by Katy Munger
“Why exactly did you push him off the dock?” I asked.
“He told Candy she should be in Munchkinland instead of at camp. It made her cry. So I pushed him in. Nobody cared but the counselors and his stupid parents. Nobody else liked him anyway. I was doing everyone a favor.”
He explained this so matter-of-factly I was forced to rearrange my view of him as a benign and unlucky young man.
“Did you have to stand up for your sisters often?” I said.
He nodded. “I’m their brother. That’s what brothers do.”
I wondered how much of his behavioral troubles stemmed from an overzealous sense of brotherhood. Had his father said that to him once, out of concern for his daughters, only to see his advice backfire horribly? If Robert Jr. was going to attack everyone who made snide comments about Candy and Roxy, he would be a danger to the world indeed.
“You’re a good brother,” I told him. I took his hands in mine and they lay there, lifeless and clammy. His reactions had been drowned in chemicals.
"That doesn't seem fair to me," I added. "You being sent home like that. Was that the only camp you and Candy ever went to?”
Robert Jr was not impressed by my sympathy. He was starting at a shelf in the corner that held graphic novels and comic books. I got the hint and hurried up.
“So you never went back to Camp Tikkinaka?” I asked.
He grinned suddenly. “We used to call it ‘Camp Tittyknockers,’” he said proudly. “Me and the other boys.”
“Do you remember where it was?”
He shook his head. “I only got to go one summer. After that, I went to live in a special place all the time. A place like this, but everyone was younger than here. When I got older, mom and dad said I had to leave there and come here instead. That this was a school for people my age. I know it’s not really a school but if I tell them that, they’ll feel bad, so I pretend I think it’s a school.”
That broke my heart, though I could not explain why.
I heard loud voices in another room nearby. What if it was the real staff, making sure the residents were all tucked in for the night?
"I have to go," I told Robert Jr. "I don't want you to get in trouble for talking to me."
He shrugged. "I don't think there’s a rule that says I can’t let a friend of my sisters come into my room."
"Just the same, don't tell anyone I was here. Okay? Not even your girlfriend."
Robert shifted uncomfortably. "She's not my girlfriend and I don’t want to be her boyfriend. She is nice to me one moment and the next thing I know, she hits me. I don't think she can decide how she feels.”
"Trust me, it's not that she doesn't know how she feels about you," I told him. "She probably doesn’t know how she feels about life. Don't take it personally."
"I think I want a nicer girlfriend anyway."
"I don't blame you," I assured him.
“Can I ask you a favor before you go?” he said.
Uh oh. “Sure,” I agreed with forced enthusiasm, wondering what was coming.
“Can you show me how that button works that you can press and it writes down your words?”
“Sure.” I took his phone and pressed the microphone symbol near his texting keyboard. The dictation app kicked in and recorded my voice as I explained how it worked.
He started at the results, delighted. “This is fantastic,” he said. “Now I can send my sisters and my dad everything that I’m thinking. It takes me a really long time to text the other way.”
Oh, boy. I could only imagine the seven foot texts in store for the Tinajero family now. But then I had a more alarming thought: the police were probably monitoring Robert Sr.’s phone. If Robert Jr. texted his father, and told him I had been there, the jig would be up.
“Robbie,” I said solemnly as I deleted my sample text. “My visit is a secret, okay? You must promise not to tell anyone. You’ll get in big trouble for having visitors afterhours if you do.” It was mean, but necessary, to throw that last part in.
“I promise,” he said, too busy testing the dictation app to pay me any more attention. Would he really keep my visit to himself? I doubted it.
“By the way,” I told him. “If anyone asks, my name is Pamela Lee Anderson.”
There. That ought to confuse anyone he told.
Robert Jr. nodded absently as he poked at the keyboard on his phone. There was nothing else I could do but go.
I stuck my head out of his door. The coast was clear. "Your sisters send their love, and your mother, too,” I said. “They all said to tell you that they are proud of you for staying here and doing well. They can't wait to see you again."
Robert Jr. smiled. It was a beautiful sight. "They love me," he said.
"Yes they do,” I agreed. I hesitated, not sure I wanted to know the answer, but finally had to ask. "Is there a secret way out? I don’t want anyone to see me."
"Sure. Follow me," he said, delighted at assuming the role of protector. He walked quickly down the hallway, checking it in all directions to make sure no one saw us. "If you go out that door at the end of the hall, and down the steps to the very bottom, there's a door that takes you into the basement. There's a way out there. I use it sometimes." He stopped and stared at me with alarm, aware that he had divulged his secret.
"I won't tell anyone,” I promised. “Thanks again."
I walked quickly toward the stairwell door. As I pulled it open, I looked back over my shoulder. Robert Jr. was staring after me placidly, neither surprised at having seen me nor sad to see me go. I wondered if I had just starred in yet another strange moment in a life that did not make sense to him, but one he accepted because he had no other choice.
There was a janitor poking around in the basement, knocking into buckets while pulling out a mop and complaining to himself. It was the same man I had seen earlier. I had to hide behind a stack of supply boxes while he wheeled his bucket past, muttering about how his back hurt and he was too old to be doing this crap. The moment he entered the main building, I ran toward the back of the basement and found a small exit door. It had been left open to let the fresh air clear out the smell of chemicals and oils. Thanking my lucky stars, I slipped outside and made my way back to the car underneath a night-sky blanket of actual stars that stretched as far as I could see. They outlined the dark silhouettes of the surrounding mountains with halos of sparkling diamonds. I stopped and stared at the glorious sight as I figured out what to do next, acutely aware that I was no more than a dust mote in a universe full of light and life. And somewhere in that vast universe, Candy waited to be rescued. But where?
Camp TittyKnockers. At least I had a place to start looking.
●
When I returned to my car, I stuffed the dancing elephant scrubs into the trunk and made a note to burn them first chance I got. Bobby D. had tried to reach me eight times. But the reception was so bad I couldn't return his calls or retrieve my messages. Exhausted and frustrated, I drove through hills and valleys until I found a place where I could get a decent signal. I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Crossroads Primitive Baptist Church, wondering just how primitive its congregation members were when it came to trespassers. Gone were the days of Granny Clampett muzzleloaders. I’d more likely be looking down the barrel of an AR-15 these days.
Of course, humans were the least of my worries. I had parked in the shadows and could barely see beyond the hood of my Porsche. The engine light had flickered again, but there was no way in hell I was getting out of the car to check the oil. All I could think of was how a bear would be invisible until it was inches from me. I was basically an appetizer waiting to happen.
"It's about time," Bobby complained when I called him back.
"It's good to talk to you, too," I said frostily.
Bobby ignored my sarcasm. "I've found three houses in the name of a corporation owned by the Lopresti family in a subdivision called Laurel Mountain Homes. It's on a hill overlooking the shores of Lake Lure."
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"I knew it!" I said triumphantly. “I knew they had to be nearby.”
"Don't forget who actually discovered that," Bobby said. "If not for me and my magic fingers, where would you be?" I could hear the click-click as his hands flew over the keyboards and tried not to think about Bobby D.’s so-called “magic fingers.”
“It's really kind of interesting," he said after a moment. "Apparently, no one was supposed to build in that area, but some skeevy bail bondsman turned state senator pulled some strings and got a hefty consultant fee for obtaining a rezoning permit. The developer cashed in big and the land was snatched up by quite a few New Jersey families, if you know what I mean."
"The Springsteens?" I asked innocently.
Bobby snorted and I heard something wet hit the keyboard. I did not ask what.
"How did you make the connection to the Lopresti family if the purchase was made through a holding corporation?" I asked.
"They didn't disguise it very well. I only had to trace it back through three shell companies. Like I said, this is a low level crime family. I think it's safe to say they're not the sharpest spaghetti forks in the drawer."
"That's incredibly offensive to Italian Americans," I told him. “May I remind you that they are a very important client base of ours, make it possible for you to gorge yourself several times a week, and always pay their invoices on time?”
"My bad," he said. “Don’t make me sleep with the fishes.”
With the whales, maybe, I thought to myself.
"Can you do me a favor?” I asked him. “Look up Camp Tikkanaka and tell me what you find.” If the camp turned out to be near Lake Lure, then I’d know for sure that I was on the right track.
"Camp Tittyknockers?" Bobby asked and roared with laughter.
“Congratulations, I can now officially confirm that you have the maturity level of a 10-year-old boy."
"Spell it for me, Babe.”
I did and I could hear the clacking of the keyboard increase as Bobby searched the corners of the Internet. I will say this for him: Bobby is almost as good as my friend Marcus at uncovering information online, even if Bobby calls it “the Interweb.” And, as cheap as he is, Bobby also subscribes to a number of database services. No hacking required. It's scary how much he can dredge up on anyone and anything you name, all on a moment’s notice.
"What did you find?" I asked into the silence.
"There was a camp by that name in the general vicinity of Lake Lure, but it closed about six years ago.” He was silent for a moment. "Looks like they hauled the owner away for tax fraud and sexual abuse of minors."
"A real double dipping asshat," I said. "But I don't think that helps our purposes."
"Well, it looks like the camp was located about two miles away from the enclave where the Lopresti's own their property. Is that relevant?"
"It helps. I think they’ve taken Candy to one of their houses around Lake Lure and that’s confirmation, so far as I’m concerned."
There was a long silence that grew fraught with subtext as it stretched out. When Bobby finally spoke, his voice was insultingly polite. "Babe?"
"Don't say it," I warned him.
"Babe, as your friend…" He took a deep breath and dove in, knowing that what he was about to say would piss me off. "Don't try to do this alone. If you go up there and try to find her, you know what's going to happen. You're going to get caught. Because, let's face it, you can be a really great private investigator—but you are really lousy at surveillance. It's like you've got a neon sign blinking ‘See me!’ on your back. You know that you always get caught."
"That is so not true," I protested angrily.
Bobby stood firm. "It is and you know it. Let me call in some back-up.”
"No," I said firmly. "Really, Bobby. Don't tell anyone. This is our only lead, and even if she's not there, I may be able to track her further along their route. We can't let anyone know that we’re onto them. If the kidnappers get a whiff of being found out, they'll pack up and leave. I can't afford to wait. I have to at least rule out the possibility that she was taken by these guys."
Bobby knew better than to argue. "Suit yourself. But don't call me if they catch you. Because, one, I’m going to bed now and, two, I’m not paying a ransom for you. If they ask for so much as a nickel, I’m demanding change back.”
I hung up, admitting to myself that Bobby was right. I wasn't very good at sneaking up on people. But all I needed to do was confirm whether or not Candy was being held at one of the Lopresti houses around Lake Lure. At most, that involved peeking in through a few windows. If it turned out Candy was there, I could call for back-up then. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Ten
I was exhausted. I had been on the road one way or the other for the entire day, my Red Bull and sugar highs were a distant memory, and I was badly in need of sleep. But more than that: I was stubborn. Sure, this got in the way of my personal life sometimes. But when it came to work? Being stubborn paid off.
Half an hour later, I was slowly driving around in a maze of smooth asphalt roads that wound through a Lake Lure subdivision nestled into a mountainside forest. If there was a lake view, it was from the tops of the trees. Clearly, this was a neighborhood that valued privacy. But it also bordered a national park. The people who lived in Laurel Mountain Homes would never have to worry about overdevelopment clogging the roads of their Nirvana. In fact, they had won the lottery when they were allowed to build there. Was I surprised that an elected official had pulled strings to make that happen? No. Not with the current crowd occupying the statehouse. The only surprise, so far as I was concerned, was that only one politician had been involved.
I noticed no private security, but who in their right mind would break into homes in a subdivision known to be occupied by crime families?
The answer, of course, was me.
I found the three houses that Bobby had told me were owned by the Lopresti family holding company at the back of the subdivision. Each had been built with broad bream pine in the style of a log cabin, the likes of which would have held enough pioneers to settle the entire state of Oklahoma. We’re talking five bedroom, two-story behemoths with massive environmental footprints. Half of the temperate forest land in North America had been sacrificed for their front porches alone. Two of the homes sat side-by-side at the end of a narrow road, and the third had been built at a right angle to the first two. Each cabin backed up onto a mountain slope and each had a back deck, making it possible to sit at dusk and sip drinks while plotting your next hit.
I parked my car in the driveway of a deserted house where it could not be spotted from the road. I headed back toward the Lopresti properties on foot. As I crept through the woods, dried pine tree needles and laurel leaves crunching beneath my feet, I thought of the whole black bear situation again. There had been an article in the paper a few months before saying there was talk of extending bear hunting season in the North Carolina mountains because a growing number of really angry bears were getting bolder and more aggressive out of hunger. In fact, I suspected they were probably organizing and getting ready to reclaim their land. At least that had been my take-away from the article. Now, I only hoped I did not end up between two big black bears fighting over who got the first bite of my juicy thighs.
This line of thought was a mistake. Every time I heard a rustle in the underbrush nearby, my insides lurched. Taking a deep breath, I crept closer to the first Lopresti house. It was shut down. Empty. Dark, except for a single safety light in the hallway. No cars out front and no signs of life. I crept around to the right side of the house and checked the electrical meter just in case. No needle movement. The proverbial lights were on, but no one was home. One down, two to go.
The second house had an SUV parked out front and several kiddy scooters scattered across the top of a steep driveway. While I’ve never been mom material, that seemed like a singularly bad idea to me. Point your kid in the wrong direction on one of those suckers
and they’d be zooming down the hill and sailing out over Lake Lure like an air-borne human torpedo within a minute. Which, considering how I felt about children, did not seem so bad upon reflection.
I stepped over a pink plastic tricycle, almost slipped on a naked Barbie doll with chopped-off homemade punk hair, and inched my way toward a first floor window spilling a bright square of light onto the front yard. I peeked inside. A bored-looking woman with straight black hair sat flipping a magazine on the couch with a pink cocktail in hand. Some cheesy true crime show filled the giant television screen in front of her. Every now and then, she’d take a deep pull on her cigarette and slowly blow the smoke out of her nose like a dragon. Behind her, between the couch and wall, a young boy and girl were punching the shit out of each other like they were battling it out in a world title match. Seriously? It was midnight, and there were dead corpses flicking across the TV, and this woman was ignoring the battle cries of her offspring with practiced focus while she sucked down alcohol and blew secondhand smoke into their faces. I'm not exactly Mother of the Year, nor am I an expert on childrearing, to say the least, but both little lightweights looked to be first grade age, at most. They were definitely still in the sticky-fingered, mouthy stage. Meanwhile, Mom could have starred in half a dozen reality shows all on her own.
Marveling at her ability to shut out the chaos she had brought into the world, and remaining judgmental about her parenting habits, I gave the house a wide berth and headed for the third Lopresti home.
When I spotted a beefy man squirting lighter fluid onto hot coals piled in a grill on the back deck, adrenaline shot through me. I was instantly wide awake. The man was huge and hairy-armed, a human grizzly bear, with hands the size of catcher’s mitts and side patches of dark fuzz decorating an otherwise bald, bullet-shaped head. He wore black slacks and a shiny white shirt open at the collar, revealing a heavy gold medallion hanging from a chain big enough to anchor an ocean liner. He and Bobby D. clearly had the same stylist.
