“If he didn’t, he probably made enough of a fuss about security that one of the volunteers would tell him everything he needed to know about the patrols to shut him up.”
“But even if the prowler knows about the patrols, he won’t know the Midway is covered,” Michael said.
“And even if he notices us on patrol, he won’t know about the goats,” I said. “The goats are our secret weapon.”
“So when were you planning to tell me that instead of being a routine patrol we’re part of a cleverly set trap?” Michael asked.
I glanced up, but he didn’t look upset. More amused.
“Right about now,” I said. Michael chuckled at that. “When you’d had a chance to get a little bored with the routine patrol, but long before the time when the prowler’s apt to make his move.”
“Good plan,” he said. “Okay, from what I’ve seen so far, I’d say the only exhibitors in any danger from this crowd would be the microbreweries.” He frowned at a group of young men who were all sloshing their beer cans as they swaggered toward the ball toss. “Do those kids look old enough to drink?”
“No,” I said. “But they never do these days. And the vendors are being very careful about IDs, thanks to the rumor that there are undercover Alcoholic Beverage Control agents in the crowd.”
“Lucky for us that rumor’s going around.” He nodded his approval. “Should help keep a lid on things.”
“Yes, I rather thought it might,” I said. “That’s why I started the rumor.”
For the next hour or so we continued our patrol up and down the fence. The crowd thinned out, and then disappeared entirely. Michael and I stopped by the barbecue tent as they were closing and scored half-price pulled pork sandwiches for a late dinner. By the time we’d finished eating and resumed our patrol, the last few Midway vendors and operators were leaving.
We patrolled the long stretch of fence, paying particular attention to the gate, which was the most likely point of entry for a prowler. At first, I was relieved at how peaceful our watch had become, without the flashing lights, the bells and whistles from the games, the patter of the barkers, the screams and laughter from the crowds on the rides.
But before too long my mood changed. The quiet and darkness began to seem less friendly. More … ominous?
Was it just my mood? Or was it maybe a little too quiet? Shouldn’t there be more natural sounds? More bugs, frogs, owls? More of all the usual noises you’d hear on an early fall night? Was it just the fair chasing them away, or the fair plus our patrols? Or had they sensed something else?
I was glad I’d assigned Michael to be my patrol partner. At six foot four, he could be intimidating even to people who knew how mild mannered he was. I’d seen him stop a fight once just by standing up and clearing his throat.
But still, the night was creepy. The air was so humid it was actually turning foggy. That didn’t help, not being able to see more than a few feet in front of me.
Maybe there was nothing to be seen. Maybe the troublemaker was home in his bed, or over in the campground in his sleeping bag, chuckling softly whenever he thought about all of us out here patrolling through the night. Maybe he’d already accomplished everything he wanted to.
I had just about convinced myself that our patrols were useless and I was letting my nerves get to me when Michael broke the silence.
“Creepy out here,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I murmured back.
One end of our patrol route was at the edge of the woods, where we could probably have seen the nearest of the treed Shiffleys, even through the fog, if there had been any moon. From there we followed along the split-rail fence until we reached the gate, from which we could peer through the fog to make out the shape of the nearest of the livestock barns. Just beyond the gate, the fence turned into barbed wire and veered off into Clay County. The border between the two counties—and for that matter, the perimeter of the fair—was still defended, though, by a tangle of what I hoped was impenetrable brush. Beyond that were some locked equipment sheds, and beyond them was the start of the eight-foot chain-link fence that encircled most of the fair.
We trudged between these two end points, starting occasionally when a ghostly white goat loomed up out of the fog on the other side of the fence.
We were about halfway between the woods and the gate when a harsh shriek rang out.
“What was that?” I asked.
“A fox, maybe?” Michael suggested. But we were already running toward the noise. Some instinct made me pull out my cell phone to check the time.
“One fourteen,” I said to Michael. “In case this turns out to be anything dire.”