The Collector

by Scott Wittenburg

Twenty minutes later he saw a sign that read Wayneston - 10 miles. The last fifteen miles had been relatively sparse with occasional homes and businesses popping up here and there. Wayneston was considered a town according to Google maps, which meant it wasn’t going to be very large, but larger than nothing. One thing it had was a Holiday Inn, which was a good thing since he didn’t want to have to stay too far away from his destination.

  When he reached the city limits, he passed by a strip small and a couple of gas stations before he spotted the Holiday Inn located right along the highway. He passed the motel and turned onto a street that stretched for seven blocks or so to the west. Alan cruised along Broadway Street, which was evidently Wayneston’s main drag and saw a few retail businesses, a library, a couple of banks, a McDonalds, city hall and a small park. There wasn’t a lot of activity since most of the businesses were closed. He reached an area where the storefronts dropped off sharply and cased out both streets running parallel to Broadway on either side. There were a couple of small restaurants and a bar but not much more.

  Having been in Wayneston, West Virginia only a few minutes, a single thought pervaded his mind: what in the hell is an artist holding five or six young abducted East European girls doing in a place like this?

  He couldn’t even venture a clue. When Charlie Ling had told him that Martin Fowler lived in West Virginia, he had been skeptical. Now that he’d actually seen this place, it didn’t even seem real.

  He’d learned that Fowler was eccentric and that may have been an understatement. It just didn’t seem plausible that a man who was obsessed with Edgar Degas and had hired girls to pose as ballerinas would be residing in this backwoods hillbilly place. Perhaps he was being a bit presumptuous—after all, this could be some kind of small artists’ town like Yellow Springs, Ohio.

  But he sort of doubted it.

  Alan decided to check into his motel room while it was still fairly early so he could plot out his next move. He headed back to the motel and had a tough time making Pan stay in the car while he went into the office. He doubted that pets were allowed and he’d already decided not to even bother asking—he would simply sneak Pan into his room while nobody was looking. He got his key and went back outside to locate his room. Then he parked the Pilot directly in front of it, let Pan out, grabbed a few items and went inside.

  He threw everything on the bed, got out the map printout of Wayneston and sat down on the edge of the bed. He had two things going against him now that were going to make locating Fowler’s home challenging. Besides it being after dark, he had no street address for him—only a rural delivery route number. So even when he could figure out where he lived, it would most likely be a bitch to find in the dark.

  But he wasn’t about to sit around here and twiddle his thumbs. He would just have to do what he could with what he had to work with. He figured that if he could at least get a rough idea of where Fowler lived, he could brainstorm what his options were and deal with it at daybreak. He was going to lose a bunch of time, but there probably wasn’t much more he could expect to accomplish under the circumstances.

  He examined the map, which he had printed out from the “Earth” mode on Google. Not only could he see the buildings that made up the downtown he had just driven through, but the map also showed the terrain of the land surrounding the center of town for several miles in all directions. The roads and many of the homes were also clearly mapped out. He took a few moments to examine the outlying area, hoping to find a place that looked like Fowler might live. He knew the notion was ludicrous—he had no criteria to work with for crying out loud—but he’d learned in the past that sometimes a hunch was better than nothing.

  Unfortunately, nothing was popping out at him. It looked like he was going to have to locate Fowler’s place the old fashioned way, by hitting the road. He folded up the paper printout and stuffed it into his jacket. He took a moment to clean up a bit then left the room with Pan at his side.

  When he got into the Pilot, he decided that the best place to try first would be the bar he’d seen earlier. There was usually somebody soaking the suds that would be willing to chat to a stranger. It was getting chilly out and Alan wondered if there was a cold wave blowing in. It was late September and even though fall had officially started, the daytime temperatures had remained summer-like. This was the first time it actually felt like fall.

  When he arrived at the bar, he pulled over and parked. He looked over at Pan and realized he had not considered the fact that the place probably didn’t allow dogs inside. He was still getting used to dealing with his new friend.

  “You’re going to have to wait here, girl. I’ll be back soon.”

  Again, Pan was not happy about Alan leaving her in the car and let him know by barking the moment he shut the door. He walked around and peered at her through the passenger side window. “Hang in there, I’ll be back as soon as possible—I promise!”

  This seemed to help as Pan fell silent and watched Alan walk to the bar. The name of the place was Thirsty’s and it looked decent enough as small town bars go. He went inside and was immediately greeted with a country song blasting out of the jukebox.

  The bar was good sized yet felt cozy thanks to the layout and the way the place was decorated. Old rustic items ranging from fifty-year old license plates and vinyl LP covers to tin soft drink and beer signs adorned the rough wood walls. Dangling from a huge centrally located beam that ran along the entire length of the bar were an old rusted bicycle, a wooden propeller and a canoe. And from the wall at the far side of the bar, the entire rear end of a 1955 Thunderbird stuck out, complete with illuminated taillights.

  Alan headed toward the horseshoe shaped bar, trying to ignore the stares from the dozen or so patrons. He sat down on a leather stool and waited for the girl working the bar to come over.

  “Howdy, what you need?” she asked.

  “A Michelob Ultra, please,” he replied.

  “No problem.”

  Alan watched the girl as she went over to the cooler to get his beer. She was late-twenties, average height with long dark hair and an absolutely stunning face. She had brown eyes, pouty lips and a trim body, accentuated by tight faded blue jeans and a yellow cotton t-shirt. The girl came back and sat a bottle of Michelob down in front of him.

  “Thanks,” Alan said. He took a five out of his wallet and lay it down on the bar.

  “You’re not from around here,” she said as she took the bill.

  “No, I’m from the Buckeye State.”

  “I sort of figured that.”

  “How’s that?” Alan said, wondering if being from Ohio was that obvious.

  “Well, you’re wearing an Ohio State Buckeyes sweatshirt for one thing. Damn near everyone that comes in here is a Mountaineers fan. Plus, you don’t sound like you’re from West Virginia or Kentucky. Put two and two together and that’s what you get.”

  Alan glanced down at his sweatshirt then back to into her smiling eyes. “Hmm. You’d make a good detective, uh—”

  “Marcia. And you would be?”

  “Alan.”

  She offered her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth as silk. Alan shook it. “Nice to meet you, Alan.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So what brings you to Wayneston? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I’m a freelance photographer and I’m working on project. I want to publish a really good nature book that has more than just a bunch of photos—one that also serves as a guide. Like where the best places to go to find otters in their natural habitat while you’re in the Allegheny Mountains. This project requires me to travel all over the place and today I just happen to be in the fair town of Wayneston.”

  She chuckled. “I don’t want to discourage you or sound like a know-it-all, but I can just about guarantee you aren’t gonna find much to shoot around here!”

  “Seriously? You mean it’s that bad?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s that bad. It used to be pr
etty around here but in the last ten or fifteen years towns like Wayneston are evolving into mass suburbia thanks to the developers. Charleston is the largest city in a hundred mile radius and folks are spreading out from the city and settling in the burbs. So even though we’re a half hour a way, some people would rather live in a housing development and commute to Charleston then live in the city.”

  “That sounds like Columbus. The city is shrinking while the burbs keep growing. But surely there are still some natural resources here.”

  “A few nice places, like Cooke’s Lake or the park, but nothing to write home about. Wayneston used to have all of these old homes and cabins that have been here since the late 1800’s. But most of them have been leveled so the developers can build their ugly cookie cutter houses in their place. I get pissed just thinking about it!”

  “Yeah, I can see that they seem to have hit a nerve. Well, I’m stuck here for the night nonetheless so I’ll just have to make the best of it tomorrow morning. If nothing pans out, I’ll just move on.”

  “I think it’s so cool to be able to do that—to be able to travel around and take pictures—it just sounds so, artistic. I wish I could blow out of here and do something like that.”

  “No offense, but what’s keeping you here?”

  “This place, for one thing. And my mom. She’s disabled and needs me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. So how long have you worked here? It’s really nicely appointed.”

  “I’ve been here a little over four years. I own the place.”

  “Really? That’s cool.”

  “I don’t know how cool it is—it’s actually a pain in the ass. I mean, I love fixing the place up and all of that, but the business side is scary. This last year has been pretty lousy, business-wise. The economy has not been kind to us here, period. It gets nerve wracking trying to pay the bills on time and all of that. Anyway, I’m sounding like a whiner, which I’m really not. I just wish I could afford to spend a little more time away from this place, that’s all.”

  “How many people you have working for you here?”

  “Just myself and two others. And only one of them is full time. It’s gotten that bad.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Maybe things will get better now that we have some new blood in the White House.”

  “Yeah, that can’t hurt things any. It’s just going to take too damn long, I’m afraid—Excuse me, I think they need something at that table.”

  “No problem.”

  Alan watched Marcia as she came out from behind the bar and went over to a table where a couple was sitting. A moment later she came back, popped open two Buds and took them over to the table. After ringing up the sale and making change, she came back over to him.

  “Another one?” she asked.

  Alan stared at his bottle in disbelief—he had all but drained it already.

  “Yes, please.”

  She went over and brought back a cold Ultra.

  “Thanks.”

  “So what does your wife think about your travelling around taking pictures?”

  “My wife?” Alan said. Then he saw that Marcia had noticed his wedding band, which he still wore all of the time. “Oh, I’m not married—I’m a widower. My wife passed away a couple of years ago. I just sort of never quit wearing this ring.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. You must have loved her an awful lot.”

  “I did, actually. She was a great girl.”

  “God, I hope I haven’t made you sad, Alan. I just saw the ring and—damn, I wish I’d learn how to keep my trap shut!”

  Alan smiled warmly. “Egads, Marcia, it’s okay—you didn’t do anything wrong! In fact, I probably should quit wearing the thing just for that reason. I guess I just haven’t given it that much thought.”

  “Well, I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with your wearing it. In fact, I think it’s really sweet of you. I would absolutely melt if I found out my husband still wore his wedding ring after I passed. It shows such . . . devotion.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the only reason I still wear it, in all honesty. I am sort of a creature of habit and after six years, I’ve become rather attached to wearing this ring. Therein may be where the problem lies.”

  She laughed. “You’re funny!”

  Alan laughed, too. “Just being truthful . . .”

  Marcia went over to the fountain and filled a glass with Coke, took a sip and returned.

  Alan said, “So how long have you been married?”

  “Me? Who said I was married?”

  “You just said that if your husband wore his wedding ring—”

  “I was just speaking theoretically. I’m not married. No time for that nonsense, really, with the bar and all.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean: ‘hmm?’”

  “Nothing—I was just thinking about what you said.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you. I just wonder why you would consider marriage nonsense. Sounds sort of like a cop-out to me.”

  “Okay, I don’t really think it’s nonsense. I just have sort of a bad taste in my mouth from a relationship I was in not so long ago. Made me want to quit thinking about dating men, period.”

  “Sounds bad. I can relate to what you’re saying. I don’t really want to think about dating women either, after having lost my wife. I really loved her and doubt that I could ever love anyone else like her. So like you, I’m not really giving any of that stuff much thought nowadays.”

  “There you go—we have something in common!”

  “Yes, we do. Maybe that’s why we’ve been talking all of this time like we’ve known each other for years, eh?”

  “I have to admit, I’ve surprised myself. You’re so easy to talk to, Alan. I’m enjoying it.”

  “I’m enjoying it, too. Most of the talking I’ve done today has been with my dog. And that’s not quite the same thing.”

  “You brought your dog with you?”

  “Yeah. In fact she’s out front in my car.”

  “Well, bring her inside—I love dogs!”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course. What’s her name?”

  “Pan—short for Panera, where I found her. She was dumped there by her former owner.”

  “How pathetic. I want to see her!”

  “Okay, I’ll go get her.”

  Alan stood and headed for the door, his head reeling. He was amazed at how easy it had been to talk to Marcia and only now did he recall why he had come to this bar in the first place. To be that totally distracted by talking to someone was something he hadn’t encountered since Julie was alive.

  When he stepped out onto the street he heard Pan barking from the car excitedly. He went over to the passenger door and let her out.

  “Looks like you can join me after all,” he said.

  When he returned to the bar, Marcia came around and let Pan jump up on her.

  “Well hello there, Pan! You sure are a cute one!”

  “I think she’s a mix of a terrier and something like a border collie.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. She sure is friendly, isn’t she?”

  “For sure. She has made herself right at home in the week I’ve had her.”

  “You’ve only had her for a week?”

  Alan nodded. “I boarded her part of the time while I was in New York for a few days and I think she actually suffered from separation anxiety, if you can believe that.”

  “She obviously loves you and is happy you took her in.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You two make yourself at home while I wait on these people,” Marcia said. A couple of women and a man had sat down at a table.

  Alan sat back down at the bar and petted Pan, wondering if he should ask Marcia about Martin Fowler. After all, she was a local and a bar owner. Who could be more qualified to know everything that went on in a small town like this? The only problem wi
th asking her is that he would have to come clean and tell her the truth, otherwise she would consider the request odd. He felt that he could trust her and the worse that could happen is his coming off as a liar. But hopefully, after he told her why he had made up his story and how important it was to find Fowler, she would forgive his deception.

  Aware that time was of the essence, he decided to level with her.

  When she finished waiting on the men at the table, Marcia returned and set out a bowl of roasted peanuts in the shell.

  “How about some peanuts?”

  “Sounds great, thanks.”

  He took a handful, cracked a shell and plopped one in his mouth. “I don’t know how to say this rather than to just come right out and tell you. I sort of fibbed to you why I’m in Wayneston.”

  She looked at him suspiciously, her disappointment showing. “Oh yeah? So why did you really come here?”

  “I’m looking for somebody. I’m a private investigator. I’m sorry I lied to you but I felt I had to under the circumstances.”

  “And what exactly are the circumstances, Alan? Or is that not really your name, either?”

  He chuckled but it fell flat. “No, that’s my real name, honest! Listen, Marcia. I don’t blame you for being pissed and I would be, too. I mean, here we were having this great conversation but I’ve not been up front with you. All I can do is hope you will forgive me after I tell you why I have to find this person and how important it is that I be discrete.”

  She seemed to lighten up a notch or two. “Okay, I’m willing to listen.”

  “Good.” He lowered his voice a little. “I’m looking for a man who is holding captive several young girls that have been abducted and trafficked to the States from Eastern Europe. I need to find out where he lives as soon as possible because they are going to be re-sold as prostitutes soon, if they haven’t already.”

  “Jesus, Alan! Wait a second—”

  Marcia came around the bar and sat down beside him so they could talk more easily.

  “How did you find all of this out?”

  “It’s a long story, but basically I was hired to locate some woman’s sister who incidentally was also trafficked here and then forced into prostitution. My investigation has led me to this guy who is not only keeping this woman’s little sister captive but several other young girls that have been trafficked to the states well. He is supposedly only using these girls as models for his photos and not exploiting them in a sexual way. That of course may not actually be the case. But either way, they are about to be re-sold into prostitution now that he is done using them for his purposes. I’ve just recently found out that man lives somewhere around here.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Martin Fowler.”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “You’re shitting me—Martin Fowler? That’s impossible!”

  “Why is it impossible?”

  “Because Martin Fowler’s family has been living here in Wayneston for as long as anyone can remember. They have given so much to the community through the years—hell, our park and even the football stadium are named after the Fowlers! I just can’t believe that Martin could be mixed up in anything like this. What kind of photos has he supposedly been taking of these girls, anyway? Not kiddie porn, I hope!”

  “No, at least I don’t think so. He is apparently obsessed with the impressionist painter Degas and has the girls pose as ballerinas so he can reproduce Degas’ paintings as photos. Then he manipulates them to look like the original paintings. Crazy thing to do, really.”

  “Hmm. I heard that Martin studied art in college but have never known him to do anything artistically. Of course, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t—I just don’t know him very well.”

  Alan’s face lit up. “There you go! Fowler has an art background, so that all but confirms that he is the guy I’m looking for!”

  She shook her head. “Wow, it just doesn’t seem possible. Martin is such a nice guy—or at least he seems to be. I’ve probably only talked to him two or three times in my life. He’s sort of a recluse, actually. In fact—”

  Marcia looked away from Alan for a moment and back again. “You know, now that I think about it, the guy is pretty strange. I mean, he hardly ever comes into town and when he does, it’s usually only long enough to attend some charity event or philanthropic project his family has been involved in. It seems like he spends most of his time in that mansion on the hill.”

  “A mansion you say? How big is the place?”

  “Huge. I’ve never been inside and the only time you can actually see it is in the winter when the trees are bare. His grandfather built it a long time ago and Martin inherited it after his father passed away a few years ago.”

  “How far is it from here?” Alan asked.

  “About ten minutes.”

  “Can you tell me how to get there?”

  Her eyes brightened. “I can do better than that. I’ll show you where it is if you can wait another fifteen minutes. Randy is coming in to take over at ten o’clock.”

  “That would be awesome, Marcia—thanks!”

  “Don’t mention it. But I can tell you now that you aren’t going to see much when we get there. The place is like Fort Knox! There’s a huge steel gate blocking the entrance to his driveway and an electrified fence surrounds the place.”

  “You don’t think that’s just a little suspicious?”

  “Unusual, for sure—but I wouldn’t say ‘suspicious.’ I mean, the Fowlers are a wealthy family that has always been treated like royalty around here. The fact that they owned that huge estate and all that land has been a given for as long as most folks can remember. Martin’s father actually had a Rolls Royce, for crying out loud! And whenever he drove through town everyone would wave at him like he was the fucking pope or something—pardon my French. And his wife, Beatrice, was a sort of quasi-glamorous woman with her expensive clothes and jewelry. The whole family has always been respected and adored by the locals. They were sort of like the Kennedy’s in a way.”

  “So where is the rest of the family? You say Martin’s father died but where is the mother and the rest of the kids?”

  “Beatrice and Robert—that was Martin’s father’s name—both died in a plane wreck in Italy. Martin had an older sister but I heard that she passed away about five years ago.”

  So it’s just Martin living in this big mansion?”

  “As far as I know. Like I said, he’s a very private guy. There’s also a man that works for him who spends a lot of time up there as well. Harold Branson. He’s almost like a servant—the one that does all of the shopping and errands for Martin. I think he even cooks for him. Harold’s an older man and some people think they may also be lovers. I don’t agree, but that’s just my opinion.”

  “So Martin is gay?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Naturally everyone would think so since he’s never been seen with any girls and Harold seems to be the only person he’s close to. But it’s hard to say what Martin’s sexual preference is since he hasn’t actually lived here most of his childhood. He was always sent away to private schools, which a lot of folks thought was pretty snobbish. I think he even went to college at Oxford. He didn’t actually start living here on any kind of regular basis until after his parents died and he moved into the house.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Hell if I know. His father was the head honcho of an investment firm—he was constantly travelling to New York on business and I think he owned a place there, too. But I don’t think Martin is involved in anything like that. In fact, I think all he does is live the wealthy life, period. It sure must be nice.”

  “Maybe not so nice—after all, money isn’t everything. And if Martin Fowler doesn’t fit the profile of somebody who could potentially be up to no good, then pigs fly. Seriously, let’s consider what you just told me: this guy has nothing but time to kill and enough money to purchase his own island. He keeps to himself, li
ves alone in a mansion, and can at least be described as a bit of an oddball and eccentric. My question therefore is this: do you really think it impossible for Martin Fowler to be keeping several abducted young girls in his isolated uberhaus that happens to be fortified by a security gate, an electrified fence and located on top of a fricking mountain?”

  Marcia grinned wryly. “I see what you mean. Perhaps there is a possibility after all.”

  “Well, all I know is that I need to find out. And the sooner the better.” He looked at his watch. “Please don’t tell your worker where we’re going when he gets here, okay?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  Just then a man entered the bar and made a beeline over to where they were sitting. The guy looked to be in his mid-twenties, was short, bald and had a full beard.

  “Hi Randy,” Marcia said. “I hope you brought a good book.”

  “Been that slow?”

  “Oh yeah. And to think it’s Friday night, for crying out loud.”

  “It’ll pick up—it always does after I come on.”

  “Are you trying to tell me I’m bad for business?” Marcia smiled.

  “Now that’s a laugh! I think they’d much rather be looking at you than at my ugly ass!”

  “Oh I’m sorry. Randy this is Alan from Ohio. He’s a photographer.”

  Randy offered Alan his hand. “Hi Alan. The Bucks are lookin’ good this year, eh?”

  Alan shook his hand. “Yeah, for sure. Our freshman quarterback is getting better each game. It’s going to be interesting to see how he measures up against Iowa tomorrow.”

  “While you guys talk football, I’m going to get my things,” Marcia said.

  Alan felt a little awkward as he watched Marcia go back behind the bar, wondering how she would explain why they were leaving together. A moment later she was back.

  “I’m taking Alan to the Peak so he can get some night shots,” she told Randy.

  “You’ll like that view—I took some pictures of our fireworks from up there last Fourth of July.”

  “So you’re a shooter, too?”

  “Nah, not really. I just do it in my spare time.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Randy,” Alan said.

  “Yeah, get some good shots.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Marcia told Randy.

  Alan and Pan followed Marcia out of the bar. When they reached the street, Marcia said, “You want me to drive or you?”

  “I’ll drive. I’m parked right there.”

  She followed Alan over to the Pilot. When he opened the door for Marcia, Pan started to jump in. “Whoa, you’re gonna have to sit in the back, girl.”

  After Marcia was in, he opened the door for Pan then got in and started the car.

  “Which way?”

  Go down to the first street and take a right.”

  Alan followed her directions until they were on a two-lane road that was curvy and dark as pitch. He turned on his brights and kept his speed at around thirty-five.

  “So how long have you been a PI, Alan?”

  “Well, I’ve actually had my license for several years but gave up the practice a few years ago. In fact, this is the first job I’ve taken in all that time. My real job is a web designer.”

  “So why did you decide to come out of retirement?”

  “I guess because this case really intrigued me. I’ve also been a little bored just doing websites all the time and sort of missed the action.”

  “Do you think you’ll continue doing it?”

  “I haven’t given that much thought. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see how this case pans out. I really want to nail these traffickers—you wouldn’t believe how nasty these bastards are. No regard for basic human rights whatsoever. It’s really been an eye-opener this last week seeing how they operate and the horrible way they treat their victims.”

  “Sounds like this has almost been a crusade for you.”

  “Hmm. I guess you could say that. It’s always been pretty easy for me to avoid getting emotionally involved in cases I’ve taken on, but this one has been different. I mean, here’s this poor woman who was deceived into thinking she was going to get a decent job in the West then discovers that both she and her little sister have been forced into what amounts to slavery. But we’re not just talking about a couple of victims here—there at least six more that I know of who have also been trafficked into this country by the same group of thugs. There are at least two women’s lives ruined by this gang and about to be more if I can’t find these girls.”

  “That’s horrible! I can see why you are so caught up in this now. But do you know the men who are responsible for this?”

  “Yes, at least three of them—and there’s probably more than that. If I can at least bust this guy who I think is the leader, I’ll feel like I’ve done some good. The sad thing is that this would only be the tip of the iceberg. Every time I think of this sort of thing going on each and every day all over the globe, I get pissed because very little is being done to stop it.”

  “I have to admit that I didn’t know the situation was that serious, or widespread. You read about this sort of thing in the news every now and then but I’ve always thought it was just sort of random. How did you find out all of this information, anyway?”

  “One of my friends told me. She’s an advocate for women’s rights and the one who gave me the case in the first place.”

  “I see. You need to slow down after this curve then you’re going to take a left.”

  “Okay.”

  Alan saw a small paved road branch off of the highway after he took the curve and pulled onto it.

  “Only another mile or so to go and we’ll be there.”

  “Is this some kind of private road?”

  “Not really. It continues past the entrance to Martin’s place for several miles then eventually comes out on Route 119. Now start slowing down—it’s right after this curve.”

  Alan eased up on the accelerator until he saw a clearing off to the side of the road. Ten yards in was an enormous steel barred gate that was at least eight feet high. On either side of the gate was a chain link fence with three rows of barbed wire added on top.

  Fort Knox, indeed— Or would Sing-Sing be more fitting?

  “Damn, I see what you mean—this is definitely foreboding.”

  “I told you it was impressive. And that fence continues for a quarter mile in either direction.”

  “Are you sure it’s electrified? Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Yes I’m sure, and apparently it’s not illegal if you’re a Fowler.”

  “I’m going to go check this out.”

  Alan pulled the Pilot onto the clearing until he was safely off the road and put the transmission into park. He got out and walked over to the gate.

  The gate was actually comprised of two separate gates that met in the middle. There was no lock to speak of, just an inch clearance between the two gates. Alan went over and looked at one of the ends where the gate connected to the fence and could see steel arms on the other side that apparently moved the gates inward by some sort of motorized device, probably operated by a remote control that could be activated in Fowler’s car or perhaps even from the house.

  He glanced up at the right side of the gate when a bright light suddenly came on and bathed the area in white. He squinted his eyes and saw a video camera mounted on top of a pole just inside the fence aimed directly at the spot where he was standing. Spotting the camera prompted him to turn around immediately and get back into the SUV.

  “The guy even has a closed circuit camera! Okay, I’m impressed. Martin Fowler not only has effectively secured his hollowed grounds but now he knows that I just stopped by to case out his digs. Shit!”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Folks pull in here all the time—especially the kids. There have been more than a few hecklers that come up here just to ham it up for the camera. And let’s face it, once you see this gate, you can’t
help but want to know what’s up with this place. So I’m sure plenty of cars routinely pull over to check it out.”

  “I see what you mean. Well, let’s get out of here. It’s pretty obvious that this is going to be a lot tougher than I thought.”

  Alan backed out and headed toward town. As he pulled away he felt his frustration mounting. Even in the daylight, it would be difficult if not impossible to enter Fowler’s property without being seen. Although he had considered this a possibility from what Marcia had already told him, he now knew it for a fact.

  Time for Plan B.

  He was going to have to go directly to the cops. And hope he could somehow persuade them to check out Martin Fowler’s home. This was he had dreaded might happen because the odds of getting the law on his side in time to save the girls were slim at best.

  “Who has legal jurisdiction of this area?” he asked Marcia.

  “Wayneston Police, I believe. This is still considered within the city limits.”

  “How well do you get along with the cops?”

  “Pretty good . . . Why do I have a feeling you would like some help with this?”

  He glanced over at her and smiled. “Because I think we both know there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to get into Fowler’s place without some serious luck. And it’s not going to be easy to get the cops to help either, unless you have some kind of positive rapport with them. They sure as hell aren’t going to listen to an out of town PI.”

  “You’re probably right. Bill Myers is pretty hardcore and does everything by the book—Bill is the Wayneston police chief. And although I’m not a lawyer, I would guess you’d have to obtain a search warrant to do something like that when there is no probable cause.”

  “You’re right as rain about that. Do you think you could help me persuade the chief to do a little investigating without a warrant? Explain the nature of the crime and the need to be expeditious?”

  “God, Alan, I don’t know. Like I said, he’s not a very flexible individual at all. Fair and honest to a fault but not likely to bend any rules for anybody. Not only that, you have to keep in mind that we’re talking about harassing one of the town’s most prominent residents. I just can’t see the chief risking the flack he’d get for insinuating that Martin Fowler was some kind of criminal. If he sticks his neck out and it turns out that Martin is clean, I hate to think of how the citizens would react. Not to mention Martin himself, who as you can imagine has quite a bit of influence in this town.”

  “But we have to at least try—it’s our only hope we have of saving those girls.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot—just don’t get your hopes up.”

  “I really appreciate that, Marcia. Any idea how early the chief comes into work?”

  “No, but I’d say pretty early since he’s the chief.”

  “Would you mind going in with me to see him first thing in the morning? I’ll treat you to breakfast.”

  “Now you’re talking; it’s a date! And believe me, I want to help you in any way I can. If Martin Fowler really is holding those girls up there like you say, somebody needs to bust the son of a bitch.”

  “Oh, he has them—or at least had them. I’m convinced of that. I can only pray we aren’t too late. The men that are involved in all of this are already suspicious of me. If they have tipped Fowler off and he’s on the lookout for me, we may already be out of luck.”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

  “Are you parked by your bar?”

  She nodded. “Yes, you can drop me off there.”

  They drove the rest of the way into town in relative silence, lost in their own thoughts. When they arrived back at the bar, Marcia pointed to a gray Mazda 6 parked across the street.

  “That’s my car. I think I’ll go in and see how things are going. You want to come in for a nightcap?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Alan parked, let Pan out and accompanied Marcia to Thirsty’s.