I wished I could go out and grab the lightkeeper’s hands to find out where Sam was, but I suspected the link between them wouldn’t be strong enough. A person had to have a strong desire to find something in order for me to see it in their head. That meant there was only one thing left to do.
As I continued looking at the horse figure, I was conscious of Kevin moving around the room, trying to help. I slowly removed one of my gloves and reached for the little statue, ignoring its place of origin and other nonproductive impressions.
Salt air. Waves crashing on the northern Currituck Beach. The sounds of horses. A man shaking hands with Sam.
“I know where he is!” I was pleased that the contact might make some difference. And that I hadn’t ended up on the floor.
Kevin looked at the statue in my hand. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. Maybe the impression wasn’t as forceful as touching pirate gold that people have died for. This little horse has probably been sold in every gift shop in the Outer Banks, although it wasn’t made in China.”
He smiled. “Where do you think he is?”
“With the mustangs.”
The wild Spanish mustangs were a must-see for every tourist who came to the Outer Banks. Like the lighthouses, they were a legacy of our past that seemed to endlessly fascinate people.
Unlike the lighthouses, the mustangs didn’t stay in one place. For those willing to pay ridiculously high prices, tour companies guaranteed that visitors would see the horses, but it didn’t necessarily work out that way.
The mustangs were said to be descendants of Spanish horses that had made it to shore following a sixteenth-century shipwreck. They roamed the Outer Banks freely for centuries, providing working partners for the Bankers, until development came and the horses became endangered. Now they were managed and taken care of, but never tamed.
“Sam could be anywhere along thirty miles of coastline,” I explained to Kevin.
“We could ask around. See if one of the tour guides took him out.”
“He knows the area too well to ask for help.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
I told him about Sam shaking hands with a man who was close to the horses and the beach. “But that could be anywhere.”
“Would he be likely to hike out there?”
“Probably not.” I smiled. “He’s as physically challenged as Max. Neither one of them ever walked where they could drive. But as far as I know, he doesn’t have an SUV or a Jeep. A regular car would have a hard time going in to look for the horses.”
“How else could he get there?”
“Maybe he got a ride from someone. Maybe Mr. Artiz knows who that could be.”
We went to find him. He was sitting on the lighthouse stairs, cleaning his shotgun. He glanced up and frowned when he saw us coming. “Now what?”
“How would Sam go out to see the horses?” I asked.
“I don’t know. How does anyone get out there?”
“Does he know anyone with an SUV or some other four-wheeler?” Kevin asked with a little more authority in his voice.
It didn’t matter. “I don’t keep tabs on Sam.”
“Thanks anyway.” Either he didn’t know or he didn’t want to say.
As Kevin and I began walking away, the lighthouse keeper called out, “Could be one of those mall-cop things, like in the movies.”
“Mall-cop thing?” Kevin wondered aloud.
“Segway!” I knew exactly what he meant. “I saw the ads for them on TV. Thanks, Mr. Artiz!”
We got back in Kevin’s truck. He was still mystified. I explained. “They’re those tall motorized scooters you balance on. I’ll show you. There’s a place out here that rents them.”
We parked at the outfitters place, and I rented two Segways, complete with helmets and maps to the wild horses. The man at the front counter kept trying to sell us a guide until I told him I’d been out plenty of times to see the mustangs. “Have you rented one of these recently to Sam Meacham?”
He glanced at his book of rentals. There weren’t many on the page since it was a slow time of the year. “Yeah, sure. He was here a few days ago. He was taking a man out to see the horses, like you, Mayor O’Donnell.”
“Do I know you?”
“I recognize your name from your driver’s license and credit card. I heard it on the news report about the museum exploding. Hope that doesn’t happen here. Do you think it really was the pirate ghost?”
“Of course not!” I told him. “Thanks.”
“What did the man with Meacham look like?” Kevin asked the outfitter.
“I don’t know.” He thought back. “Medium height. Maybe brown hair. He had a two-way radio. Could be a highway worker.”
“Thanks.”
“If you see them, tell them I need the Segways back. Normally I’d call the police, but it’s Sam and everything. But I still need them back.”
The Segways were a lot easier to balance on than I’d thought they’d be. In no time, we were both up and going down the hard-packed sand at the edge of the beach.
The air was fresh and cool, drawing large groups of people to the beach. Huge kites were flying across the whitecaps on the water. One man with a large, purple kite was actually having trouble keeping his feet on the sand. The wind picked him up again and again, threatening to take him out to sea. Finally, two more people joined him to help hold the kite. There was a reason Orville and Wilbur Wright came down here from Ohio to fly their airplane.
There were heavy bushes and some squat trees where the path wandered. At times I couldn’t see the water. The steady hum of the Segway motors and the whirr of the wide tires ate up the distance down the coast.
We stopped near a small group of mustangs—a mare, a stallion and a colt standing on the beach. A group of tourists were snapping pictures while the horses posed calmly for them.
“I hope there are more horses than these,” Kevin remarked. “I don’t see Sam here.”
“There are a lot of horses out here. I’m hoping we’ll run into some of the Wild Horse Preservation Society that manages the herd. One of them might know Sam.”
He nodded and we got back on our Segways. From that point on, it was as common to see the horses as it was to see the statues of them that littered the Outer Banks. Large groups of them gathered to munch on the grass between the sand dunes and sea oats. Young stallions bucked and played with one another. A mare nursed her colt. It was inspiring to see them living so free.
I pointed to one of the Wild Horse trailers near the old life station, and we slowed our Segways again. “Not a bad way to travel,” Kevin said.
“It’s fast anyway.” I didn’t want to mention that I felt gritty all over from the sand flying up as we moved. “Let’s check in with them.”
A burly man in a green sweater who was smoking a pipe greeted us at the trailer with a hearty handshake. He introduced himself as Tom Watts, one of the local Wild Horse workers.
“I’m looking for Sam Meacham from the Corolla Historical Museum,” I said when I could get my hand back. “Have you seen him?”
“Of course! He was here yesterday. He was taking his friend around to see the horses.”
“Medium height, brown hair?” Kevin guessed.
“That’s right. I can’t recall his name. He was in a hurry. Sometimes people have to be patient. The horses aren’t here for our amusement even though it may seem like that to some.”
“Any idea which way they went?” I asked him.
“I told them we had a group of people from the mainland down here doing a study on the horses. They’re about two miles up from here. Sam went that way with his friend.”
“Thanks.” I made the mistake of shaking his hand again.