by Blake Pierce
“After midnight,” said the girl. “Of course that’s what made it stand out. For one, he’s got to be twice my age. And he’s strange-looking.”
“Akianne,” the second girl protested.
Akianne turned back and said, “What? It’s true. He looks weird. You’re the one who called him Stinkeye.”
“No, I said that’s what others call him.”
“Look,” said Adele, “truly, I don’t care. It’s not important what you call him. So he accosted you at midnight, asking you questions. What did you do?”
With another long look at her friend, bordering on frustration that she’d been forced to answer this line of questioning, Akianne said, “It was hard to get away at first. He didn’t touch me, but he kept moving, trying to keep up. Sometimes it felt like he was even blocking my path. I got frustrated, I told him if he didn’t leave I’d scream. He backed off, but he kept asking questions. I ignored him. Sometimes he comes through and just stands over there.”
She nodded toward the wooden cabin. “He waits on the steps, just staring, especially watching the girls. There’s a lot of people my age, but some younger too. Like I said, he’s like forty and weird-looking. Strange.”
Adele nodded. “That is strange. And there are others in the camp who’ve had similar experiences?”
Akianne nodded. “Quite a few. We don’t know everyone here, but some of us get together for game nights, or for campfires. It’s a nice place. But he makes it uncomfortable sometimes. He lives behind the cabin, along a supply road. Leads up to an old oil well. I don’t think it works anymore. Some of us used to go that way, but he chases people off. Says it’s his land.”
She snickered, and the boy rolled his eyes.
“What’s funny?” said Adele.
The other girl, who stood behind the water pump, said, “Stinkeye isn’t exactly the sort to own anything. He looks like a hobo. He smells like one too. It’s why he got the name. The owner of the place, Mr. Rosenbaum, doesn’t like him either. When he sees him standing around ogling us, he chases him off. But that’s not always enough to keep him gone. He always seems to find a way back, like a rat.”
This time it was her friend’s turn to look at her, scandalized. She shrugged sheepishly, but didn’t retract the words.
Adele nodded to each of the young campers in turn. “All right—Mr. Rosenbaum—is he at the cabin right now?”
All of them shared a long look, and then, at once, said, “Yes.”
The boy said, “Mr. Rosenbaum is always there. He sometimes rents out tents to some of the people that come through without RVs. Other times he organizes game nights, volleyball, there’s a sandpit on the other side of the campground. Most the time, though, he’s just here to make sure no one skimps on payment.”
Adele nodded again and watched as the two college-age campers hefted their water jugs back in the direction of their campsite. They shot a couple of looks over toward John and Adele, and when they’d distanced enough, they began muttering to each other beneath their breaths. The third girl joined them and seemed to receive a silent berating from her friends.
Still, Adele turned and gestured at John.
“Locker room gossip?” John said, glancing at Adele.
“Maybe,” she said. “Some mountain man. Gave the girls in the campsite the creepy crawlies. Apparently Mr. Rosenbaum, the owner, knows about him.”
John nodded. Together, they approached the small, single-story wooden cabin without a porch. John reached out, knocking on the glass door.
The window rattled in its wooden fixture. A pause, then a voice called, “You can open the door yourselves.”
John raised an eyebrow at Adele, who said, “He says open the door.”
John grumbled, twisting the doorknob.
“You should start taking German lessons,” Adele muttered. “At this rate you’re more of a liability than anything.”
John snorted. “Liability my ass.” Then he pushed through the door, stepping into the cabin.
It was a quaint space with well-lit portions of bright, vibrant lamps, shaped like overturned rose petals, glinting orange throughout the wooden structure. A soft pull rug covered half the room. But the floor closest to the door was bare, and scuff marks led from the front door to the front of the desk.
A beefy man with three chins was sitting behind the desk. An open door behind him suggested it led to living quarters in the back. Adele just barely glimpsed the edge of a TV and a couch.
Clearly, the cottage was larger than it first looked.
The man leaned back in his chair, his large belly protruding past his hands, which were clasped over it. His eyes were fixed on a small black-and-white TV screen, displaying a soccer match. Adele had never been one for organized sports. She preferred swimming and running. But the man seemed riveted. His eyes didn’t flick in their direction, his gaze glued to the screen. One of his pudgy hands bunched around the front of his belly, and he pounded himself, jiggling and screaming, “Come on, pass, pass, you idiot!”
Adele glanced at John and saw a note of recognition on his face. For the first time, someone was speaking a language he understood. John nodded, waiting patiently, as if respecting the solemnity of the moment and not wanting to interrupt.
Adele rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, are you Mr. Rosenbaum?”
The man didn’t respond; he didn’t look over. A large hand, though, pointed toward a plaque on his desk. It read Osman Rosenbaum. Though, perhaps calling it a desk was a stretch. It was more like a partition, or a sort of counter serving as a barrier between one side of the cottage and the other.
On one end, she spotted a glass cabinet filled with keys. On another, she spotted a rack with three metal shelves, each of them carrying a small bag filled with what looked like tent poles. She spotted sleeping bags and a small array of candy and trail mix, with the price tags displayed on a shelf on top of the desk.
A couple of fishing rods dangled over the back portion of the doorway, and a single red canoe, with a paddle attached to the wall, covered the entire right side of the cabin, next to the racks of tents.
Mr. Rosenbaum let out a whooping curse and shook his fist at the air, slamming his hand against the desk this time. “Dammit, fire him! Ref—what the hell!”
Adele cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Rosenbaum, I’m with Interpol. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
It was like she flipped a light switch. The owner of the campground swiveled in his seat, staring, his eyes bugged. His eyes seemed almost lidless, like a fish. They bulged in his head as he stared at them.
The TV, for the moment, was entirely forgotten. “Interpol?” he said. “You can speak to my lawyer. I’m calling him now.” He reached for a landline resting on the desk beneath the old, outdated TV. He began dialing, but Adele quickly said, “I’m not here about your business.”
Mr. Rosenbaum’s large hand hovered over the phone; he worked an eyebrow above a bulging eye. “What do you want?”
“I’m just here to ask about a, ah,” she cleared her throat, “Stinkeye. At least, that’s what the campers called him.”
Mr. Rosenbaum’s hand moved, only a few inches though, still hovering over the desk.
“He’s not welcome here; he’s never been welcome here. Whatever he did, I’m not complicit. Been on the phone to the police about him before, but you never do anything. This is your fault. I told you it was a long time coming—”
Adele held up her hands. “He hasn’t done anything illegal.”
Mr. Rosenbaum’s hand inched a bit more away from the phone. He leaned his arm against the table now, as if the effort of holding it aloft exhausted him. “Then what in the hell are you here for?” he said.
“I just want to ask about this fellow, Stinkeye. Does he have a real name? I don’t particularly want to keep calling him—”
“Heinrich,” said Mr. Rosenbaum. “He’s a hobo. A drifter. Doesn’t really belong here, but I can’t seem to convince him of that. I c
alled the cops on him a few times. He spent a couple of nights in the drunk tank, but always ends up back here. Whatever you think he did, he did it.” Mr. Rosenbaum nodded, his three chins jiggling. “In fact, I’ll testify to it, whatever you want. If he killed someone, he definitely did it. Rape, probably did it. Steal something, he stole from me before, you know,” he said, quickly pointing a hand at Adele, then John. “Took a couple of my tents. Also tried to steal my canoe.”
He pointed to the red canoe as if unsure if they could see it displayed across the entire wall.
Adele shifted. “You’re saying he murdered someone?”
Mr. Rosenbaum shrugged and said, “I’m just saying, whatever you think he did, he probably did it. I’m not claiming any knowledge. I didn’t have any part in it. Just remember that.”
Adele nodded, exhausted by the sheer energy from the large man. “Yes, whatever he did, he did it. But you didn’t know about it, and had nothing to do with it. Got you. Can I ask, does he own the land where he stays? They said it’s behind your cabin, along the trail. Near an old oil well.”
Mr. Rosenbaum’s eyes narrowed. “He’s back there? Dammit. I told him to get out of there a week ago. He said he would. I threatened him…” He quickly trailed off and muttered, “I mean, I asked politely. Why, what did he do?”
Adele just shook her head. “Nothing that I know of yet. I just wanted to know if he owned the land. We have your permission to go speak to him. I’m guessing you own it?”
Mr. Rosenbaum’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe… What happened on it?”
Adele bit her lip. “Look, I’m not here to get you in trouble for anything. I just need to know if I have permission to go speak to this guy. If you want him off your land, I can do that for you.”
Mr. Rosenbaum seemed caught, unsure if this was a trap. A duplicitous mind, Adele had long learned, always searched for duplicity in others. But at last, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Fine. Yeah, go. Get him off my land. Rough him up if you have to. I won’t tell.”
He turned and glanced back at the TV, glued to it again, and seemingly once more indifferent to the agents in his office.
Adele sighed and passed a hand over her face.
This time, as she and John marched out of the office and moved toward the dirt trail behind the house, circumventing the cabin, John muttered, “I’m beginning to think that it is good I can’t understand. I didn’t get a word of that, and yet, I wanted to punch him all the same.”
“Don’t forget, you’re on a short leash,” Adele said. “Please don’t punch anyone.”
John shrugged. “If they need punching, I might have to. So what are we doing now?”
Adele filled him in, detailing Stinkeye and the accusations of the female campers.
“I caught a bit of that,” John said. “It didn’t seem like the camp owner had much love for this fellow. He’s giving us permission to get him?”
Adele nodded. “Yeah; didn’t seem to like the guy. Said he tried to steal from him.”
One of John’s hands hovered over his holster. “Good,” he said. “Let me take the lead.”
Like a kid leading the way to a candy store, John hurried, his long strides outpacing Adele as he moved up the dirt road and toward a rusted gate at the edge of the trail.
Adele exhaled deeply, her breath fogging in plumes, and she followed after her partner.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When the campers had said Stinkeye lived along the trail, up by an old oil well, Adele hadn’t realized just how far into the campgrounds they’d meant.
As they walked along the open stretch of dusty road, heading away from the main portion of the campground, toward the hills and through the back woods, Adele was grateful to have the opportunity to stretch her legs. She could feel her blood pressure elevating, and could feel the rotation of her legs, the movement of her arms. She found a small smile inserting itself across her face simply at the joy of movement.
Next to her, John didn’t seem particularly chuffed about the whole deal. He had longer legs and was taller, but after about a mile, he began complaining.
John wasn’t out of shape by any stretch, but the pace he’d initially set to keep ahead of her was taxing him, whereas Adele, used to exertion over long periods of time, began to take the lead again.
The two of them moved along the dirt road, beneath the trees, heading deeper into the campgrounds. There were no light poles around here, no telephone towers. Only trees and horizon. The sky itself was beginning to darken, threatening evening. Adele breathed in the mountain air, once again filled with competing senses. On one hand, she enjoyed the exercise, but on the other, she was reminded how desolate these woods were.
John grabbed the edge of a rusted gate, grunting with exertion as he lifted the thing in its entirety and rotated it, spinning it on ungreased hinges.
The gate protested with a loud creak. Adele read the sign above the gate. Multiple languages read, “No trespassing.”
“Guess he doesn’t want anyone back here,” John said. Then he pointed.
A rusted out bus sat up against an old red and blue pump system, buried in the ground. The bus settled against a dirt hill, about two hundred yards ahead. The old oil well had a spin dial in a glass display case at the very front. The rest of it, though, was still; silent.
Adele flicked an eyebrow to John. “The bus has wheels,” she said. “Think he drove it up here?”
John’s weapon was already in his hand. John and Adele moved cautiously, quietly, as they drew within distance, keeping their voices low. After a few steps, they stopped all sounds entirely. John and Adele stepped forward, moving in a crouch.
The old, rusted bus looked like it had once been a school bus, but was converted into living space. The windows were tinted, but one of them had been smashed. A cardboard cutout had been placed over this window, blocking out the elements. Spray-painted on the hood of the bus were the words “Stinkeye. Weirdo.”
Adele pointed. John edged along the bus, his head ducked, making sure he couldn’t be glimpsed through the windows. Adele followed close behind, her own weapon now in her hand, reassuring in her grip. Her finger hovered over the trigger, pressing against the guard, just in case.
They move past the stationary, defunct oil well and moved up toward the front of the bus.
John pressed his face against the glass quickly, like a snake’s head darting forward. He peered into the bus, his gun at his side, ready to whip up at a moment’s notice. He stared for second, and then his shoulders seemed to relax.
He rotated around the front of the bus and looked through the windshield.
“No one’s home,” he called.
Adele followed. She also peered through the front of the windshield. As she stared through streaked glass, she spotted an old, worn pile of cardboard, with some cloth and a couple of pillows in the back. The seats had all been ripped out, by the looks of things, except for the driver’s side. There was an old table that looked like it been recovered from junk wood.
Adele glanced up and down the aisle. No sign of anyone. She glanced around the clearing and said, “Look there.”
John followed her gaze, and by a fire pit, circled with rocks, he spotted a pile of fur and small bones. Agent Renee cleared his throat, frowning. “He’s a hunter.”
Adele set her teeth. “Means he’s armed. I want to look inside that bus.”
“Private property, isn’t it?”
Adele shook her head. “He’s trespassing. He has a gun, if those bones are anything to go by. We’re allowed.”
John shrugged. “I don’t know the laws here. You’re the one who said I had to keep my nose clean.”
Adele rolled her eyes, but approached the window. There was no door handle. She guessed there was probably some electrical hinge. Still, one of the windows, the cardboard one, was big enough for her to fit through.
“I need you to give me a boost,” she said.
John followed her gaze, then chuckled.
“My pleasure.”
Adele moved over to the window and reached up to push through the cardboard. There was a quiet scraping sound of duct tape peeling and then the cardboard cutout fell through. Adele wrinkled her nose, catching a whiff of sweat and old clothes and sour odors from within.
But then, steeling herself, she gestured at John, waiting for him to form a stirrup with his hands.
It was at that moment, as John crouched on a knee and Adele placed her foot in the stirrup of his hands, that she heard a loud voice from behind them shout, “You hoodlums! I told you, next time I’d put a bullet through you!”
There was the sound of gunfire.
John whirled around quickly, but not so quickly that he didn’t ease Adele’s foot to the ground first—careful for his partner’s safety. In the same motion his gun leapt to his hands, snapping to attention. In a crouch, he aimed and shouted, “Put it down or I’ll drop you. We’re not campers. DGSI!”
Adele turned as well, shivering, adrenaline coursing through her. She spotted a man with a dead animal draped in one hand. He had an old rifle in the other, pointed at the sky, smoke whispering from the barrel.
His eyes narrowed, focusing on John’s gun. His rifle twitched.
“Point that at us and it will be the last thing you do,” John said.
“John,” Adele muttered. “He can’t understand you.”
John kept his eyes narrowed, gun raised. “He understands. He might not know French, but he understands.” His gun didn’t move an inch.
The man had wild hair, and, by the looks of him, he smelled about the same as his bus. His clothes stuck to him in parts, suggesting sweat and filth and grease.
One of his eyes seemed to rotate lazily in his skull, not quite focusing where he was looking. The other, though, was fixed on John, his eyebrows lowered in a frown.
He had stubble along his chin, and his teeth were yellowish. He waved the dead rabbit, circling it, as if threatening to throw it at them.
“Get out of here,” he said. “This is private property.”