The Good, the Bad, and the Emus(53)
“But she’s totally convinced her next door neighbor did it,” Caroline pointed out. “Why should she be worried about a bunch of strangers? In fact, why doesn’t having us here make her less anxious—it’s like having several dozen witnesses and potential bodyguards in her backyard.”
“Maybe she’s not as convinced anymore,” I said. “Maybe the police chief’s skepticism and ours is rubbing off. Anyway, if Stanley does run across any of the Blake’s Brigade people in the course of his investigation, it will be a major red flag, won’t it?”
She nodded.
Another thought struck me.
“You said something about the brigade going up against rogue mining companies that played rough,” I said. “Does Smedlock Mining ring a bell?” I asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “But my memory for names isn’t what it used to be. Your grandfather’s administrative assistant could put together a full list. Companies your grandfather has done battle with, or testified against, or has on his radar to tackle. I’ll get that to Stanley along with the list of people here in camp.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And when I get a chance, I’ll go online and check to see if any of our volunteers joined fairly recently. I assume you’d find them more suspicious. But I hope you’re worrying for nothing.”
I probably was. But as I strolled through the chaotic camp, I felt better knowing that someone knew who each and every one of these volunteers were. In fact, though I couldn’t imagine myself singing songs around the campfire with Sherry, I rather liked knowing it was the blond Valkyrie with the clipboard who had everybody on her radar.
I heard a cheer go up.
“The road is clear!” someone called as he ran past me. “We’re taking off.”
Chapter 15
Of course, even after the road was clear, the camera crew had to film our departure from several angles. We didn’t get underway until nearly nine, and our progress up the mountain was slower than it could have been. Every time the director spotted a new, picturesque bit of scenery, the whole caravan would grind to a halt so the crew could scamper ahead to lie in wait and film us passing through it. Meadows, mountain streams, rustic bridges, wooded hillsides—it was all new and exciting to the camera crew. A good thing we were traveling mostly on small back roads where we hardly ever ran into other vehicles.
To my surprise, Grandfather tolerated these interruptions with remarkable patience. Or perhaps not so surprising, since the camera crew put him front and center in most of their sequences. I could see what he was up to because Michael had snagged a choice spot as second vehicle in line, right behind Grandfather’s open Jeep. During the occasional moments when the deep woods on either side gave way to meadows, we could glance over our shoulders and see the long, sinuous line of trucks, SUVs, Jeeps, and motorcycles snaking up the steep road in our wake. And then the woods would close in around us again.
The woods made me anxious. I kept thinking how easy it would be for someone to ambush us. Someone who knew our destination, and knew the woods well enough to take a shortcut. Someone who knew the best places to lie in wait with a rifle. One quick shot from the woods would be all it would take. I cringed every time the caravan stopped and Grandfather stood up in the back of the jeep to pose for the camera. Didn’t he realize that he was also making himself a target?
Or was it that plausible that someone could switch so quickly from poison to firearms? Was I worrying unnecessarily?
I didn’t seem to be the only one. Michael was eyeing the woods with a frown, and in the Jeep ahead of us, so were Dad, Caroline, and Jim Williams, who was one of the bodyguards assigned to Grandfather this morning.
“Evidently, Biscuit Mountain really is a mountain,” Michael said, during one particularly long, dark wooded stretch. “But I think we’re finally getting close to the emu ranch.”
“How can you tell?” I asked, peering through the windshield.
“Sign up ahead.”
He slowed and pointed. I didn’t spot the sign at first. This part of the woods was particularly dark because all the trees were festooned with vines. Vines with thick, hairy stems. Vines that sometimes met overhead, threatening to turn the narrow road into a tunnel. Up ahead, Grandfather was gesticulating. Pointing up at the vines. I had the sinking feeling that the vines would turn out to be an alien invasive species—kudzu or its ilk—and we’d call yet another halt to the caravan while Grandfather filmed a ringing denunciation of the sinister vegetation. But then I realized that between one particularly thick swathe of vines was a faded sign. Half the letters were obscured by leaves, but I could still decipher the words BISCUIT MOUNTAIN OSTRICH AND EMU RANCH.