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I give him a look. “That was before this morning’s suspicious death. I bet any officer who’s slept more than two hours is now assigned to that scene. So why not us? We can’t help out at the inn, but as civilians, we might be the right choice for talking to the local paranoid schizophrenic.”
“And just like that, I’m worried again.”
“In or out?”
We both know the answer. Keith is Keith. He will follow me anywhere, even down to Georgia and up a hiking trail to a grave.
“The ATV rental won’t be open for another few hours,” he says at last.
“Then we’ll go to the diner.”
“Our last meal?”
“That’s the spirit.”
He smiles. Quickly, so I don’t have time to think about it, I stretch up and kiss his cheek. He turns his head just enough to meet my lips with his. I don’t pull back. We stand there, lips to lips, in suspended animation.
Slowly I draw back. His blue eyes are darker now, harder to read.
“I’ll get my jacket,” he murmurs.
—
OVER BREAKFAST, KEITH WORKSHIS computer magic while I pick my way through a bowl of yogurt. It’s easy enough to identify Walt Davies’s address, then look it up on Google Maps. Next, Keith pulls up the network of ATV trails to identify the closest connector.
I can’t decide the best strategy for approaching a man who’s been described as an anti-government survivalist. Head straight down the driveway, hands in the air? Or approach from the rear, getting the lay of the land?
Keith gives me a condescending look, then boots up Google Earth. “You want recon? This is recon.”
I obediently ooh and aah as his laptop screen fills with images. I value the internet as a tool, but I’m a hands-on girl, more prone to footwork than keyboard strokes. Still, Keith is good.
First thing we learn, Walt Davies doesn’t just have property, he has property. The lot appears to be a good twenty acres tucked away from everything. And he doesn’t have only a house but a compound. We make out four structures almost immediately. A medium-sized cabin that’s probably the main residence, an even larger detached building that could be an oversized garage or a barn, and two small dots we guess are sheds.
“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.
