Second Honeymoon

Chapter 50

“YOU MUST BE Agent Brubaker,” said the officer greeting Sarah outside the sheriff’s office in Candle Lake, New Mexico.

“Yes.” And you must still be in high school, Sarah thought as she shook the young man’s hand. Seriously, I have food in my refrigerator that’s older than you.

“Sheriff Insley asked that I bring you out to the lake as soon as you arrived,” he said. “He’s there now. You ready to go?”

“Is that where you’re looking for John O’Hara?”

“Yeah. O’Hara’s wife thought he’d gone either drinkin’ or fishin’, and there was no one who saw him at any of the bars in town.”

Drinkin’ or fishin’? Sarah eyed the officer for a moment, wondering if he had any idea how funny that sounded, in a town-of-Mayberry sort of way. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” she said.

“Peter,” he answered. “Peter Knoll.”

Sarah climbed into his Chevy Tahoe police interceptor, which was parked along the curb. Before she’d even buckled up, Knoll had flipped on the cherry and peeled out with sirens blaring. Boys and their toys…

“What else can you tell me about John O’Hara?” she asked once they hit the outskirts of town. “Besides the fact that he likes to drink and fish.”

Knoll thought for a few seconds, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “He’s a retired plumber, I know that. Two children, only they’re hardly children anymore. Grown up and moved away, both of them.”

Sarah tucked her hair behind her ears. The windows were open, and the wind whipped through the Tahoe. God’s air-conditioning.

“Do you know if he was into books at all? Did he read a lot?” she asked.

“Not that I’m aware of. I’ve never been inside his home.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“We got the call from his wife early this morning. Officially, it hasn’t been a full twenty-four hours since she last saw him, but we weren’t about to nitpick,” he said. “I’ve got an uncle who always says that nitpicking is for nitwits.”

“Smart uncle,” said Sarah.

The houses started to thin out over the next few miles, until she saw nothing but trees and the occasional piece of roadkill. Knoll hung a left at an unmarked road, which quickly turned to dirt and gravel.

“The main entrance is still another minute or two up the road, but this is the shortcut to the teardrops,” he said.

“The what?”

“That’s the part of the lake with the best fishing. Only the locals know about it. If O’Hara’s out here, that’s where he’d be,” he said. “Sheriff Insley has another officer with him doing a search.”

“Is it a big area?”

“Yeah, with lots of little nooks,” he said. “Most of them are shaped like teardrops, that’s why the name.”

The road narrowed to little more than a sliver through the woods. Then they finally came upon a small clearing that served as a parking lot, where two patrol cars sat side by side. Knoll pulled up next to them, cutting the engine.

“Let me radio ahead to Sheriff Insley, let him know you’re here,” he said. But before he did he couldn’t help himself. “Why are you here? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“To help you find John O’Hara,” she answered. It certainly wasn’t a lie.

She was spared any follow-up questions by the sound of approaching voices. There was no need to radio Sheriff Insley. He was heading right for them.

Sarah stepped out and got a quick introduction to Insley and the other officer with him—Brandon Vicks—who looked no older than Knoll. Add their two ages and they still couldn’t join AARP.

“What’s the latest on our missing person?” she asked.

Insley removed his sheriff’s hat, scratching a forehead that featured an endless constellation of freckles.

“John O’Hara isn’t missing anymore,” he said in a deep drawl. “And it ain’t pretty.”