A Darker Justice (19 page)

CHAPTER 31

Mary stood behind the Little Jump Off counter, thumbing through the Pisgah County phone book while Ruth Moon sacked up a box of crackers and four cans of sardines for two men who were going fishing. Mary shivered as she waited for them to leave; she regarded fishing as a pleasant way to waste a summer afternoon. To sit for hours by icy water with a cold wind stinging your face seemed closely akin to torture.

She found the number she was looking for. When the fishermen were safely out of the store, she picked up Jonathan’s old rotary phone and dialed it. Moments later, Hugh Kavanagh answered, his brogue sounding gruff as Irish gorse.

“Hugh? This is Mary Crow.” She knew Safer had probably bugged his line, so she would have about twenty seconds to find out what she needed to know. The Feds could trace any call lasting longer.

“Mary Crow?” Hugh paused, confused. “They told me you went back to Atlanta.”

“No. I’m here. Can you tell me what’s going on? What’s the FBI doing?”

He snorted. “Not a bloody lot. Mostly they sit on their bums in her kitchen drinking coffee and pecking on those damn computers.”

Figures,
Mary thought, the hand on her watch sweeping through the seconds. “Any news of Irene?”

“I asked this morning when I turned out the horses. The tall one with the beard told me they hadn’t found a thing.”

“Thanks. I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Mary, what’s going to happen? I didn’t know—”

She hung up at eighteen seconds, cutting him off in midsentence. “Sorry to be rude, Hugh,” she whispered as she put the receiver back in its cradle. “But I couldn’t have told you a thing.”

“Any news on your friend?” Ruth Moon stood at Mary’s elbow, unabashedly eavesdropping.

“Not as of this morning, if they told her friend Hugh the truth.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Ruth offered. “We could get back on the Internet again.”

Mary walked over to the fireplace and gathered up her coat and purse. “I think I’ll just do some snooping around by myself.”

“Jonathan should be back in about an hour. Don’t you want to wait for him?”

“Just tell him thanks—and thank you, for all your hospitality.” Over the morning, she’d almost grown to like Ruth Moon. She’d been helpful, considerate, and more than adept on that computer. If the circumstances were different, they would probably be good friends. Mary smiled and extended her hand. “Maybe I’ll drop back by, the next time I come up here.”

“Good luck.” Ruth shook her hand. “I hope you find your Judge Hannah.”

Mary smiled. “I do, too.” Mary paused to glance at the front corner of the store, then she opened the door and stepped outside.

She wiped a thin crust of snow off the windshield of the Toyota before she got inside. The engine started easily, and she had to admit that whatever Bingo didn’t do to his interiors, he at least kept his engines ready to roll. With a rev of the motor, she gave Little Jump Off Store a final glance and pulled out onto the highway beyond. She hadn’t told Ruth Moon, but she knew exactly where she was going. Something was odd about an ex-Ranger starting a camp, winning all sorts of elite shooting trophies, then opening his program to a bunch of foster kids. It could, of course, be a curious coincidence, but her years in the courtroom had taught her to pay close attention to coincidence. If Wurth had some kind of weird agenda, a camp like that would be the perfect setup. Big enough to hide a federal judge, but small enough to fly below the FBI radar.

Mary heard Jonathan’s voice in her head, chiding her, telling her she was grasping at straws. “Of course I am,” she answered aloud. “But you’d be amazed at what winds up in my hands.”

*  *  *

Camp Unakawaya lay northeast of Hartsville. She skirted the town to avoid any Feds, then drove into the mountains along a bumpy two-lane road that snaked beneath a high canopy of trees that waved gray, skeletal fingers as she passed, whispering sibilant greetings to the icy wind. As she twisted up the highway a Cooper’s hawk swooped in front of her, nothing more than a high-pitched whistle and a blur of speckled feathers.

Driving higher, she switched on the radio. A distant dance-band station bounced its signal through the mountain static—Doris Day singing “My Secret Love.” Mary shook her head. On overcast days, mountain radio was laughable—stations from all over the country came in erratically, so in the space of a fifteen-minute trip you could hear everything from Ella Fitzgerald to Britney Spears without ever touching your dial. She sped, listening to Doris Day. Though finding Irene never left her mind, part of her felt more alive than she had in a long time. For once she was not stuck indoors, in a courtroom bound by law and precedent, hurling words at surly defendants and their pompous attorneys. For once she was hunting no less earnestly than that hawk, seeking her prey with all her senses sharp as knives.

“Maybe this is what crows were meant to do,” she whispered aloud. “Maybe I should have taken this path years ago.”

Suddenly a small brown arrow-shaped sign on the left shoulder of the road read “Camp Unakawaya.”

She drove on, passing what seemed like miles of a low stone wall, then finally turned onto a gravel drive that twisted between two crumbling stone pillars nearly invisible beneath a huge tangle of thorny vines. A rusted wrought-iron archway connected the two pillars, the word “Frieden” worked gracefully inside, tendrils of the vine curling around the rusted letters.

“Pretty creepy,” murmured Mary as she passed beneath the archway. She looked at the fieldstone wall that lined the drive, holding back thick woods that coiled behind them. She caught only the barest glimpses of straw-colored fields through the crowd of massive oaks and maples. After the driveway traversed acres of forest, a wide bridge spanned a lake of churning gray water. An old-fashioned wooden diving platform caught her eye; when she turned her gaze back to the driveway, she gasped.

At first she thought she must have taken a wrong turn. The building in front of her looked nothing like any camp she’d ever seen. Massive, constructed of hewn stone, it stood dark slate and mossy with age, sprawling like some medieval manor house, with turrets and chimneys sprouting at odd angles across the roofline. It looked as if it belonged not only to a different age, but to a different continent, incongruous as a woman coming to a barn dance in satin and pearls.

The driveway curved into a huge porte cochere that extended from the front of the house, passing below rows of small leaded-glass windows running the length of the structure. As she drove closer, Mary saw that Frieden had not worn its years well. Moss stained the stone foundation, and one long, elaborate network of gutters had pulled away completely from the house. Though a section of the roof looked recently repaired, around the lower eaves several of the slate tiles were missing and a walnut sapling sprouted from one chimney. It occurred to her that Sergeant Wurth may have had the money to buy Frieden, but its maintenance was stretching him thin.
That might account for his cozying up to Reverend Gerald LeClaire,
she thought.
Maybe Wurth houses his foster kids on the cheap and spends his FaithAmerica dough just trying to keep up with this place.

She pulled under the porte cochere and got out of the car. A number of teenagers were at work around the property. Several strapping young men wearing handsome leather flight jackets were carrying plywood into what looked like an old gym. A thinner, younger boy clad in jeans and a worn cotton jacket bent over a broom, sweeping dead leaves off the porch. Despite the activity, there was an eerie quietness about the place, as if all the former Frieden residents still hovered over their old domain.

Broad stone steps led to the lodge, and a huge American flag snapped in the cold wind. As she crossed the chipped tile porch, the boy with the broom turned and stared at her, his brows lifting in alarm.

“Hi,” Mary called, smiling. “Could you tell me where I might find Sergeant Wurth?”

The boy pushed his glasses back on his nose as he blushed tomato red. “I think he’s at the g-gym,” he replied, nodding over his shoulder.

“Down that way?”

Nodding again, the boy looked increasingly flustered, as if he were afraid.

“I wanted to ask him about his camp,” Mary explained. “See if he had any room left this summer.”

The boy leaned his broom against the outside wall of the castle. “G-go on inside. I’ll see if I can f-find him.”

He opened the door and stepped into the castle. Mary crossed the threshold behind him. When she entered the foyer, she blinked. While the lower half of the room was paneled in a somber chestnut, the upper half was a riot of color, with flags of every state hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Light from the diamond-paned windows illuminated the fields of red and white and blue. Mary picked out Georgia’s old version of The Stars and Bars, North Carolina’s big “NC,” and the mystical crescent moon of South Carolina.

She frowned. Though the flags looked festive, she found the foyer oddly oppressive, as if she were trapped in the middle of an old Teutonic hunting lodge.

“C-come on,” the boy said, pointing toward an even larger room to their right. “Wait in here. I’ll g-go get the sergeant.”

He ran back out the front door, leaving her in a white plaster room with long floor-to-ceiling windows that could be raised high enough to allow passage out to the porch beyond. In the middle of one wall rose a huge fireplace; over that was hung a portrait of a handsome young man in a World War I Army uniform. A ballroom, Mary thought, fighting the urge to run and see how far she could slide along the glossy smoothness of the ancient wooden floor. She shook her head. A grand salon in the middle of Appalachia. The mountains never ceased to amaze her. She moved closer to the fireplace, looking up at the old painting.

The door opened behind her. She turned. A man of average height stood there, dressed in a khaki army uniform and a brown leather jacket. His dark hair was buzz-cut, and his pale blue eyes bulged, giving him the air of a ferocious bulldog. His face and features were even, but he looked impatient, as if he were enduring some frivolity for which he had no time.

“Good morning,” he called, his voice brisk. “I see you’re appreciating our artwork.” He nodded at the portrait over the fireplace.

“It’s very well done,” Mary replied. “A relative of yours?”

“No. It’s Helmut von Loessing, the son of the man who built this house. He was a German infantry officer. That painting was done before he left for France.” The man stepped forward, extending his hand. “I’m Robert Wurth. How can I help you?”

“Oh.” Mary tried to sound delighted. “You’re the gentleman I’m looking for.”

“And why is that?” Wurth looked at her as if he were measuring her for a dress.

“I’m trying to find a summer camp for my nephew, and someone suggested that I drop in and have a chat with you.” She glanced around the grand room and feigned embarrassment. “I’m sorry if I intruded. . . .”

Wurth grinned. “Visitors don’t wander in here often, but we’re happy when they do.” His eyes narrowed. “Who did you say sent you here?”

“Uh, the guidance counselor at my nephew’s school. Teddy’s recently gotten interested in riflery, and the counselor told me that Camp Unakawaya was the best camp in the country for young marksmen.”

“And what did you say your name was?”

Mary felt his eyes boring into her. “Mary Crow. From Atlanta. I’m up here on business. I would have called, but I took a chance and just stopped by. Are you completely full for next summer?”

“Actually, we are, but we might be able to squeeze your nephew in. How old is he?”

“Twelve. Teddy Bennefield’s his name.”

“Bennefield?” Wurth cocked his head as some long-ago tumblers apparently clicked in the vaults of his memory. “That name seems familiar, somehow.” He gazed at the floor, then shrugged. “You meet so many people running a camp, sometimes all the names sound familiar.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“Wait right there, Ms. Crow.”

Wurth strode back through the foyer and down a dark hall beyond, his footsteps crisp on the highly polished floor. He was gone so long that Mary wondered if he’d forgotten about her. Then she heard his footsteps drawing closer. In a moment he stood in front of her again, holding a large white envelope.

“This is our camp brochure, an application form, and all the permission slips your nephew will need.” He handed her the envelope, then his eyes flicked over her again. “How would you like to go on a private tour?”

“Right now?” Mary stalled, wondering if going anywhere alone with this stranger was the best idea.

“Absolutely,” Wurth replied, his lips stretching in a cold smile. “I’ve already had one of my boys pull up the golf cart.”

“Well . . . I suppose I could . . .” Mary returned Wurth’s smile as they walked back into the foyer.
It’ll be okay,
she told herself.
There are people around here. And you’re armed.
She was comforted by the Beretta nestling under her jacket.

On the porch, the same gawky boy worked his broom. “Cabe, I want that spotless,” Wurth snapped as they walked toward the golf cart.

“Yessir.” The boy kept his eyes on the floor. “N-not a problem, sir.”

“He looks kind of cold in that thin jacket,” Mary remarked, huddling into her own warm parka.

“He’s got a better one he could wear,” replied Wurth. “Kid keeps his nose stuck in a book all the time. He probably doesn’t even know it’s winter.”

Mary shivered as a raw, cold wind slapped her face. “That seems like it would be hard to miss.”

They climbed into the waiting golf cart and drove off toward the lake, Wurth giving a running commentary about his camp.

“I’ve run Unakawaya for almost fifteen years. Each summer we have three month-long sessions for fifty boys. We teach swimming, riflery, outdoor survival, and traditional American values.”

“Traditional American values?” Mary echoed.

“Yes. Did you know that statistically, by the time your nephew’s thirteen, he will have experimented with marijuana, acid, PCP, and cocaine?”