researched the camp on the Web?”
“Needed to know the place before we sent in our applications,” Raphael said.
Jillian couldn’t miss the gravity in those simple words. This young man took his responsibilities very seriously. In her preliminary research of this family, she’d spoken to the ranch owner where these kids had grown up. The man had assured her the Baptistes had been a family of dedicated workers, which was why she’d scheduled this initial interview.
Or what was supposed to have been an interview.
“Your Web site had most of the information,” Raphael continued. “Found out Camp Cavelier is the oldest resident camp on the Mississippi. It was named after the man who led the expedition that made the first documented contact between the Natchez Indians and Europeans.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Rene Robert Cavelier.”
“Told you the boy was enterprising,” Widow Serafine proclaimed proudly.
The fact that this young man had been thorough enough to research the camp certainly seemed to bear up that claim. Jillian wasn’t sure if she felt better about the situation or not, but when they all fell silent, she knew they were waiting for her to make the next move.
What could she say? “Take your groceries and go back to the hurricane-ravaged bayou where you came from?”
So she stood there, clutching her own bag in the growing darkness, staring at her interviewees and recognizing the fierce pride in their manner.
That sinking feeling in her stomach eased up a bit.
This was apparently one of those times when things weren’t going to work out exactly as planned. She would simply have to have faith that there was a reason, and that reason would turn out to be a good one.
“Well then, if you’ll follow me,” Jillian finally said, managing to sound normal. “The cottage is just past the cabins.”
“Lead the way.” Widow Serafine’s eyes twinkled.
Jillian couldn’t help but wonder what she’d just gotten herself into. She also wondered what Michael would think about this unusual situation.
Or if he would think about it at all.
She knew the answer to that question—no. If she didn’t tell him about it, he’d never know. And since he hadn’t been here, he’d just have to live with her decision, wouldn’t he?
2
NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Michael finally steered his SUV past Camp Cavelier’s weatherworn sign. His headlights sliced through the darkness to illuminate the winding dirt road and throw the surrounding forest into gloom.
During the drive, he’d imagined several scenarios at arriving nearly two hours late for Jillian’s interview—all of them involving a very unhappy Jillian. But dealing with her annoyance wasn’t his primary concern at the moment. Not when he pulled up to find the office dark.
He’d have to find her to know how annoyed she was.
Circling into the lot in front of the building, Michael pulled his SUV beside a Lincoln Town Car that had seen better days. Most likely the potential caretakers. He put his car into Park and got out.
He didn’t think Jillian would tour people through the camp in the dark. Even flashlights wouldn’t afford enough light to see much, as he well knew from combing these woods as a kid.
Camp Cavelier was an institution. So many campers flew in from all over the country that the camp ran a shuttle service to the airport. Most local kids, too, spent summers as resident campers. He and Jillian had been no exception, which was precisely why he was now an owner of the property.
A grudging owner, he amended.
Jillian and her causes—they’d be the death of him yet.
Shaking his head, Michael headed up the steps, hoping she’d left a note and some clue as to where he could find her. He was in enough hot water without wasting more time hunting her down. Then something caught his eye…
Her purse.
She’d left it sitting on the bench, and he flipped it open to find her car keys and cell phone inside, which explained why she hadn’t been answering her phone. He viewed the display. Sure enough, there was a log of her four missed messages.
All from him.
Damn it, but he should never have sat back at his desk tonight. He should have grabbed his wallet and headed out, as he’d told Charlotte he’d do. Or he should have accepted Jillian’s offer to wait for him to make the drive together.
Or maybe they should never have taken on this camp at all. They were just too busy to do right by the place.
The presence of the unfamiliar car drove home a sharp reminder that the interviewees were strangers. Michael’s only consolation was that she wasn’t entirely alone on the property. Camp Cavelier was more than a seasonal camp—these hallowed acres also played home to a small working farm. Year round, schools scheduled field trips, various organizations booked group tours and families hosted children’s birthday parties.
Ike Fleming had been running the farm since Michael and Jillian had taken their own school field trips. He was even older today than he’d seemed back then, which was saying something since he’d always looked seriously old and seriously big—a mountain of a man. But he was a warm body, at least, and a warm body that packed a loaded shotgun when patrolling the area at night.
Of course, Ike’s eyesight had to be failing by now….
An inspection of the office didn’t yield up any note from Jillian. Job applications scattered over a desk, assuring him that she’d stuck to her original plan. Helping himself to a flashlight, he locked her purse in his car then took off in the direction of Ike’s cottage on the south side of Lake Lily.
The dark night didn’t bring back memories of summers spent boating, horseback-riding or working the farm, although he had many. As a young camper, he’d not only communed with nature and wildlife in a place where technology wasn’t allowed, but had formed friendships that had weathered the passage of time.
Including a love affair with his wife.
But tonight Michael wasn’t remembering when he and Jillian had ducked out of a trail ride to make out in the hayloft, or the time they’d stolen out of the cabins late at night to skinny-dip in the lake.
No, tonight these well-worn trails only yielded grisly images of what could happen to a woman alone in the dark. By the time Michael saw the dull glow of Ike’s porch light, his heart was pounding unnaturally hard.
“Ike,” he called, knocking on the door. “It’s Michael. You in there?”
No response.
Michael waited on the doorstep, growing more agitated with each passing second.
“Ike!” He pounded harder this time. Looked like Ike’s hearing was going, too.
Nothing.
Impatiently, Michael tried the handle to find the door unlocked. He pushed inside, calling out loudly as he did, but it didn’t take long to realize that no one was home.
Yet Ike had obviously left in a hurry because a full coffee cup—now stone-cold—sat on the table beside an open newspaper.
The shotgun rack above the sofa was empty.
Michael was getting a bad feeling. He couldn’t be sure whether guilt or the darkness fueled his imagination, but his head raced with every horror story he’d ever seen in the news.
Had Jillian gotten into trouble? Had Ike taken the shotgun out to rescue her?
Had the old guy succeeded?
Racking his brain to remember what Jillian had told him about her interviewees,