In Search of Eden (38 page)

“I'm upset,” she finally admitted. She sniffed away her tears, but she could feel the red splotches beginning on her neck. She always broke out with them when she became angry or cried.

“I can see that.” His voice was kind. “I'm a detective, you know.” A quirky smile. “Come take a walk,” he said. “I'll do the talking, and you can regroup. After fifteen minutes I guarantee your troubles will seem like nothing compared to your boredom.”

She smiled in spite of herself. Another minute's pause. “Okay,” she said. “I'll take a walk.”

They walked. He talked, as promised. She breathed deeply and reeled in her stinging heart.

“This trail is thirty-four miles long,” he said. “It follows an abandoned railroad and is named after the train, the Virginia
Creeper, which is about what it had to do to climb up the mountains. But this part is flat and perfect for walking.”

She could feel her pulse slow, her face cool. He continued in a quiet voice, deliberately distracting her, she suspected, giving her time to gather herself together.

“My great-grandmother and great-grandfather on my pop's side used to live over there on Whitetop Mountain,” he said, pointing east, “not far from where I live now. For years up on the mountain there was no railroad and barely any roads. There were pockets of people up there like them who might as well have lived in another time. They built log houses and plowed with mules and doctored themselves with plants and roots. Those are my people,” he said.

She saw who he was for the first time and realized he could not be really known in any place but here. Some people belonged to their settings.

“Anyway, the trail runs from Abingdon down to the Carolina border and intersects with the Appalachian Trail near here. We get bird watchers, fishermen, naturalists, and historians. The rock around here is almost all limestone. Underground streams eat it away and make sinkholes and caverns. You never know what's under your feet.”

She smiled. He smiled back. He was really quite handsome when he smiled. He had an almost perfectly symmetrical face, a straight nose. His mouth was relaxed into a smile today instead of the grim line she had first seen. His forehead was unlined, and his green eyes gentle.

“What kind of tree is this?” she asked, pointing toward the huge mammoth with the opening as big as a man in the roots.

“It's a giant sycamore,” he said. “They like their feet to be wet. Look for them near streams. The first settlers slept inside them while they were clearing the land for their cabins. I've heard the woods were so thick they couldn't grow grains. They ate turkey breast and called it bread.”

She tried to imagine the woods so dark and deep and didn't
have to strain her imagination. “I went to West Virginia the day we had sarsaparilla by the creek,” she said.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I was looking for my mother's people. She was from Thurmond.”

“Where the only difference between it and hell is the river,” Joseph said.

She nodded and barely suppressed a shudder. “It's true,” she said. “There's a darkness there. I could feel it.”

He didn't ridicule her, just looked at her wisely. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I can feel it, too, in different places. I don't feel it here, though,” he said. “I suppose that's why I stayed on when I probably should have left. To try to do everything I can to keep the darkness out.”

“I'm glad you did,” she said, and then felt a little embarrassed, but he didn't seem to read more into the comment than he should have. They walked on peaceably, and he pointed out more trees and birds. He told her there were bears that sometimes wandered onto the trail, and bobcats. He showed her his favorite fishing stream but said to find the best spot he followed it deep into the woods.

“Was it fun growing up at the camp?” she asked.

He smiled. “It was a boy's paradise. My brother and I had forts in the woods, and BB guns. We swam in the lake and fished and rowed. We hunted in the woods. There were always kids to play with. School was the only insult.”

She smiled. “I can imagine. It seems like a wonderful place to live.”

“You should have met my dad,” he said. “He was a great man.”

“How long ago did he die?”

“About thirteen years ago,” he said.

“I wish I could have met him, too.”

They had reached the bridge over the confluence of the two branches of the Holston River. “I suppose we should turn back,”
he said. “They'll be wondering where we went.”

They watched the muddy water of the Middle Fork merge with the clear water of the South. “The Middle Fork drains farmland,” Joseph explained. “Lots of dirt and sludge. The South drains the mountains where it's too rocky to farm, so it's clear.”

She wished she, too, had a history. A place. Somewhere she knew she belonged, whose features she knew. “I envy you,” she said.

“Why on earth do you envy me?” He looked genuinely surprised.

“Because you know where you belong.”

He gave her an inscrutable look. “I suppose.”

They turned and walked back. “Thank you,” she said after they'd traveled awhile. He didn't ask what for, and she was glad.

“You're welcome,” he said. “Do you feel like talking about what upset you?”

She was tempted. Genuinely tempted. She desperately needed an ally. Someone she could trust, but she didn't know if he fit that description. Would she ever know? she wondered. “Maybe someday,” she said, and he nodded, seeming content for now with that answer.

As they walked back toward the campground, Miranda was aware of many sets of eyes on them.

Apparently Joseph was, as well. “It's a small town,” he said. “I'm afraid they'll all be talking tomorrow.”

“Let them talk,” she said easily and continued walking beside him.

The party was breaking up. Miranda waited for a chance to talk to the two boys, but she had none. In fact, they were dressed and loading back into Father Leonard's van. She felt a sinking feeling as they did so. Fortunately, Lieutenant Joseph was busy moving tables and loading up equipment, so she didn't have to contend with his probing eyes.

She helped Ruth pack up, and just as they were ready to leave, both Henry and Joseph got calls on their cell phones within
minutes of each other. They both conversed in monosyllables, and right before her eyes, the kind, relaxed Joseph became the suspicious detective again. He closed his phone with a snap just seconds before Henry did, and arrangements were quickly made for Ruth and her and the children to be transported back to town without Joseph's truck.

“I've got to go, sweetie,” Henry said to Vi. “The Travelers have struck again.”

“Who are they?” Miranda asked Ruth, who was shaking her head in dismay.

“They're thieves and criminals,” Joseph answered grimly, and as he and Henry headed for their cars, Miranda caught sight of Grady. He had gone pale beneath his freckles, and he looked as if he might cry.

chapter
39

M
iranda recovered her optimism as she slept, and when she awoke on Monday morning she was hopeful and bold. How hard, after all, could it be to find out the birth date of one eleven-year-old boy? She served breakfast, looking up in anticipation whenever the bell jingled but had to admit she was a little disappointed when Henry Wilkes came in alone for his oatmeal and peaches. The other side of the booth stayed empty. She glanced at it when she was taking Henry's order and flushed when she noticed him noticing. He smiled knowingly when she served him. She left his booth in a flustered hurry. After he left, she looked at the empty booth and wondered for a fleeting minute if the walk yesterday had just been a mirage. “Everything's not always about you,” she muttered to herself; then she centered her mind on her job and stayed busy.

Pastor Hector came in around eight, and she served him breakfast. On an impulse she asked Venita if she could take a short break, and upon getting permission, she stopped at Hector's booth. “May I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Of course. Please, sit down.” He put aside the book he was reading.
The Story of Christianity
by Justo Gonzalez.

“Interesting reading,” she said as she slid into the booth.

“Indeed. Gonzales was one of my seminary professors. Also a compatriot. We are both native Cubans. Now Americans. He's first generation. I'm second.”

Miranda looked at Pastor Hector with interest. You never knew a person's story, she realized, unless you asked.

“Your parents came from Cuba?”

He nodded. “They escaped on a leaky boat, but once their feet touched American soil they were safe.”

“Like the cities of refuge in the Bible. Places where, no matter who you'd been before, you had a new chance.”

He looked at her, interested. “Exactly.”

“My neighbor used to tell me about them,” she said. “He was a Christian, too.”

She expected he would ask her if she was one then, and try to talk her into becoming one, but he just looked at her with that interested smile and something else in his eyes. It was as if he liked whom he was looking at, whether she believed the same things he did or not, and she felt a warm surge of acceptance.

“I was wondering about something,” she said, heading the conversation back to her mission.

“Shoot.”

“I would like to find out a little bit about one of the children at the group home. Do you have any ideas how I could do that?”

He was silent for a minute. “I assume the obvious answer has already been ruled out.”

She nodded. “I put his dander up the other day.”

Pastor Hector laughed. “That's not hard to do.”

She waited. He seemed to be considering. “Your best friend here in Abingdon is probably the person who knows the most about what's going on. She prides herself on being well informed.” His grin told her immediately whom he meant.

She laughed and nodded. Of course. She should just ask Eden. “I'll talk to her after school.” She thanked him, stood up, and went back to work, and it wasn't until he had left that she
realized he had never asked her why she wanted to know. Odd, now that she thought about it.

Joseph had skipped breakfast at the Hasty Taste and arrived at work early on Monday morning, then proceeded to stew in frustration. Yesterday's scam involved two more heat pump sales, this time in his jurisdiction. He had already spent too much time berating himself for going to the picnic while the Travelers invaded his territory. Now he was going to work the problem. He had spent hours yesterday afternoon visiting every trailer lot and campground, talking to managers and residents in search of the mysterious Ram truck and Jayco trailer. They were elusive, to say the least. According to his inquiries, those driving RVs were families or sportsmen. No one had aroused suspicion of any kind. He had even driven around any spots on private land that he thought might be inviting to someone wanting to lay low. He had turned up nothing.

His interviews with the crime victims had yielded some interesting facts, though. There was a group of these scam artists, not just one or two. Not exactly a surprise. One man had done the initial selling in both cases. He had been tall, gray-haired, and described by both victims—who happened to be women—as “charming.” The actual work, however, had been done by two-men crews, separate ones, according to the descriptions given. In all cases the con men had driven white vans.

One homeowner had become suspicious during the installation and had gotten the plate number of the van. But that, too, was a dead end. The plate turned out to have been stolen from a car in Alabama six months ago. Joseph was heartily sick of these fellows' activities.

He decided to take the offensive. He knocked at the chief's office door and was admitted. Ray Craddock was probably Joseph's own age but more of a bureaucrat than a policeman. He
had been hired from outside the department, an upstart from the D.C. area. Part of the town manager's idea to bring in new blood. The chief listened attentively to Joseph, then gave him leave to do whatever he thought best. Joseph proposed a town meeting to inform the residents of Abingdon of the threat, as well as a press release to the news media. A joint operation with the Washington County Sheriff's Department.

“All right,” Chief Craddock said, “as long as we get credit for the idea.”

“Why don't you take credit personally, Chief?” Joseph suggested. “You can talk about it when you speak to the reporters.”

“Good idea, Williams. I like the way you think.”

Joseph suppressed a smile. He had found early on that the two of them could have a smooth working relationship if he did the police work and left the posturing and cameras to the chief. Both of them seemed perfectly satisfied with the arrangement. “Great,” he said. “I'll get the meeting arranged.”