Page 60 of Trapper Road

State law forbids me from carrying my gun into the police station, so I kept it stored in the lockbox in my SUV instead. Now I unlock the case and pull out my Sig Sauer. I do a quick check to make sure there’s a round chambered before shrugging into my shoulder holster and sliding the gun into place under my arm. I always feel better when I’m armed, especially in a situation like this where I’m not sure what I’m getting into.

Outside the air is warm and muggy, the last dregs of summer trying to cling to the earth before giving way to fall. Most of the land around here is open and flat, fallow fields stretching between clumps of kudzu clad trees.

I start down a driveway that used to be gravel but is now mostly dirt, careful to pay attention to my surroundings. It’s quiet, not even the buzz of insects or call of birds to break up the solitude. The driveway doesn’t so much end as peter out into a large patch of dirt. In the middle of it sits an old trailer.

Someone has made an effort to brighten up the place — a wreath of dried flowers on the door, a few straggly bushes under the windows, decorative edging around the base of the steps, but it’s a losing battle. The aluminum siding on the trailer is slowly giving way to the creep of rust, and the roof is one or two good hailstorms away from collapsing in on itself.

I approach the trailer slowly, giving anyone inside a chance to see me coming. The screen door protests when I pry it open to knock on the main door. There’s no answer. I knock again. Still nothing.

I cup my hands around my face and peer through the glass. I can see a small living area with a couch and a recliner arranged around a square coffee table. The furniture is threadbare on the arms, the worst patches covered with doilies, and the rug is worn through in places, but everything appears neat and tidy.

I retreat down the front steps and start around back to get a better look around. There are several outbuildings behind the trailer, each in various states of disrepair. There are also piles of junk scattered around — old tires, scraps of metal, a rusted engine sitting on a stack of concrete blocks. Off to the side sits a row of cars that look as if they haven’t been driven in years, if not decades.

A few are covered with old tarps, edges ragged from rain and wind, but one of them is covered by a new tarp which makes it stand out. I make my way over to it and lift a corner to see what’s underneath.

I suck in a breath. It’s an old beater truck that closely matches the description of the one Willa and Mandy say Juliette was picked up in. I walk the length of it, careful not to touch it in case contains evidence. It looks to be in decent shape, much better than the other cars around it. The tires are balding, but none of them are flat, and the mud crusted under the wheel wells looks somewhat fresh.

I move around to the back to get a look at the license plate. It’s a temporary tag that expired four years ago. I take a photo and send it to Officer Parks, letting him know where I am and that he might want to take a look. After I press send, I hear the sound of squealing breaks in the distance. I freeze, listening. I can just make out the hum of an engine idling before it revs noisily and starts off again. I draw my gun, keeping it low by my side as I work my way around the row of cars and back toward the trailer.

In the distance a flash of familiar yellow catches my eye: a school bus. That’s when I notice the figure making his way down the driveway. He has his head down, a large backpack slung over one shoulder, oblivious to his surroundings. I call out before he gets too close. Having distance means he can’t attack me without enough warning for me to raise my weapon.

He stumbles to a stop and looks up, head swiveling as he scans his surroundings. I get my first look at his face and realize he’s younger than I expected, only a year or two older than Connor. He’s white with shaggy brown hair, tan skin, and light eyes. He’s also tall, with a leanly muscular build. He looks like someone who spends a lot of time outside.

He fits the description Mandy gave of the guy who picked up Juliette. Which means I could be looking at the person Juliette drove off with that afternoon two months ago. My first thought is how young he looks; my second is how innocent. But I know better than most how deceiving appearances can be. No one would ever look at Melvin Royal and think “serial killer.”

I keep my gun in my hand, but turn slightly so it’s out of sight. He’s basically a kid, and I don’t want to scare him, but I’m also not willing to let my guard down.

I wave with my other hand. “Hey, just wanted to let you know I was here so I didn’t surprise you.”

He’s slow to respond. “Uh, okay. Who are you?”

“My name is Gwen Proctor, I’m a private investigator.”

He thinks about this for a moment. “Okay.” He doesn’t ask why I’m there, which I find odd. If I came home to a stranger poking around my property, I’d definitely be demanding answers. But then again, maybe he already knows why I’m here.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Trevor Martindale.”

“Mind if I ask you a few questions, Trevor?”

He shifts from one foot to the other. “I guess.”

I gesture over my shoulder. “Is that your truck back there?”

He frowns, not seeming to follow.

“The one under the new blue tarp,” I add.

His eyes light with understanding. “Oh, right. The Tacoma. Nah, that’s my uncle Ray’s. He got in trouble with the law and parked it here until he gets outta prison.”

“Do you ever drive it?”

He hesitates. “Well, I’m not supposed to.”

That doesn’t mean he hasn’t. “I won’t tell your uncle if you won’t.”

He laughs. “Ain’t my uncle I’m worried about.”

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