FORTY- THREE
Three days had passed without incident. Knight had reconnoi-tered much of the forested mountainsides within the borders of Pinck-ney without finding any evidence of construction. King had spent the time getting to know the locals, who he skillfully interrogated without ever raising an eyebrow. He'd asked everyone he came across about new construction in the area, convoys of trucks, everything he could think of. No one had seen a thing. Bishop remained holed away in the Honeymoon cabin, researching the area on the Internet, mapping out a search pattern for Knight, and meditating his rage issues away, which was made simpler thanks to the relaxed environment provided by the cottage and surrounding natural world.
But they were all getting anxious. The clock was ticking.
As had become habit, King took Thor for a walk, leading him out across the large grassed quad that led to the Tabernacle, then the trailer park, and the official "dog walk" beyond. The time alone provided King with an opportunity to think and take stock of any changes in the scenery.
But nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Birds chirped from the fringes of the forest. Morning dew clung to the quad's close-cut grass. Gleaming white clouds rolled past in the distance, behind Stinson Mountain. The air smelled clean, despite the yellow clouds of pollen that filtered down from the pine trees with every stiff breeze. And always, the sounds of children, both seen and unseen, called from all corners of the campground.
He paused to take it all in. The place was a haven. All the more reason to find and stop Ridley, King thought. He gripped the leash hard in his hand and his frustration at their inability to find Manifold. Three days. Three damn days.
As he stared at the ground, thinking about what tactics might work better than the current subtle approach, King failed to notice the car bearing down on his position. It wasn't until the brakes were applied, screeching the car to a stop, that he looked up and saw the front end of an old station wagon stop five feet short of barreling him over. Through the brown dust kicked up by the stopping car, he caught site of a figure moving swiftly from the driver's side door.
He reached under his T-shirt behind his back, gripping the hidden handgun. Just as he was pulling it out, the newcomer emerged from the dust. King shoved the handgun back into his pants and put on a smile.
"Now just what in the name of Pete do you think you're doing?"
Mrs. Scranton. Eighty years old, white-haired and wearing a loose-fitting light blue, flowered dress. Full of fire, and apparently brimstone as well.
"Mrs. Scranton. How nice to see you again," King said. He'd first made her acquaintance two days ago when she commented on his choice of T-shirt — his Elvis T-shirt no less.
"This mongrel is… is relieving himself all over the quad!"
King looked down. Thor stared up at him with his big innocent eyes, still squatting. A fresh mound of rank feces sat behind him. At that moment, King missed Rook. He tried to imagine what Rook would say in such a situation, but failed miserably in his attempt. "Guess he needs to lay off the bran, huh?"
The old woman's sour face reminded King who he was talking to. Bran issues probably hit too close to home.
"I do hope you brought a plastic bag for that mess?"
King's smile said it all. Nope.
"What was your name again?"
King missed the question as he caught site of a woman standing outside the Snack Shack. She was looking right at him. After a few seconds of eye contact, more than could be chalked up to a casual glance or even physical attraction, she ducked inside the building and disappeared into the darkness within. King tensed. The way the woman carried herself — like a soldier — stood in stark contrast to everyone else he'd seen in town.
A shrill scream snapped his attention back to Mrs. Scranton. Thor, feeling frisky after relieving himself was kicking dirt with his back legs, all over Mrs. Scranton. She huffed and made her way back to the car. A series of contorted facial expressions mixed with more than one kind of grunt, gasp, and growl told King she was going to tell the campground's higher-ups and anyone on God's green earth that would listen about this incident. He gave as friendly a wave as he could muster as she started the engine, but it only seemed to enrage her further. Pedal to the metal, she nearly ran them over as she peeled away, rounding the quad, turning toward the campground exit and skidding to a stop in front of the registration building. As she stormed inside, King looked down at Thor. "We're supposed to be undercover. That means not drawing any unnecessary attention you dumb mutt."
But the incident had given him something, though he didn't know what yet. He headed toward the Snack Shack, determined to find out who the mystery woman was.
Knight followed the dirt road that rounded a corner and up a hill at the backside of the campgrounds. The road didn't exist on the campground map and was too covered with trees to see where it went via satellite. It was one of the few patches of terrain in Pinckney he hadn't checked out, so he decided to have a look. He doubted he'd find anything worthwhile, though. The campground owned hundreds of acres going back into the mountains, and no one would have been able to build up here without the campground's knowledge. But there wasn't much territory left uncovered and he doubted he'd missed anything.
He stayed five feet in from the road, just in case someone drove past. It wouldn't do him much good to be seen dressed in all black, carrying a MSG3 selective-fire rifle over his shoulder. That kind of news would travel fast in a small town. It might not be believed by the locals, but if Manifold caught wind, they would send out the hounds for sure.
At the top of the hill, Knight found an abandoned horse stable and three large, brown buildings. An old kids camp by the looks of it. The largest building, a long, rotting structure full of broken windows, bore a sign that read "Mess Hall." The other buildings, smaller and in equal disrepair, held signs that read "Administration," "Nurse," and "Snack Shack 2." The place had once been a part of the campground below, but had been left to rot long ago. Nothing of interest, though.
Knight continued on, following the dirt road. He passed a rainwater-and tadpole-filled in-ground swimming pool and a rusted swing set. A small utility building full of deflated inner tubes came next. Then, after a sharp turn and short hill, he arrived at what looked like a kid's camp straight out of a B horror movie. There were twenty-odd brown cabins arranged in a U. The dirt road ran up and around the cabins, exiting into the forest on the other side of the campground.
He crouched low, hidden by a pine branch, and swept the area, keeping track of the sounds and smells of the place. Convinced no one was around, he entered the campground. The wooded center of the camp was full of campground obstacles in disrepair. Tires half buried in the ground. A zip line now tangled in branches. A tire swing with no tire. The place looked like it would have been fun once. Now it was a ghost town.
A distant sound caught his attention. A hum. An engine. Perhaps a semi on route 27 echoing off the mountains. Perhaps something else. Knight made his way to the back of a cabin, climbed a nearby tree and threw himself to the cabin's roof as easily as a chimp, breaking off and taking a pine branch on the way. He lay flat, covering his head with the pine branch, and peering over the top with a pair of reflection-free binoculars. A glint of light caught his eye. A blue pickup truck. Nearly as old as the camp by the looks of it.
He took aim with his rifle. The weapon didn't have the range or power that his assortment of sniper rifles did, but it was amazingly accurate at a distance — more so in his hands — and its automatic fire made it the superior choice for a wooded firefight. The truck drove slowly through the campground, working its way around potholes and fallen branches.