“It’s very well done,” Mary replied. “A relative of yours?”
“No. It’s Helmut von Loessing, the son of the man who built this house. He was a German infantry officer. That painting was done before he left for France.” The man stepped forward, extending his hand. “I’m Robert Wurth. How can I help you?”
“Oh.” Mary tried to sound delighted. “You’re the gentleman I’m looking for.”
“And why is that?” Wurth looked at her as if he were measuring her for a dress.
“I’m trying to find a summer camp for my nephew, and someone suggested that I drop in and have a chat with you.” She glanced around the grand room and feigned embarrassment. “I’m sorry if I intruded. . . .”
Wurth grinned. “Visitors don’t wander in here often, but we’re happy when they do.” His eyes narrowed. “Who did you say sent you here?”
“Uh, the guidance counselor at my nephew’s school. Teddy’s recently gotten interested in riflery, and the counselor told me that Camp Unakawaya was the best camp in the country for young marksmen.”
“And what did you say your name was?”
Mary felt his eyes boring into her. “Mary Crow. From Atlanta. I’m up here on business. I would have called, but I took a chance and just stopped by. Are you completely full for next summer?”
“Actually, we are, but we might be able to squeeze your nephew in. How old is he?”
“Twelve. Teddy Bennefield’s his name.”
“Bennefield?” Wurth cocked his head as some long-ago tumblers apparently clicked in the vaults of his memory. “That name seems familiar, somehow.” He gazed at the floor, then shrugged. “You meet so many people running a camp, sometimes all the names sound familiar.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Wait right there, Ms. Crow.”
Wurth strode back through the foyer and down a dark hall beyond, his footsteps crisp on the highly polished floor. He was gone so long that Mary wondered if he’d forgotten about her. Then she heard his footsteps drawing closer. In a moment he stood in front of her again, holding a large white envelope.
“This is our camp brochure, an application form, and all the permission slips your nephew will need.” He handed her the envelope, then his eyes flicked over her again. “How would you like to go on a private tour?”
“Right now?” Mary stalled, wondering if going anywhere alone with this stranger was the best idea.
“Absolutely,” Wurth replied, his lips stretching in a cold smile. “I’ve already had one of my boys pull up the golf cart.”
“Well . . . I suppose I could . . .” Mary returned Wurth’s smile as they walked back into the foyer. It’ll be okay, she told herself. There are people around here. And you’re armed. She was comforted by the Beretta nestling under her jacket.
On the porch, the same gawky boy worked his broom. “Cabe, I want that spotless,” Wurth snapped as they walked toward the golf cart.
“Yessir.” The boy kept his eyes on the floor. “N-not a problem, sir.”
“He looks kind of cold in that thin jacket,” Mary remarked, huddling into her own warm parka.
“He’s got a better one he could wear,” replied Wurth. “Kid keeps his nose stuck in a book all the time. He probably doesn’t even know it’s winter.”
Mary shivered as a raw, cold wind slapped her face. “That seems like it would be hard to miss.”
They climbed into the waiting golf cart and drove off toward the lake, Wurth giving a running commentary about his camp.
“I’ve run Unakawaya for almost fifteen years. Each summer we have three month-long sessions for fifty boys. We teach swimming, riflery, outdoor survival, and traditional American values.”
“Traditional American values?” Mary echoed.
“Yes. Did you know that statistically, by the time your nephew’s thirteen, he will have experimented with marijuana, acid, PCP, and cocaine?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it’s true. Even when a boy comes here without having experimented with drugs, he can’t do a single pull-up. His fingers might be callused, but not from work, or even baseball. From computer games! American boys today spend far too much time on their butts, gaping at screens. Camp Unakawaya puts an end to that.”
“Don’t the boys go back to their old habits when they return home?” Mary asked mildly.
Wurth shook his head. “Not according to the mail I get from their parents. They’re amazed at the changes we work in just thirty days.”
“I bet they are,” she agreed.
They zipped down to the lake, then turned and drove back around the side of the castle. In the sunlight Mary could see what sad repair the huge old sanitarium was truly in. Many of the windows that lined the two smaller wings of the main house had been boarded up with plywood, and the mortar around the top of all the chimneys was crumbling away. Lanky hemlocks huddled close to the house, stretching up to the roof, where various shades of speckled mold grew on the mottled slate tiles.
“Do the campers stay in this castle?” Mary asked Wurth.
“No,” he replied. “I keep my foster boys in there.”
“But the place looks so old. Is it safe?”
“It’s all right. Originally, this was just a log internment camp for German merchant seamen in the First World War. One of the prisoners was a cousin to the young man whose portrait you saw. He wrote his family so glowingly about the mountains that after the Armistice, his rich uncle bought the place from the government and built his own sanitarium for his son. Hired a hotshot German doctor to treat his boy. Other young veterans heard about it. Pretty soon this place was a regular United Nations.”
Mary grimaced. “For the maimed and disfigured?”
“Regrettably.” Wurth’s eyes scanned the old building. “Not too many of them ever made it back to Europe. But at least they had a comfortable place to die.”
“So how did you wind up with it?” Mary pressed further, trying not to sound like a prosecuting attorney.
“I bought it when I left the service,” explained Wurth. “I grew up in Hartsville and knew the place well. I turned it into a summer camp that first year and haven’t looked back since. Down here you’ll see our cabins.”
He puttered down a lane canopied by pine trees and dotted with Camp Unakawaya cabins. Each was a single-room log structure nestled under the shadows of the trees. As Wurth drove past, Mary examined each one in the manner she’d learned from the cops in Atlanta—looking for car tracks in the dirt, an open door, any signs of habitation. She saw none. She could tell by the deep drifts of orange pine needles around the doors and windows that the cabins had been shut up tight last fall, and nothing had disturbed them since. Still, in that castle, there must be a thousand different places where you could hide someone.
“These look nice,” she said neutrally as Wurth drove into a deserted cul-de-sac. “Do they have indoor plumbing?”
“They do,” Wurth said proudly. “And electricity, too. Von Loessing was way ahead of his time. Hooked the place up to a water-driven generator and put all his wiring underground. That wasn’t commonly done up here until almost fifty years later. Come on. We’ll go inside this one.”
“That’s okay, Sergeant Wurth,” she said. She felt an odd, tight feeling in her chest. “I’m sure you must have other things to do. . . .”
“Not at all.” He turned the golf cart in a tight circle and parked in front of the last cabin. “I’m very proud of Camp Unakawaya.”
“I’m sure you are. But I really don’t have the time right now. As I told you, I’m here on business.”
“I know.” Grinning, he leaned toward her. At first she thought he was trying to kiss her, but before she could move, before she could even breathe, he pinched a nerve in the side of her neck. Shocks of pain shot all the way down her leg. She struggled to get away but he gripped her tightly with one hand and unzipped her jacket with the other. She watched in horror as he extracted her Beretta, laughi
ng in her ear as he did so, his breath hot and vaguely sour.
“You don’t know this, Ms. Crow, but we’ve met before,” he told her. “Irene Hannah’s house, Christmas night. Second bedroom to the right of the stairs. Like most women, you’re quite beautiful when you’re asleep.”
The rest happened fast. He forced her out of the golf cart and into the cabin, her own gun pointed at the base of her skull. She wanted to weep, not from fear, but because her own incompetence had led her into the oldest trap of all. She would not be saving Irene. She wouldn’t even be saving herself. Her boss, Jim Falkner, had been absolutely right. She really didn’t have any business doing this at all.
CHAPTER 32
“What time are you meeting your fishermen?”
Ruth Moon stood in the doorway of Little Jump Off Store, drinking a cup of coffee as Jonathan packed two bows and a quiver of arrows in the back of his truck. It was just moments after dawn on Saturday morning, and Polaris, still the reigning North Star, was beginning to fade overhead.
“Seven o’clock,” he replied. He looked ghostly in the dim light, working in faded jeans and a white thermal undershirt. Ruth drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. She hated to watch him prepare for a trip, and this morning the idea of his going anywhere made her feel particularly nervous and unlucky. She thought of Mary Crow, sleeping yesterday with her pistol in her lap.
“I need to get going pretty soon.” Jonathan looked at her and smiled. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“Mind the store, I guess.” She shivered beneath her shawl. “I may close early tonight and drive down to Wal-Mart.”
“What do you need at Wal-Mart?” He buttoned his old Army jacket over his undershirt. “We live at a general store.”
“Oh, just a couple of the very few items Little Jump Off doesn’t carry.” She felt her smile wobble. “Aren’t you going to eat any breakfast before you go?”
“Just my usual.”
She turned and walked inside. She didn’t much care for working at Little Jump Off. She didn’t know either the merchandise or the clientele very well, and as helpful as she tried to be, the customers always regarded her as a poor substitute for Jonathan. Still, if she manned the cash register she could add a few more dollars to their thin pockets and she might recruit some more people for REPIC. She hopped up on the stool behind the counter while Jonathan poured himself coffee and scooped up a package of Ding-Dongs from the snack food display.
“You’re going to turn yourself into a diabetic like that,” she warned, amazed at the amount of sugar these Eastern Cherokees consumed.
He shrugged. “It’s just the hillbilly version of a double latte and a chocolate croissant.”
She couldn’t watch as he licked the chocolate crumbs from his fingers. The sight of food sickened her.
“Have you heard from Mary?” She knew he hadn’t, but she wanted to hear him say so.
“No.”
“You don’t think she could be in any trouble, do you?”
“I think she’s way out of her league if she’s gotten involved in an FBI investigation. Those boys play rough.”
Ruth cocked her head. “How do you know?”
“I lived here when they were beating the bushes for Eric Rudolph.” Jonathan tossed the Ding-Dong wrapper in the garbage can.
“But they wouldn’t let Mary get hurt, would they?” Ruth’s heart beat faster. She knew she should be wary of Mary Crow, but she had enjoyed her company yesterday. She was now sorry she’d ever brought her to Selu’s attention. That was always risky.
“They would try their best to keep her safe,” Jonathan answered. “But they stay pretty focused on their own objective.” He glanced at her curiously. “Why all the sudden concern about Mary?”
She knew she should say, Because I helped her look up Sergeant Wurth on the computer, but the words stuck in her throat. “I guess I’m worried that we haven’t heard from her.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” As Jonathan poured himself another cup of coffee, she noted the barest trace of bitterness in his voice. “Mary takes care of herself pretty well.”
Ruth walked over and wrapped her arms around him. She needed to feel his warmth. Maybe she was mistaken about Mary being in trouble. Maybe Mary Crow had just given up on her old friend and driven back to Atlanta.
“Want to go upstairs and tell me good-bye?” She nibbled his earlobe.
“I can’t.” He laughed and kissed her. “Those guys from Greenville are probably already waiting.”
She let go of him, astonished. Most men she knew would stop everything short of brain surgery for a good fuck—they certainly wouldn’t let meeting up with a pair of fishermen keep them out of bed. But then, Jonathan was not most men. “When will you be back?”
“In time to celebrate New Year’s. I promise.” He kissed the top of her head. “Are you okay? You look kind of green around the gills.”
“Just a little tired.” She walked back over to the stool. “Not used to getting up so early, I guess.”
“Welcome to my world.” Jonathan grinned. “See you day after tomorrow.”
“Be careful,” she called as he went out the door, wanting suddenly to add more. The feeling she’d had of something lurking out there returned. Although she had no words for it, she saw it as a wolf with sharp teeth and keen eyes slinking through the trees, just waiting for the chance to tear them apart.
* * *
Miles away, an older wolf of a different sort peered through the shaggy green branches of a hemlock tree. Short and bandy-legged, he stood with a gray tweed cap pulled low across his forehead and watched the lights flickering from the windows of Irene Hannah’s kitchen.
“Bloody jackasses,” Hugh Kavanagh muttered. “Useless as tits on a bull!”
Hugh had made it his habit for the past two mornings to walk over from his farm shortly after sunrise and station himself with a pair of binoculars on the hill above Irene’s stable. The elevation afforded him a perfect view of her house, and the evergreen hemlocks provided him cover. Since Thursday morning, the farm had served as ground zero for the FBI investigation. Although the search had looked impressive, with undercover surveillance vans and heat-seeking helicopters, Hugh knew that Irene’s disappearance remained just as big a mystery this morning as it had been three days ago.
He’d watched the place so long, he’d nicknamed most of the agents. Abe was a tall, thin agent with a face that looked as if it had been hewn from oak. He stayed hunched over the computers all day, munching chips from a cellophane bag. Blackbeard was the muscular, serious lad who seemed to fancy Mary Crow. The short little twit who’d collared him in the barn he called Scab. Those three foostered in and out of the place night and day, mostly tramping around in each other’s footsteps. No wonder they couldn’t find anything.
Still, he lingered beneath the tree, on the off-chance that they had found Irene. He knew she would demand to see her horses first. After all, she had a pregnant mare to look after.
He squinted down at the house below. Lucy the goose slept on the back steps, a ball of white feathers with her head tucked beneath her wing. One of the barn cats crouched on the edge of the patio, staring at something in the grass. The cat flicked its ears, then both animals—goose and cat—leaped into the air as Blackbeard thundered out the door, cell phone plastered to his ear. Back and forth across the patio he stomped, stabbing the air with his index finger.
“Not got her yet, have you, boy?” Hugh whispered mournfully, feeling his heart droop with disappointment. Every morning he’d come up here longing to see his dear Irene tromping out in her green Wellies, feed bucket in hand. How happy he would be then! How fast he would run down this hill!
“You’re a bloody fool, Kavanagh,” he scolded himself as he watched Blackbeard take one final frustrated lap around the patio, then slam the door behind him as he went back inside.
With a deep sigh, Hugh turned and walked along the edge of the tree lin
e down to the barn. Not today, old man. The words whispered in his head. Maybe not ever again.
In the stable, he switched on the lights. Five of the horses were already standing up with their ears pricked, peering at him expectantly over their stall doors. The large foaling stall where Lady Jane stayed looked empty.
“Uh-oh.” He hurried down to the end of the passageway, half expecting to see the mare lying on the straw with a brand-new foal curled up beside her. Instead, when he peered over the door he found Lady Jane restless and agitated, pacing a circular path in her straw. Her nut-brown coat glistened with sweat and she was huffing as if she’d just galloped miles.
“I’ll get these others fed and turned out, girl,” Hugh promised softly, reaching over to pat the nervous horse. “You’re going to be a mama soon.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The gruff words hit him like a truncheon. He thought he recognized the voice of Scab, the bald one who was not quite a full shilling. He turned around slowly. Sure enough, the little man stood there, his face in a fierce scrunch, his hands balled into fists.
“I’m doing what I was asked to do two days ago, boy,” Hugh replied. Holy Mother, how these Americans loved to swagger like John Wayne. “Taking care o’ these horses. If you’re interested, this one’s about to foal.”
“What were you doing on the hill with those binoculars?” Scab closed the distance between them. His blue eyes glittered as if he’d found Hugh hiding both Irene Hannah and Eric Rudolph out here in the straw.
“Watching you sad lot of bloody fools.”
“What for?”
“Because I need to see if you’ve found her.”
Scab pushed his face into Hugh’s, forcing him backward. “So what if we have, old man? The judge is going to have more important things to do than come running down here to see you.”
Hugh looked at the young rotter, longing to curl his right hand into a fist and bust his pointy nose into next Tuesday. Thirty, maybe even twenty, years ago he could have knocked this one down with one hand tied behind him. Now he wasn’t so sure. His joints hurt like fire most mornings and climbing up that hill to the hemlocks got harder every day. He sighed. He was old. He just wanted his sweet Irene to come back to him, so they could raise this little horse Lady Jane was about to have and enjoy what time they had left together.
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