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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.
“That’s the mayor. Mayor Howard. I won Business of the Year five years back. He presented the award.”
Keith and I exchange looks. To judge by Bill’s expression, he hasn’t heard of the tragedy at the mayor’s house yet.
“Are you and the mayor close?” Keith asks.
Shrug. “We know each other, of course. I think he’s a good mayor. He and Martha have done a lot to boost business in our community. Ten years ago were lean times. We suffered compared to towns like Dahlonega, which offers up old-time charm but with the benefit of spas and wine tasting and gold mine tours. Gotta say, I wasn’t sure if my own business would make it. But Mayor Howard poured a lot of money into fixing up the Mountain Laurel, took it from a historic inn to a luxury getaway for newlyweds and business execs. Then he got Dorothea, the town clerk, to put together a whole new website for the town, not to mention launch all these social media platforms. Once a month she goes around to the local businesses, has us produce candid photos to lure in more tourists. Speaking of which, want to pose?” Bill produces his cell phone, eyes us hopefully.
“No, thank you.”
He shrugs, pockets his phone. “Well, to answer your question, the mayor has done right by our community. Lots of people coming here now. Good for the economy. Good for the locals.”
Keith and I nod, make our goodbyes.
Per our deal, Keith gets to drive today. Which puts me in charge of navigating, but also, more important, keeping an eye out for surveillance cameras and booby traps. Already, we’d identified a ridge line running along part of the property line, and a gully along another stretch, which make for natural defenses.
That leaves us with another six options, so of course we’re going with the seventh—parking just off property on the ATV trail, then hoofing it in through the woods. Keith has his compass app and can’t wait to use it.
I spy the first impediment almost immediately after we dismount the ATV. Barbed wire, running willy-nilly through the trees. It’s old and rusted, but still plenty sharp. I have a Leatherman tool in my pocket. I inspect the tree branches above us for surveillance cameras, then the bushes around our knees for motion-sensitive game cameras. I discover two almost immediately. Walt Davies is just as paranoid as I suspected.
I indicate with my hand to keep walking. We make it another fifty feet, to a place where a thick bush obscures all from view. Several clips of the Leatherman later, and we are through the first obstacle.
We walk in silence, Keith staring at his app to determine direction, while I take point. I half expect a hidden net to snatch us up, or the ground to open into a pit of spikes, or even some old bear trap to snap off one of our limbs. Instead, we get closer and closer, sweat trickling down our foreheads, soaking our shirts. I don’t have a backpack like Keith, relying once again on the myriad of pockets in my hoodie and cargo pants. Unfortunately, the day is too hot for such layers and I quickly envy Keith and his high-tech wicking fabrics.
I abruptly stop, hold up a closed fist. As if we’ve been doing this for years, Keith immediately pauses, drops low. I point through the trees, where we can now see the first outbuilding.
