Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) (12 page)

CHAPTER 42

I
AN
S
ANDERS WORKED
for the United States Marshals Service’s Technical Operations Group. It is the best electronic surveillance manhunting organization in the world. Their Electronic Surveillance Branch, Air Surveillance Branch, and Tactical Support Branch provide investigative and intelligence support for the Marshals Service.

Ian and I had once worked together during one of the FALCON operations. FALCON is an acronym for Federal And Local Cops Organized Nationally. The operation is a weeklong dragnet organized by the Marshals Service. It involves law-enforcement personnel from federal, state, county, and city agencies. Everybody collaborates to capture the biggest targets of the participating agencies. Targets include violent offenders, sex offenders, and gang members. Operation FALCON has apprehended more violent fugitives than any other initiative in U.S. law-enforcement history.

Together Ian and I had captured sixty fugitives during Operation FALCON. Several had entertained us with stories while riding in the back of our car.

One fugitive had explained why going to jail beat going to work.

“A jail cell’s bigger than an office cubicle, and you get your own toilet—you don’t have to share it with coworkers. You get three meals a day in jail, but only one meal break at work. In jail a guard unlocks all of the doors for you, but at work you have to unlock them yourself with a security card.”

Ian and I have stayed in touch over the years., though we never got an opportunity to work together again after Operation FALCON.

I phoned Ian.

“Need a favor, pal.”

“Name it, Rip.”

“Need to find a woman named Anna Cruz.”

“What’s her home address?”

“Nineteen forty-one Bluebird Street, Pottsland, Missouri.”

“Lemme get back to you.”

“I think she’s hiding out in St. Louis. I’d bet my reputation on it.”

“What reputation?”

Later that day Ian phoned me back. He gave me Anna’s driver’s license information, a description of her car, and her license plate number. He also provided me with the car’s general location.

License plate readers make it possible to track and locate the license plate of almost any vehicle in America. Automatic license plate reading cameras are mounted on bridges, utility poles, and police cars across the country. These cameras capture images of passing license plates. The license plate numbers are recorded by a commercial database called the National Insurance Crime Bureau, which is the source of information for the United States Marshals Service’s Technical Operations Group when it comes to locating license plates.

Ian, using information from this database, had determined that Anna’s car was located within a few blocks of the Gateway Arch in downtown St. Louis.

The hunt was on.

CHAPTER 43

I
T WAS FIVE
a.m. when I pulled out of S’mores and Snores Campground. I had the GPS set to take me to an RV park in St. Louis. My estimated arrival time showed nine thirty-two a.m.

I like to get on the road early. Before traffic gets heavy. I like to feel the cool air of early morning, see the first beams of the rising sun, hear the songs of awakening birds.

My motor home rolled along with no problems. The engine sounded good. Bob the mechanic had done a fine job of repairing it.

The interior and exterior of my motor home looked new. As if it had never been used. No scratches. No dents. Everything gleamed. But my motor home was not new. I had bought it used. It was much cheaper that way, and most of the kinks had already been worked out by the previous owner. I had considered buying new, but then thought better of it. I didn’t want to spend a fortune on an RV that would begin to depreciate as soon as I drove it off the sales lot.

My headlights cut through the darkness. I set the cruise control to sixty, turned on the radio. Nothing good was on the radio, so I listened to an audiobook, sipping my coffee as I listened.

After a while the pale sun began to rise over the distant blue mountains. I put on my sunglasses and turned off my headlights. It was going to be a beautiful day.

I love this way of life. Living on the road. Never staying in any one place too long. Always on the move. I love the freedom of not owning a home. No yard work. No property tax. No permanent neighbors. I love not being weighed down by stuff. Rooms filled with furniture. Closets filled with clothes. Cabinets filled with junk. I love seeing America. East Coast. West Coast. Everything in between. I love not having to stay in hotels. No bedbugs. No noisy ice machines. No lack of privacy. I know the mobile lifestyle is not for everybody, but for me there could be nothing better.

Once when I was camping in Maine I met a rough-looking guy who told me that living on the road was his purpose in life.

“Before I found my life’s purpose,” he had told me, “I had tons of money, owned a lot of land, had a huge house too. Drug money paid for it all. I had all the material goods a man would ever need. On the other hand I always had to watch out for the law, and for people that wanted to steal money and dope from me, and for girlfriends that were with me only for the drugs and money.

“Then everything changed. The law locked me up for six years. The government took my possessions. When I got out of prison I owned almost nothing. I thought I had nothing to live for then. There was nothing to keep me going, nothing to get me through the day. I remember thinking about how my life had gone bad, how physically out of shape I was, how little I had left to live for.

“One day I put a gun to my head. But then I thought, Well, I still have some cash left and there are still some places I’d like to see and some things I’d like to do first. So I bought a used van. I’ve been living on the road ever since. Every morning when I wake up in my van I look outside and see a new landscape and realize I have a million-dollar view on a lemonade budget. I try to focus on what I have and not on what’s missing from my life. I take pleasure in the small things in my life, live life for today, enjoy every second of it.”

Sometimes I think about that guy, how he found his purpose in the mobile lifestyle, and the thought gives me solace and strength.

In my rearview mirror I could see a line of cars behind me on the winding road with a single lane. I pulled over to let them pass. None of the drivers seemed angry at me for having slowed them down with my lumbering vehicle.

When all of the cars had passed I pulled onto the road again. The posted speed limit was forty miles an hour. It was not a fast road.

I have no desire to live in the fast lane.

No desire to live in the slow lane.

I prefer no lane at all.

I blaze my own path.

CHAPTER 44

H
EAVEN ON
W
HEELS
RV Park was located just ten minutes from downtown St. Louis. It had plenty of amenities. Basketball court. Courtesy patrol. Dump station. Free WiFi. Full hookups. Laundry room. Lighted pedestals. Onsite bike rentals. Picnic tables. Swimming pool. Whirlpool.

I went into the office to register. Then I parked at a site, leveled my RV, and connected the hookups.

Meanwhile a white pickup truck pulling a travel trailer came into view. Two boys and one girl spilled out of the truck and began to set up the trailer at breakneck speed. They chocked the tires, unhitched the trailer, leveled the trailer, set the corner jacks, turned off the circuit breaker, connected the electric cord, turned on the circuit breaker again, connected the water hose, connected the sewer hose, went inside to check all the connections, opened the slides, set up the satellite dish, and opened the awning.

It was impressive to watch. I had never seen a travel trailer set up in such a short time. I spoke to the father.

“Your kids work fast. You must know how to motivate them.”

“Nobody goes to the bathroom till the trailer’s set up.”

It was only a little after ten a.m. and I was already getting hungry. So I took a Greek yogurt from my refrigerator and sat down at a picnic table. The sun was hot. The blue pool water looked cool.

I was about to go put on my swim trunks when an elderly woman pulled up beside me. Her SUV was pink. Her travel trailer was pink. The woman looked like she was glamping.

Glamping is a blend of glamour and camping. It is for campers who want to experience the great outdoors without sacrificing luxury. It is a way to experience the advantages of camping without the uncomfortable disadvantages.

I sat watching as the elderly woman tried to back her thirty-foot trailer into the site. She tried. And tried. And tried.

I learned a long time ago to never give advice to anybody unless they ask for it. Some people hate advice. No matter whom it comes from. No matter whether the advice is good or bad. The irony is that the people who hate advice the most are the ones who need it most.

I kept watching the woman try to back her long pink trailer into the site. She would pull forward, come to a stop, start to back up, realize she was turning too much or too little, come to another stop, and then start the entire process all over again. It was like watching a tennis match in slow motion.

After a while she finally gave up. She got out of the pink SUV and lit up a cigarette. She puffed and puffed at it. Smoke poured out from the corners of her frowning mouth. She took a last drag on the cigarette, crushed it under her heel, and came over to me with a pleasant smile on her face.

“For five minutes you have been sitting here watching me try to back that big trailer into that little site and you have not laughed at me or made any faces like most men do when they see me trying my damn hardest to get the job done and I would just like to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“My name is Betty.”

“Rip.”

“Rip, would you mind helping me out?”

“What can I do?”

“Back my trailer in for me?”

I smiled at her.

“Yes,” I said. “I can do that for you. But then how’s that going to help you the next time? Wouldn’t you rather learn to do it yourself?”

Betty shrugged.

“Sure,” she said. “But I have already tried to learn to do it myself and you can see how well that went and I am not so sure you can teach this old dog a new trick especially when this old dog has some trouble remembering the new trick she was taught yesterday.”

“I know it’s not easy getting the trailer to go the way you want it to go when you’re backing up. What makes it difficult is that you have to steer in the opposite direction from where you want your trailer to go. You have to turn the steering wheel to the right if you want your trailer to turn left, and you have to turn it to the left if you want your trailer to turn right. It’s not very intuitive, is it?”

“Not at all. My brain does not work that way.”

“Nobody’s does. The key to backing up is to place your hand at the bottom of the steering wheel. Most people place it at the top. I saw you were doing that, and it’s why you had to steer in the opposite direction from where you wanted your trailer to go. Try placing your hand at the bottom of the steering wheel. Then when you turn it to the right your trailer turns right, and when you turn it to the left your trailer turns left. It’s very intuitive.”

“I will give it another shot.”

I watched. In one smooth arc Betty backed her trailer into the site. It took her ten seconds to do it.

I clapped.

Betty came out of the pink SUV with a huge grin on her face. She took a little bow and lit up another cigarette.

“I am good, am I not?”

“It was very smooth, Betty.”

She drew on her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.

“You like my pink trailer?”

“I’m sure it has all the comforts of home.”

“Not a dishwasher.”

“You don’t have a dishwasher in there?”

“Nope, I left him at home.”

“Husband?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He doesn’t like to camp?”

“He does not like to camp and that is okay with me but I cannot let it stop me from doing the thing that means the most to me and that is camping and fishing and relaxing. I have such a hectic lifestyle with my job and my handicapped son that I look forward to any weekend break that I can possibly get and most people think I have lost my mind because I camp all by myself and I cannot believe that in this day and age anybody can think that a woman should not camp on her own. Campgrounds and RV parks are safe and the gates are closed during the night so that nobody can drive in from off the highway and I often feel safer at campgrounds and RV parks than I do when I am at home in the house where I have lived for the past forty years. But I still keep mace with me and a wooden bat and my key fob with alarm and I carry these weapons on my person and sleep with them and have them near me at all times when camping and I am never without a weapon. I wear a whistle around my neck because it is an inexpensive way to call for help and so I am never worried but I am prepared and cautious at all times and I keep a pair of heavily used work boots outside my trailer so that anybody who thinks about breaking in will think about it twice because they will not want to mess with a man who wears size thirteen boots and sometimes I also keep a large dog bowl outside my trailer.”

“Nobody’s going to mess with you,” I said.

“Do you feel safe at campgrounds and RV parks, Rip?”

“Only when you’re around.”