In Too Deep (16 page)

“Do I think I can distract a guy for a couple of minutes? Please! Just let me get changed.”

“There's no time.”

“You're not going like that, are you?”

I looked down at my blue T-shirt and white capris.

“What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”

“Well, nothing, I guess. But if you expect me to distract anyone, you're going to have to give me five minutes.”

“No.”

“Two?”

“We have to go now, Morgan, or we'll be late.”

She pouted. Then she crutched her way into the house double-time.

“Morgan!”

She was back a moment later with a tote bag over one shoulder. “I'll change in the car.”

  .    .    .

By the time we got to the spot Nick had indicated on his map, Morgan was attired in a scarlet top and a floaty, multicolored skirt. But she was frowning.

“What's the matter? You look great,” I said.

“This stupid cast really ruins the look. It ruins all my looks.”

“I'm sure you'll do fine.” I opened the car door and circled around to the rear passenger wheel. Then I pulled out the tool that Nick had told me to buy, and, following the little diagram he had drawn, deflated the tire. I opened the trunk, wrestled out the spare, pulled out the jack, and removed the tire iron. I leaned the tire against the back of the car, stood the jack beside it, and hid the tire iron in a bag I had brought along. I stashed the bag on the floor of the car under the front seat.

“Now what?” Morgan said.

“Now we wait.”

“What if someone comes along before Nick does and insists on helping us?”

“We act all insulted and tell them that just because we're girls, that doesn't mean we don't know how to change a tire.”

Morgan nodded. She thought for a moment.

“What if no one shows up?”

“Then we change the tire.”

“Meaning you wrestle that filthy flat tire off and put the disgusting spare one on,” Morgan said. “I told you that you should have changed, Robyn.”

I looked down at my crisp white capris. I hate it when Morgan is right.

  .    .    .

“Now,” Morgan said. She was standing beside the car, leaning on her crutches and looking fetchingly helpless. I was poised for action. At her cue, I picked up the jack and carried it to the deflated tire.

“They're slowing down,” Morgan said.

A black pickup truck drove slowly past the car and parked in front of it. Derek jumped down from the driver's side door.

“Problem, ladies?”

“I have it under control,” I said.

Morgan looked at me, surprised. “I thought—”

I elbowed her into silence.

Derek circled around to look at the flat tire. He looked at the jack. Then he looked into the open trunk.

“Where's your tire iron?”

“My what?”

Morgan put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile.

Derek shook his head. “Hey, Nick,” he called. “Get over here. Bring the tire iron.”

A moment later the pickup's passenger door opened and Nick climbed out. He circled to the back of the truck, fiddled with the storage compartment behind the cab, and jumped down from the truck bed with a tire iron in his hand. He loped over to where Derek and I were standing and started to position the jack.

“My ankle's killing me,” Morgan said. “I'm going to wait in the car.”

“We have to jack it up,” Derek said. “If you want to sit down, go and sit in the truck.”

Morgan looked doubtfully at the pickup. “I don't think I can get up there by myself,” she said. “Not on crutches.”

I wanted to hug her. Her performance was perfect.

Nick finished jacking up the car and reached for the tire iron.

“Why don't you give her a hand?” he said, winking slyly at Derek. “I'll stay here and take care of this.”

“Yeah, okay.” Derek walked over to Morgan and asked her if she needed any help. She said no, she was fine and then—this is why I really love Morgan—she stumbled, gave a little yelp, and started to fall. Derek grabbed her around the waist and held her up. One of her crutches clattered to the ground. Derek leaned her gently against the car and retrieved it for her.

“Are you okay?” he said as he handed the crutch to Morgan. She said she was, but all of a sudden she had a lot more trouble moving her crutches. Derek walked beside her, ready to catch her if she stumbled again. He opened the passenger door and helped her up into the truck. I watched, holding my breath. Derek looked back at Nick, who was removing another lug nut. He circled around the truck and climbed in behind the wheel. I started to move closer to Nick.

“Stay where you are,” Nick said. “That way Derek can see you. Look around. Act like you're just waiting for me to get the job done, okay? Don't talk to me.”

I started to nod, but caught myself. I realized why Nick had asked me to deflate that specific tire. It was the one farthest from the pickup. He was almost completely out of Derek's sight line while he worked on it.

“I overheard Larry and Derek talking about the old sawmill. But they were all mysterious about it.”

I kept my back to the truck and my voice low. “Larry told me he'd suggested that the county turn it into a museum.”

“I don't think that's what they were talking about,” Nick said. “It was almost like they were speaking in code. Maybe it has something to do with what happened to Alex. Plus, Bruno's been asking me a lot of questions. Larry, too. I get the feeling he's starting to trust me. He keeps asking me if the opportunity came up to make a little money, would I be interested, even if it was hard work. I told him, yeah, sure. And Bruno has been asking more about my family, my record, stuff like that. They're keeping an eye on me, for sure.”

“Do you want me to talk to my dad's friend?”

“And tell him what? That one of Larry's kids thinks something is going on out there? I have no idea what it is, so how is he going to figure it out? Hey, Robyn, can you come back here and give me a hand?”

I walked back to where he was crouched and helped him roll the old tire away from the car.

“You said it has something to do with the sawmill. Maybe he could check it out.”

“How's he going to do that? Ask Larry? If there really is something going on, Larry isn't going to tell him.”

“He could search the property,” I said. Nick hoisted the spare tire from the trunk and dropped it onto the gravel. I glanced at the truck and saw Derek twist around to see how Nick was doing.

“Five minutes,” Nick called, holding up five fingers. Derek nodded. Nick rolled the spare over to the rear wheel well and squatted down to fit it into place.

“Your dad was a cop. Your mom's a lawyer, so you should know better. The sawmill is on private property. The cops can't search it without either permission from Larry or a search warrant. And they can't get a warrant without probable cause, which they don't have because I have no idea what's happening. And if there really is something going on, Larry would let them look around. Anyway, if they ask, Larry will know someone said something. He's beginning to trust me, Robyn. I don't want to blow that.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then how about if I check out the sawmill and see if I can find out what's going on?”

“I don't know. If I'm right, it could be dangerous.”

“You said those guys left the bunkhouse at night. I'll check it out during the day.”

“I don't know—”

I heard the truck door open. Derek jumped out.

“Nick, you done or what?”

“Yeah,” Nick said. He tightened the last nut and jacked the car down. He threw the jack into the trunk and wrestled the flat tire in after it. Then he slammed the trunk lid down while Derek helped Morgan down from the cab of the truck.

“You should get that tire fixed right away,” Nick said, his voice loud enough for Derek to hear. “You don't want to be out driving around without a spare.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I mean it. Right away.”

I nodded. Nick picked up the tire iron and headed back to the truck.

“Drive carefully, ladies,” Derek said. “I'm not always going to be around to bail you out, you know.”

I thanked him. Morgan waved cheerily at him. We got back in the car, and I started the engine. Derek and Nick climbed into the pickup and drove away.

“Remind me never to get into a truck with that guy again,” Morgan said.

“Did he try anything?”

“No. But there's something about him—he gives me the creeps.”

I put the car into gear, and we started back to town. While I drove, I filled Morgan in on what Nick had told me.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“I'm going to ask Mr. Hartford if he'll give me tomorrow afternoon off.”

  .    .    .

“This is crazy,” Morgan said the next afternoon as I packed her camera into my backpack. “You're crazy. What if someone sees you?”

“Sees me do what? I'm just going for a hike. I'm going to take a few pictures of that old church.”

Mr. Hartford had given me the afternoon off to work on my story. Before I had left the newspaper office, I'd chatted with Margie Harris upstairs about the history of the area, particularly its early days as a logging site. She mentioned an old church a few miles north of the old logging camp and the sawmill on Larry Wilson's property.

“It's on private property, so you would have to get permission,” she said. “But if you hike a few miles north, there's a lovely old church that used to operate during the logging season. There's a cemetery there, too . . .”

She'd unfolded a map of the area and showed me where to find the church.

“Besides,” I said to Morgan as I tucked the map into my pocket, “if Nick is right, whatever is going on out there goes on at night. I'm going during the day.”

“When you'll be easier to spot,” Morgan pointed out.

“When normal people go hiking.” My dad had told me one time that if you act suspiciously, you'll make people suspicious. The trick is to look normal. “Or would you rather I go out there after dark?”

Morgan shuddered and shook her head.

“Don't you think you should at least talk to your dad?”

I did. And I had tried. But either something was wrong with his cell phone, or something was wrong with the signal way over there on the other side of the world.

“I can't get through to him,” I said.

“What about your mom?”

“You're kidding, right? What do you think my mom would say if she knew Nick was up here, never mind if I told her what I'm about to do?”

“Right,” Morgan said. She knew how my mom felt about Nick. She also knew that my mom would freak out if I even started to tell her about my plan.

“It shouldn't take long,” I said. “I'll have my phone on vibrate, just in case. I'll call you when I'm on my way home.”

  .    .    .

Even though I had told Morgan not to worry, my heart was racing as I turned onto a narrow road just east of Wild River Road. I parked beside some bushes so that my car wouldn't immediately be seen by anyone who happened to drive by.

It was a warm, bright day. I hiked from where I had parked the car to the banks of the Wild River, which was more like a stream and looked about as wild as the average house cat, and followed it south until I came to a chain-link fence. From there I hiked west until I came to a gate. The fence was high and sturdy and new. Its gate had a sign attached: Private Property. No Trespassing. A rusted padlock held it shut.

I continued along the fence for a few feet but didn't see any gaps. I doubled back to the gate, looked around in all directions, and then grabbed the chain-link, shoving the toes of my hiking boots into the openings. Once I'd climbed to the top, I swung my legs over and dropped down to the other side. I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, and wondered how fast I could climb back over if I had to.

I told myself to relax. I had been careful. No one had seen me. Besides, it was daylight. I checked my map again. I was on the logging road. Wilson had been right about it—it was in terrible shape. In some places it was all washboardy. In others, chunks of road were missing altogether. I had trouble imagining that it was used anymore. I thought about that rusty old lock and wondered how long it had been since anyone had unlocked it.

I decided to get off the road and walk in the woods, where I would be less visible. That's when I noticed wheel ruts several feet away from the logging road, running roughly parallel to it. Vehicle traffic of some kind had cut deeply into the shrubs, and from the look of it, that traffic had been repeated and relatively recent.

I stayed among the trees and peered around, but I didn't see anything. I kept walking until I finally spotted a building in a clearing up ahead. The old sawmill.

It stood in a weedy clearing, but there were tire tracks in the gravel and dirt around it. Wide and deep, same as the ones near the old logging road.
A truck must have made them
, I thought.

The sawmill was a large, squat building. Part of it was open on one side and filled with rusty old equipment, piles old lumber, and a series of covered wooden bins. I crept inside and looked around. I even opened the bins. Most of them were empty. One was filled with pieces of scrap wood.

The rest of the sawmill was closed in. I circled around until I found a door. Locked.

Tall, grimy windows ran all around the enclosed section. I went up on tiptoes and peeked in. There was more equipment inside, but it was hard to make out through the dirt just what it was. I tried to open the window above me. It was locked. I tried the next one. It was also locked. I circled the building, trying window after window. Locked, locked, locked ...