Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

  Pushing back the sleeve of his windbreaker, Davey took note of his watch. The big hand was on the one. He had two more numbers to go. “C’mon, Duff, let’s see what’s over on the other side of the pond.”

  John and Sophie Koval stood outside their silver trailer, watching the newcomers’ motor home bump down the road. Sophie wiped her hands on her apron, relieved that there were going to be other campers besides themselves and those . . . those hippies! Camping certainly wasn’t turning out to be the lark that John and the brochures had promised. “Meet new friends, see the country, get back to nature.” The “new friends” had turned out to be large families who couldn’t afford to get away from home any other way, and instead of the nice, sociable bridge games to liven the evenings that Sophie had envisioned, she’d had to endure the sounds of children squabbling, their parents yelling at them, and the sight of endless lines of laundry hanging between the trees. The smell of that disinfectant they used got everywhere, even into the dirt. In every campsite it was the same, and now even the shiny new inside of their trailer smelled of it. At night it filled her nose and seemed to parch her throat. Whoever it was who said there was no place like home must have gone camping.

  Now that summer was over and the northeastern states were well into fall, John and Sophie felt lonely and apart from everyone and everything. Most of the campgrounds were desolate, like this one, stopping places only. They would rest overnight then, in the dew-heavy mornings, they would break camp and ride on, sometimes for hours at a time, pushing the speedometer and the clock to arrive at their next destination before dark. As the days grew shorter, camping was becoming more of an ordeal, just like the very thing John had promised they would leave behind.

  Sophie longed for the ease and comfort of her home back in Massachusetts, where she could spend the afternoons watching her soap operas on TV instead of growing stiff from long hours in the car, watching for obscure turnoffs to their next destination. John’s retirement was becoming a trial and a punishment.

  “Why couldn’t we have gotten one of those nice buses, John? Then I could stay right in the back and prepare lunch or dinner and still be able to talk to you.”

  “Watch your soap operas, you mean. I’ve already told you, Sophie, those things guzzle gas. We’ve got to watch our pennies now. Social Security doesn’t bring much and you know it.” He watched her from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. The annoyance that he felt whenever she complained about their new lifestyle made him chomp down on his pipe. For over thirty years he’d made a nice home for her, given her an easy life, while he went to work every day at the mill and dreamed of the day he could retire. He’d given up most of his dreams and all of his energies for Sophie’s comfort, and he wasn’t going to let her make him feel guilty now.

  “They looked like nice people, didn’t you think?” she asked, changing the subject, almost able to read his mind after all those years. “Maybe we could go over and meet them later.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “No, don’t think so. Be getting dark soon and you’ve got supper to fix. Imagine they do too, what with setting up camp and all.”

  Sophie frowned. She didn’t like this new John, and she certainly didn’t like their new lifestyle. She didn’t know who or what she could trust anymore. Gone were all the comfortable, familiar things from over the years. Instead, in their place, everything was stiff and new. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she had at least refused to allow John to sell their home. She’d just wait for him to tire of this vagabond existence, and then she could go back to her nice electric range and a refrigerator that could hold a week’s supply of food. She couldn’t get used to shopping every other day at strange supermarkets where she couldn’t seem to find the simplest item.

  Worst of all were the doubts she had about John. It had been fine back in Massachusetts when he drove her to the neighborhood supermarket and even to the shopping mall. But out here, on the open road, John had become a man she didn’t know, a stranger. A . . . a Seattle cowboy! His driving had become aggressive instead of defensive. He was constantly cursing under his breath about this one cutting him off, or that one driving with his brights on. She was worried he would do something stupid, like flip someone off. Nowadays, instead of flipping you back, they just shot you! Road rage—that was another part of this new life that frightened her.

  Looking at her husband, she saw him staring off in the direction of the camp where those hippies were parked. She knew they were hippies because of the way their pickup truck was painted. “You’re just as glad as I am that we’re not alone here with those hippies, aren’t you?” More than a question, her words were a challenge.

  “Sophie, they don’t call them hippies anymore. And I don’t see what the problem is. We’re bound to meet people from different walks of life. You’ve got to learn to live and let live.” He’d never admit it, but he was glad there were other campers besides themselves. Elderly people were easy prey for some types. “Go on in and get dinner, Sophie. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us in the morning, and I want to get started early.” He refolded a road map and traced the lines with his fingers. “The manager of this camp told me about a real nice place down near Virginia Beach.”

  Cudge watched Elva set up the barbecue grill. “Why are you using that? Why don’t you use the stove?”

  Elva continued to pour briquettes into the grill. “ ’Cause we don’t have any more propane, that’s why.” She lifted her head and glared at him.

  Ignoring her unspoken accusation, Cudge leaned against the camper. “What’s for supper?”

  “Eggs, corned beef hash, and Kool-Aid.”

  “Shit.”

  “Well, if you’d stopped at the store the way I wanted we could be having hamburgers or something. Eggs is all we got. And beans. You want beans?”

  “Shit. That’s what it is. Shit. I could go for a steak, rare and juicy, and maybe a baked potato.”

  “Yeah, well, couldn’t we all,” she snipped.

  “Don’t we have anything besides Kool-Aid? A beer maybe?”

  “If we did, you’d have drunk it before now. All we have is Kool-Aid.”

  “Hey, I don’t like your tone. Don’t get smart with me.” His voice was suddenly menacing. Elva hung her head a little lower and went on trying to start the fire.

  “Be careful with that charcoal lighter. I don’t need you setting fire to yourself and having to go to the hospital. We still got some work to do.” He gestured to the closed pop-up with his head.

  After cranking up the top section that served as the roof, Cudge opened the front and back canvas wings that expanded into bunks. “We have to do this right or else somebody might ask questions. Just keep the door closed so nobody can see inside,” he warned.

  “I need the eggs and stuff,” Elva said. “And I don’t want to go in there, so you’ll have to get them.”

  “What’s the matter? Little Elva afraid that Lenny’ll jump up and bite her ass?” Cudge mocked.

  “So what if I’m afraid? I don’t like dead people. You killed him, so you go in there and get the food.”

  “Don’t get fresh, Elva. I’m warning you. I’ve had more than a man can take today, and I’ve been real patient with you.”

  “It’s not my fault that we were stopped by the state trooper. You’re the one who had the truck painted that way.”

  “Shut up, Elva.”

  Elva looked at Cudge, saw the way his lips were curled in a snarl, saw his eyes boring into her and the way his neck seemed to disappear into his shoulders. Prickles of apprehension rose on her arms; she could feel them through the scratchy woolen poncho she had crocheted for herself. “You gonna get me the stuff?” she squeaked.

  “Yeah, I’ll get it. But you better not turn chicken on me tonight when we haul his ass out of here. I took a walk around before and I found the ideal spot. It’s down in that shallow gully.” He pointed to a spot near the pond on the far side of the campground.

  “How are we going
to get him there? I can’t carry him that far.”

  “Well, you’re going to. Just make up your mind. What do you think I feed you for? Just remember, you’re an accessory, Elva, and I don’t want to hear any of your shit. You just do what I tell you, understand?” His fingers closed over her arm like a vise and Elva wriggled away.

  “Lemme go! I understand. Just lemme go!”

  “I don’t want you screwin’ up the way you did with that trooper.”

  “That wasn’t my fault! He was on your side and you should’ve seen him in the side-view mirror. It wasn’t like he was in an unmarked car or anything like that.”

  “So you say. And I say you should’ve been watching! That was a close call, too close.”

  They had been on the turnpike after riding the back roads around Brick Township. It was too early in the day to appear at the campgrounds without provoking questions. Elva had her nose buried in the map, looking for the exit, and Cudge was tuned to the CB, listening to the truckers’ conversations over the airwaves. Usually he could count on truckers to report a “Smokey” in the area, but not this time. The next thing Cudge knew, the bright blue light of a trooper’s car was flashing and he was being instructed to pull over.

  “Not a word, Elva,” he said before getting out of the pickup.

  “I’ll need to see your driver’s license and your registration, please,” the trooper said, the afternoon sun reflecting off his mirrored sunglasses. Like most troopers he was tall, taller than Cudge, but he didn’t have Cudge’s bulk. Sizing him up, Cudge decided he wouldn’t have the least bit of trouble in pounding the man to the ground. Then he saw the trooper’s side holster and the blue-black grip of his pistol.

  “Where are you heading?”

  Cudge was so preoccupied with half-formed plans of escape he hardly heard the question. “Huh? Oh, we’re camping. Heading north.”

  “Sir, your license says you’re from Newark. That is north.”

  “Uh, we have been camping, in Maryland. We’re heading home.”

  The trooper leaned forward to peer through the dirty window. The passenger was a young woman, at least ten years younger than her companion. “Would you open the door, sir,” he asked Cudge.

  “What for? There ain’t nothing in there that shouldn’t be,” Cudge bristled. He didn’t want the trooper talking to Elva, and he didn’t like his condescending attitude. The trooper called him “sir” but it could have been “shit” from the way he said it.

  “Open the door, sir.”

  “Okay, okay.” Cudge pulled the door open. The trooper looked in at Elva, who was sitting with her legs up underneath her on the seat. His trained eye observed the girl’s long, dull brown hair, her painfully thin body, and the worn clothes. He also noticed the panic in her eyes. “Everything all right, miss?” He spoke from over Cudge’s shoulder, some instinct telling him he didn’t want this man behind him where he couldn’t see him.

  Elva nodded.

  “Are you Mrs. . . .” he glanced at Cudge’s license, “Balog?”

  Elva shook her head.

  “How long have you known Mr. Balog?” He deliberately asked a question that would require a verbal answer. Something was wrong here—he could almost smell it. His mind clicked back to his last radio transmission, calculating how long it would take for assistance to arrive.

  Elva remained silent, her eyes searching Cudge’s.

  “Miss, how long have you known Mr. Balog?” the uniformed trooper persisted.

  A long pause ensued. Elva’s eyes were locked with Cudge’s. The scent of trouble grew stronger in the trooper’s nostrils.

  “Jesus Christ! Will you tell him, Elva? What’s wrong with you anyway?” He was shouting, knowing that he was alarming the trooper, yet unable to control himself. The beast in his brain pawed, the hooves biting into tissue, alerting him. Struggling for control, Cudge lowered his voice. “Elva, for crissakes!” He thought of Lenny hidden in the pop-up, saw the blue flash of the dome light on the trooper’s car, and felt the threat of the trooper’s pistol.

  “Miss, would you like to get out of the truck, please?”

  Elva shook her head, her face whitening.

  “Elva, for crissakes, do what he tells you.”

  “Would you please assist the lady from the cab, Mr. Balog?” Something was amiss here. The girl’s silence, the panic in her eyes, the man’s agitation. Even the pickup truck looked like trouble—electric colors, slogans, and decals that were just short of obscene. Only the pop-up trailer was still a light beige, devoid of decorations except for a few four-letter words fingered in the grime. In fact, the pop-up was in pretty good condition compared to the old Chevy pickup pulling it. “I’d like to see your registration for the trailer.”

  Cudge’s eyes widened, his hand shook as he pulled Elva from the truck. What in the hell did the cop want to see the registration to the trailer for? His glance darted from the trooper to the trailer and back again. “Damn you, Elva, this is all your fault. Why wouldn’t you answer him like he wanted?”

  “You told me to shut my mouth and not to say a word,” she whined.

  “Shut up,” he hissed. “If he wants a look inside, you better be in this truck when I take off or else I’ll leave you on the side of the road.”

  “Cudge, I didn’t—”

  “Shut up!”

  “Any problem over there?” the trooper inquired.

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong. Right, Elva?”

  Elva nodded.

  “Crissakes! Tell him, willya?” Cudge saw the trooper’s mouth tighten and he could sense his eyes narrowing behind those glasses.

  “Your trailer registration, please.”

  Digging in his wallet again, Cudge presented his registration.

  “What have you got in the back?” the face behind the glasses asked, checking the information on the card Cudge had handed him.

  “Whatever goes into a camper—a toilet, sink, beds.” The trooper was starting to piss him off. He’d like to punch his fist right into those glasses and push them through the back of his head. The silent pawing in his head became the restless shifting of weight, leaning against the gate, wanting to be let out.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  “Christ, you know how much trouble it is to open one of those things? To say nothing of putting it together again. I’ve been thinking of getting a regular trailer, one of those Air Streams or something. This kind is a real pain in the ass.”

  “Let’s take a look, buddy. Now!”

  Gone was the “Mr. Balog.” No more “sir.” Now it was “buddy.” Cudge’s spine stiffened and a light spray of sweat broke out on his brow. He moved to the rear of the trailer; his mind raced but no solution came to him. This was all Elva’s fault. Damn Elva.

  “Mind telling me what I did wrong? I wasn’t speeding or nothing. I was just cruising along. This is harassment.”

  “Police brutality!” Elva prompted. “Tell him, Cudge, you want to talk to your lawyer!”

  Balog’s eyes rolled back in his head. If she said one more word, he was going to let her have it.

  “Finally found your tongue, miss? What’s this about police brutality?”

  “You have no right to bother us. We weren’t doing anything. You can’t just sneak up on people like that. Cudge told me to watch out for cops, and I was, but you came up on the wrong side.”

  “Shut up, Elva, for crissakes, shut up!”

  “While you’re cranking open your camper, I’ll call in your license,” the trooper told him in a somber tone that made Cudge wonder whether or not he’d heard what Elva had said about watching out for the law. “Get going!” There it was, the authority, the suspicion that made Cudge’s skin prickle.

  The trooper moved toward his patrol car, senses alert for danger. It wasn’t unheard of for a trooper to be shot down just asking a guy for his registration. Damn those politicians for cutting back on two-man teams. If he ever needed a partner, it was now. There was something fishy goi
ng on here, and he didn’t like this Balog. And when that mouse he was traveling with decided finally to open her mouth, it was to tell him that she’d been on the look out for the law. Was she trying to tell him she was being kidnapped? What was in the camper? Drugs, contraband cigarettes? What? Not only was he going to call in Balog’s license, he was going to ask for assistance.

  Turning his back on the couple, he took the few steps to the patrol car. He could feel Balog’s eyes on him, piercing and angry. For a second back there, when he’d asked what was in the camper, Balog’s anger had become almost tangible, thick and viscous. For that one second he had felt as though all his air had been cut off and he was trying to breathe through a vacuum.

  Christ! He was getting paranoid, jumping at shadows. Still, that feeling had been real—a warning. Fleetingly, he thought of how many times his wife had begged him to change jobs. His brother-in-law had even offered him a job managing one of his used-car lots. Maybe it was time to consider it. Scared troopers didn’t do their jobs properly; and the ones who did often ended up with half their head blown away.

  He wondered again how far away the nearest assistance was.

  The patrol car was still flashing its blue lights when a loud squawk sounded through the open window. “Car 169, Car 169, proceed to mile 43 southbound. Emergency vehicle needed. Car 169, collision at mile 43, New Jersey Turnpike. Assistance en route, do you read?”

  The trooper looked at Cudge and Elva and then back at the patrol car. He hadn’t realized how damp his shirt had become or how eager he was to get away before he found out what Balog was hiding in the camper. Thrusting the registration and license back into Cudge’s hand, he hurried to his car and took off, lights flashing, siren blaring.

  “Get in the truck, Elva. Move!”

  “Cudge,” she whined. “Cudge . . .”

  Cudge blinked and Elva’s whining brought him back to the present. “Are you going to get me the eggs? This fire’s ready. And don’t forget the black iron frypan.”