Did they actually look for these people?”
“Yes, but not very hard. After all, they had no hard evidence against the woman who had been a teller, and she had resigned from her job and had given two weeks’ notice, so there was no question of her running from the law. These people left the state the same way thousands of others move, except they didn’t leave a forwarding address. The only mail they received after their departure was junk mail, so they had apparently closed out all their accounts—phone, electric, etcetera—and paid whatever was due. No bill collector or lawyer turned up looking for them. The trooper was unable to find out what means of transportation they had used to leave town. One day they were there, the next they were gone.”
“What sort of area did they live in?”
“A county of small towns and farms. The group owned a sizable farm, but they sold it. They left it in perfect order for the new owner, complete with a tractor and other essential equipment, so apparently they didn’t plan to take up farming again in another location.”
“It’s just a total blank, isn’t it?” she said.
“Seems that way, and it’s a little late in the game to start tracking these people. If they left no trace then, there would certainly be no trace now.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“How are you doing?” he asked quietly, and in such a way that she knew it wasn’t simply a polite question.
“I’m just sitting here letting my mind wander, and all I seem to be able to think about is Jackson. Have you ever lost anybody?”
“My parents, but not in the same way. They had long and productive lives and, when they finally became ill, died quickly.”
“Have you ever lost a friend by violence?”
“I’ve known cops who were killed in the line of duty. I’ve never personally known an innocent bystander like Jackson who died in a crime.”
“You know, it’s said that when people have limbs amputated, the nerve endings in the stump make them think they can still feel the leg or arm.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“That’s how it feels, as if some important part of me had suddenly been amputated, but I can still feel it. It’s still real.”
“It won’t always be that way.”
“I’m afraid to hope for that. I might feel better not losing that part of me completely.”
“After my father died—he followed my mother by a couple of years—I would find myself dialing his number, expecting to talk to him. It took a couple of weeks to get past that. I’d want his advice, and I’d just pick up the phone, then feel like an idiot.”
“I’m not the first to feel this way, I know,” she said, “but it’s the first time for me, and I don’t like it.”
“I wish there were something I could say to make it better.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll just have to find a way to deal with it. It’s okay when I’m working—I told you how I can switch it off. But when I got home tonight …” Her voice trailed off.
“Have you had dinner yet?” he asked.
“Yes, I just ate something, but thanks for asking.” She was sorry she had eaten; she would have enjoyed his company. “Jackson would have liked you,” she said.
“I liked him, for the brief time we knew each other.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve got a nervous feeling about this little town you found. When you go out there tomorrow, let your office know about it and arrange a check-in schedule.”
“I really don’t think it’s dangerous,” she said.
“Don’t take a chance. If these are the people who robbed the bank,
they
don’t take chances, and they don’t mind killing. It would make me feel better if you kept in touch with your office.”
“Oh, all right, if it’ll make you feel better.”
He gave her his cell phone number. “And you can call me, if you need to.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be with Ham, my dad. Nothing bad could happen to me in his company.”
“I hope you’re right,” Stone said. “Good night.”
“Good night.” She hung up and tried to watch Sam Waterston win his difficult case.
She woke up in the middle of the night, still in Jackson’s chair.
Thirteen
HAM TURNED UP AT EIGHT O’CLOCK—LATE, FOR him-and demanded coffee before they left for their trip.
“I guess we’re fishing in more ways than one, huh?”
“Yep,” Holly said.
“What are we fishing for?”
“Bank robbers, but I don’t suppose they’ll be wearing ID tags. Apart from that, I just want to get a close-up look at the place, get the feel of it.”
“Okay, you’re the boss,” he replied, downing the last of his coffee.
“Daisy, sit,” Holly said to the dog. “No dogs today, you’re staying home.”
Daisy looked hurt.
“Don’t try the guilt thing,” Holly said sternly. “Stay. Let’s go, Ham.”
Ham had loaded a light aluminum skiff, a couple of rods and a tackle box into the bed of his pickup truck. “Camouflage,” he said, nodding at the dinghy. They got into the truck and started toward the mainland.
“I hope you aren’t packing,” she said.
“Funny you should mention it,” he replied.
“Give it to me,” she said.
He handed her his Beretta 9mm, and she stuffed it into the glove compartment.
“Lock it when we get there,” she said.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’m light. I don’t want anybody thinking we’re the law.”
“I’m a retired military guy,” he said. “
You’re
the law.”
“I’m retired military, too, and don’t forget it today. Forget about the law part. Oh, I almost forgot.” She took out her cell phone, dialed the station and asked for Hurd Wallace.
“Deputy Chief Wallace,” he drawled.
“Hurd, it’s Holly. Ham and I are going out to Lake Winachobee to take a look at a little town on its northern bank.”
“Okay,” Hurd replied.
“I want to be cautious about this, so I’m going to call in every hour at fifteen minutes past, give or take. If you don’t hear from me for two hours in a row, call the sheriff and come find me, and bring some backup, too.”
“What are you getting into, Holly?”
“I don’t know, and that’s why I’m being cautious. Don’t do anything rash, but if I miss two calls, come get me.”
“All right, but you watch yourself. Ham, too.”
“Thanks, I’ll talk to you later.” She punched out.
“You really think that’s necessary?” Ham asked.
“I sure hope not.”
As they approached the turnoff to Lake Winachobee, they ran into a line of stopped traffic, and two minutes passed before they were able to turn left. A sheriff’s deputy, probably an off-duty hiree, was directing traffic, and they followed a dozen other cars down the dirt road.
“We must be in the next county,” Holly said, checking the map. “That’s not an Indian River County deputy. Yes, here it is—Deep Lake County. I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Doesn’t seem to be much to it,” Ham said, glancing at the map.
“Except all this traffic.”
“Maybe they’re having a fishing tournament,” Ham said.
“You see any fishing gear on these cars and trucks?” Holly asked.
“Now that you mention it, no, but I see a lot of rifle racks.”
“Who are these folks? What do you think?”
“They look pretty ordinary,” Ham said. “There’s one truck just like mine, the rest are American cars or SUVs. I don’t see any Japanese or German stuff.”
“So they’re patriots.”
“Automotive patriots, anyway,” Ham said.
“I guess we’re dressed the part,” Holly said. They were both wearing old camouflage fatigue tops over jeans, their usual fishing outfits. There was a faded spot on Ham’s sleeves where his stripes used to be.
The traffic moved swiftly down the dirt road, kicking up dust. Ham rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioning.
Holly could see the row of Main Street buildings ahead, but before they reached them, another deputy directed them to turn right, along with all the other traffic.
“I hope this isn’t some kind of Klan meeting,” Ham said. “I might have to shoot somebody.”
They were directed into a large clearing in the pines, and ahead stood a tent that would house a small circus. They parked the truck, and Holly insisted that Ham lock the glove compartment. Everybody was filing toward the tent, and they fell in with the group.
They were an ordinary, blue-collar-looking group, Holly thought, though some of them looked more prosperous than that. There were families with small children and teenagers, all neatly dressed—no long hair or tattered jeans.
“Must be a revival meeting,” Ham said. “These look like church folk.”
Holly looked around for posters or flyers advertising the event, but saw nothing. Just outside the tent they joined a line that had formed, and a couple of minutes later they were approaching a ticket desk, except no tickets were being sold. Instead, people were laying twenty-dollar bills on the counter, and they were being put into a box.
“Thank you,” a woman behind the table would say, as the people laid down their money.
Ham came up with two twenties, put them on the table and got thanked, but no tickets were offered, no hands stamped. They pushed past a canvas flap and stepped inside the big tent.
Holly stopped and blinked. At least three hundred people were milling about among exhibits, and there was a loud murmur of constant conversation. The tent, to her surprise, was air conditioned, and it seemed to be filled with displays of guns—everything from pistols to assault weapons. There were booths with World War II Nazi memorabilia and displays of Confederate swords and uniforms. Everybody was busily doing business, buying and selling.