Richard always enjoyed the drama inherent in helicopter travel. Disembarking involved ducking to avoid being beheaded, feeling the violent whip of trouser fabric against his legs, and being escorted off across the tarmac or landing pad. Today was no exception.
A few of the local yokel police officers were at the airstrip to meet them. Richard and six FBI agents endured quick greetings and were given the keys to two Jeeps they could use while they were on the island. But it was the same story they’d heard on Martha’s Vineyard—no witness sightings, no photos or smartphone videos, no credit card use, no cell phone pings, no conclusive store videos, and no indication that Evelyn and her niece had ever been there. But they would look anyway.
Special Agent in Charge Teresa Apodaca rattled off a list of questions directed at the head yokel, who seemed friendly and cooperative enough.
“Any reports of squatters in any of the boats in the harbor?”
“No, Agent. Every boat is occupied by owners or rented out during festival week. The marina is fenced and locked. Slip tenants aren’t very welcoming to strangers.”
“Any empty buildings?”
“Some industrial space by the shore is unused. Feel free to check it out for signs of habitation, but it is secure and we do patrol the area. I don’t think it would be the first choice for a woman and child, since there is no power or water and you’d have to scale the walls to access the interior.”
The agent frowned at him. “The suspect is a trained athlete and she’s desperate—anything is possible.” She went back to her list. “I’ve been told the girl and her captor may be dressed in costumes for this, whatever it’s called. . . .”
“Mermaid Festival.”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” the Chief said. “We have thousands of visitors each day, and a good number of them are in costume—mermaids, sea captains, pirates, sailors, and sea creatures of all varieties. Plus we have our share of fairies and just plain unidentifiable stuff.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sounds like Miami on a Tuesday. So what about the beaches? Do you conduct a sweep every night? Is there any chance they’re camping out illegally?”
“We do patrol via boat, vehicle, and on foot, but we have limited staff and the island has six miles of beaches. Three of those miles are owned privately—by an invitation-only club, the marine research facility, or individual residential landowners. Only the club has camping facilities—you know, running water, fire pits, electric hookups.”
Richard had to give the chief credit—he sounded on the ball.
The agent in charge nodded and took notes. “We’ll be headed there first. The name of this club?”
Chief Flynn pursed his lips. He seemed to have a hard time spitting it out.
“The club, Chief?”
“Yeah. It’s the Bayberry Freedom Colony. Ask for Chet and Willa Chester, and they’ll be glad to show you absolutely everything.”
“Yeah, and don’t forget your tennis racket.”
That mumbled comment came from one of the local cops, the big one in the middle, who was now casually gazing up toward the sky. Richard figured the place must be a private tennis club.
Just then, Chief Flynn shot a sideways glance at Richard. There was no warmth whatsoever in his expression. In fact, it looked like the cop wanted to rip out his throat.
He decided to kill him with kindness. “Thank you for your assistance, Chief. It’s much appreciated. I am desperate to find my daughter.”