When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(51)

“That’s a lotta space for one man,” I say, studying the property layout while forcing myself to swallow more yogurt.

“Family land,” Keith provides immediately.

He is humming slightly as his fingers fly across the keyboard, a nerd in his element. He’d ordered another egg-white omelet. I wonder if I could really be in a relationship with someone who eats such annoyingly healthy food.

I wonder if I could really be in a relationship.

“Main cabin dates to nineteen-oh-five. Here we go: wellhead.” He taps a faint spot on the overhead view of the property. “Obviously septic, as well. Generator.” He zooms in, panning left then right. “Chickens. So maybe that second building is a barn for goats, small livestock. I have a feeling this is a guy who takes off-the-grid-living seriously.”

“What’s that?” I point to a series of lines that zigzag through the deeply wooded lot. While Google Earth is handy for a broad overview, the image gets distorted when Keith zooms in for close-ups. At least to me it does. Again, Keith appears in his element. I wonder if he has Google Earthed my address, or done street view, or whatever else there is that allows one person to spy on another without ever leaving his sofa.

“I think they’re trails,” Keith says, considering. “Maybe ATV, but some of them appear pretty wide. Maybe for tractors or heavy equipment.”

“They go every place. Logging?” I guess.

But when Keith pans back out, it’s clear no trees have been cut down, at least not recently.

“Why so many access points to one set of buildings? And all leading to different trails, byways?” I look at Keith. He is frowning, playing around with different perspectives of the property, frowning harder.

“I don’t know,” he says at last.

I don’t either, and it makes me suspicious. I finish my last bite of yogurt, remembering D.D.’s words that I have to take care of myself.

“I don’t want to ride up to the front door,” I tell Keith.

He waits.

“This guy, he’s the local recluse, right? If we approach directly, even assuming he doesn’t shoot us, he’s not going to magically let two complete strangers wander his property.”

I want to see what’s in those buildings. I want to understand what’s going on with all these roads and entrances and exits. Then, I want to talk to Walt Davies.

“Stealth it is. All right, let’s determine our point of entry.”



* * *



—

BILL BENSON, THE ATV GUY, doesn’t question our second-day rental. He accepts Keith’s credit card, asks if we need any help identifying more trails, then appears genuinely disappointed when we decline. In a small town like this, it’s probably street cred to have an inside track on a murder investigation. Or maybe just having firsthand knowledge as to what the outsiders are up to. I can’t help but think that the minute we leave, he’ll be at the local watering hole, disclosing all.

While Bill roams the shelves behind him to select the right helmets for us, I wander the tiny rental space. The requisite framed first dollar is hung above the rack of local attraction brochures, while next to it are haphazard groupings of more personal photos. A group shot of a dozen people, posing in front of their four-wheelers. Maybe one of the ATV clubs. I can just make out a younger version of Bill second to the left, but no one else looks familiar to me. Then there’s Bill posed in full hunter’s garb, rifle still in hand, as he beams beside the massive buck lying prone on the ground. A young kid kneels at the buck’s head, also cradling a rifle.

“My son,” Bill announces proudly, coming up to hand me my helmet. “First kill.”

“Okay,” I say because, being a hunter myself, who am I to judge?

Keith joins us, eyeing the photo more squeamishly.

“Is this your family?” he asks, pointing toward the posed shot of a family of three. Younger Bill stands to the left, son in the middle but now a lanky teen a full head taller than his father. Which leaves the dark-haired woman sitting in the wingback chair in front of them as the wife and mom.

“She’s beautiful,” I say to Bill.

“Thank you,” he says. “We’ve been married nearly forty years now. How the time flies.”

There is something in his voice that makes me give him a second glance. Wistfulness? Resignation? I glance at the portrait again. The woman is very pretty, but almost hauntingly so. I realize now she’s not looking at the camera so much as through it. There is something about her eyes, a little too vacant, as if she’s sitting for the photo shoot but still isn’t there. I wonder if it was her idea to hire the photographer, capture one last memory before their teenager flew the coop.

“Does your son work in the shop, too?” Keith asks.

“Nah. He has no interest in the family business. Like most of the kids around here, he took off for greener pastures first chance he got. Town’s too small, not enough job opportunities unless you want to work in tourism, tourism, or tourism. As parents, it feels good to raise a child in a close-knit community. For the kids, on the other hand . . .” Bill shrugs ruefully. “Our children bolt for big cities, while we then hire the big-city kids to work our businesses. Irony, I guess.”

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to another photo of Bill shaking hands with an older gentleman in a mint-green suit.