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“Other than what I told you, not a lot.”
“If you research the place online, there’s nothing. Only the same few articles come up.”
“And you’re surprised?” she said.
“The guy who picked me up when I got off the plane, he said the Navy owned the land during World War II and trained Seabees there. Then they left but came back in the Fifties and kicked everybody out.”
“Everybody? Everybody who?”
“There used to be two towns over there. Magruder and another one I can’t remember the name of. Apparently the homes and everything are still there.”
“What’s that got to do with our investigation?”
“Nothing. I’m just killing mental time until I do think of something relevant,” he admitted.
“Speaking of relevant, how well did Rivest know Monk Turing?” she asked.
“According to Rivest not very well. When we were drinking together though he opened up a bit and said something interesting.”
“What?”
“He mentioned that he and Monk had gone fishing together one day on the York River. They were out in a little boat just drinking beer and throwing lines in the water, not expecting to catch anything.”
“And?”
“And Monk looked over at Camp Peary and said something like, ‘It’s really ironic them being the greatest collector of secrets in the world.’ ”
“What was really ironic?” Michelle asked.
“According to Rivest, when he asked him about it, Monk just clammed up.”
“I don’t see how that helps us.”
“I never met him but I don’t think Monk Turing would say something without a good reason. Come on.”
“Where to?”
“Remember I said there were only a few articles about Camp Peary on the Internet?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well two of them were written by a guy named South Freeman who lives in a little town near here called Arch. He runs the local newspaper and he’s also the resident historian for the area. I figure if anyone can fill us in on Camp Peary, he can.”
Michelle slapped her thigh as she rose off the bench. “South Freeman? Monk Turing? Champ Pollion? What the hell is it with this case and freaky names?”
CHAPTER
47
ARCH WAS A TOWN of few streets, a single traffic light, a number of mom-and-pop stores, a line of abandoned railroad tracks grafted onto Main Street like ancient sutures and a one-story brick building badly in need of restoring that housed the Magruder Gazette. Another small rusted sign stated that the Magruder Historical Society was also housed in the same building.
“If the town’s name is Arch, why isn’t it the Arch Gazette?” Michelle asked as she parked the truck and they got out.
“I have my suspicions, but we can ask old South for the answer,” Sean replied mysteriously.
They went inside and were met by a tall black man in his sixties with a lanky body and a cadaverous face outlined with a white-gray beard, in the center of which sat a smoldering cigarette protruding from thin, cracked lips.
He shook hands. “South Freeman,” he said. “Got your phone call. So you want to know a little bit about the history of the area? Came to the right damn place then.”
