“They’re not that type.”
“Is Texas their sole residence? With that kind of money—”
“It’s their main residence. I don’t even know what else they own, but west Texas is definitely home.”
“Could Ham have gone to another of their properties to recuperate? Maybe his mother got on his nerves.”
“I don’t know where he went.”
She gave Ethan a sideways glance. “Are you worried about him, especially now with Tatro on the loose?”
“Ham goes his own way. He doesn’t fit anywhere that easily, which makes it hard to know whether I should worry or not.”
“An unlikely spook.”
Ethan didn’t bother with a denial.
“The thought of that creep Tatro—” Juliet tightened her hands into fists and picked up her pace, the lane in the woods now, taking them along the bottom of a hill. “Let’s hope Wendy doesn’t know he escaped. If she’s off on a little adventure, throwing pebbles in the lake or catching frogs or writing poetry—maybe an hour or two on her own in peace will do her good.”
“Maybe,” Ethan said, neutral.
She stopped when they came to the dirt road, postcard perfect with the morning sun and the autumn foliage, the sprinkle of freshly fallen red, orange and yellow leaves. The fog had burned off, and an intermittent breeze cooled the air. She stood next to Ethan and sighed at the quiet scene. “There are a million places she could be.”
“We can split up. Just point me in the right direction.”
“Sam’s gone up to the orchard to look. We know she didn’t take a car, and her note says she’ll be back soon. We’re all probably overreacting, but we’ll find her.” Juliet cast him a wry smile. “In the meantime, the Marshals Service can conduct a manhunt without me.”
Ethan knew he didn’t need to remind her that it was a manhunt for Bobby Tatro this time.
“I wonder what she was wearing,” Juliet said, half to herself. “It’s warming up now, but it was cold when she—”
“Wendy knows Vermont. She’ll have dressed for the weather.”
“Ethan—I don’t like this. Your Texan’s missing. Mia O’Farrell’s missing. Tatro’s escaped. Wendy picked a bad time to sneak out.” Juliet glanced up the road, toward a cabin tucked on the wooded hillside. “What did Matt Kelleher say when you talked to him, before Nate called?”
“Not much. He said he hasn’t seen your niece.”
“Apparently he and Wendy have hit it off.” Juliet thought a moment. “If Wendy thinks he understands her and the rest of us don’t, maybe whatever it is she’s up to involves him. She could be sitting in his camper writing poetry. I’m not suggesting he’s aware—”
“Let’s have a look,” Ethan said, heading up the road to the steep driveway.
The cabin was built into the hillside amid tall evergreens and a few birch trees, their yellow leaves and white bark a contrast to the pines and hemlocks. Stone steps led up from the driveway to a deck and sliding glass doors. Huge rhododendrons had taken over the front windows. And the Longstreets were landscapers, Ethan thought, amused. Kelleher’s fifth-wheel camper stood in front of the one-car garage. His truck, an older vehicle with Arizona plates, was parked alongside the camper, in the shade of a massive hemlock.
Juliet knocked on the dented camper door. “Mr. Kelleher? It’s Juliet Longstreet.” When there was no answer, as expected, she tried the door, but it was locked. She stepped back down onto the driveway. “Wendy! Are you here?” She sighed, nodding to the cabin. “I’ll check up there, just in case. You’d think she’d know to turn up before her father gets back. Never mind worrying the rest of us.”
But she left it at that and mounted the steps to the cabin, trying the slider, but it, too, was locked. “I guess she’s not here,” Juliet said, disappointed.
Ethan had remained by the camper. “Your brothers check out this guy, Kelleher?”
She headed back down the steps. “I doubt it. He hasn’t been here that long.”
“He just shows up out of nowhere and asks for work, says his wife died?”
“It happens—” But she frowned, her eyes reaching Ethan’s as she joined him on the driveway. “But maybe not this week.”
“Yeah, maybe not.” Without asking her permission or telling her what he was about to do, Ethan raised his right leg and gave the camper door a hard, snapping kick with the heel of his boot. It popped open. Easy. He shrugged at the federal marshal next to him. “The door’s dented. I’m buying him a new one. Have to take the old one off first.”
“You don’t trust anyone, do you, Brooker?”
“Do you?”
Not answering, she climbed into the camper ahead of him. The interior was shabby but immaculate. Wendy wasn’t tied up in a corner. There was no kiddy-porn laid out on a stained mattress. Juliet checked the refrigerator—no alcohol, not so much as a six-pack. The shelves were crammed with protein bars, soy milk, carrot juice.