A wooden sign carved with bold red letters greeted me at the entrance to Jenkins’ farm, promising lethal action against trespassers. I ignored its threat with the arrogant optimism of a nineteen-thirties gumshoe.

The driveway twisted in serpentine fashion, with all manner of worn logging equipment, discarded farm implements, and rusted vehicles scattered along its edges in such a way that they formed an intricate labyrinth between the main road and the house. 

A slightly more organized version of Aidan Peale’s salvage yard with a less civic intent.

Most of the logging machinery was foreign to me. But intermixed with the timber gathering tools sat a collection of dilapidated Allis Chalmers and Massey Ferguson farm equipment. The beloved Ford farm tractors held a place of high esteem based on their numbers. Along with numerous implements, attachments, and accessories, I recognized a timeworn White Motor Company transport with an 8-cylinder flathead, one of John Deere’s MC Crawlers and a John Deere Skidder. 

The largest item, with massive curved teeth bared like a Siberian tiger, instigated the final hairpin curve. I guessed the frightening implement was designed to load fallen trees onto a semi-trailer for transport. Its role here indicated a more ominous motive. The manufacturer’s name was still visible in the chipped and faded yellow paint, and although the stacker was new to me, RG LeTourneau the man, I’d heard something about. 

LeTourneau’s staunch Christian leanings somehow added to the discomfort I felt as I passed the skeletal loader into a yard of dormant grass. 

A feral animal darted from behind a stack of heavy equipment tires headed for the LeTourneau loader. My foot hit the brake as I glimpsed a white face covered with grime and wild hair. The creature held a startling resemblance to a small child. 

I popped the door latch to catch her when a battered 70s Dodge 4×4 cut me off. She disappeared before I could holler Kayla’s name from the open window of my truck.

A man hopped out of the Dodge wearing a lunatic smile and sporting a burning cigarette between teeth ruined by tobacco stains. With swift precision, he snatched a long rifle from behind the seat. A loud bang echoed through the air as he squeezed off a shot, followed rapidly by a second. 

As shock registered at the top of my chest, the realization that the escaping creature I’d seen was a small bear, its face covered in cream, caught hold of me. My heart pounded against my throat with the intensity of a native drum. Heat rushed into my face, turning it what must have appeared a vivid shade of red to the old codger who faced me now.

He’d tucked the weapon into the crook of his elbow, and the sound of blood rushing in my ears muffled his voice.

“Hey there, stranger,” he said, the fear he’d caused clearly of no consequence. “You surely saw the sign. We don’t cotton to solicitations of any kind. May as well get in your foreign vehicle and head back to wherever.”

Crazy must be a prerequisite for owning junk in this county. I chose to play as if loco was normal. “Oh, yessir.” I smiled like I had a Kirby vacuum under my arm and shimmied out of the Tacoma. “I can totally understand how you feel. Not here to sell you a thing.”

“Well we got enough religion to last us a lifetime.”

A laugh came easily at that rebuff. “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of it. I can see you’re a man of conviction.” I pointed at the LeTourneau. RG LeTourneau was notable for his religious fervor, reportedly tithing ninety percent of his massive income back to the Church, instead of the more common Christian amount of ten percent.

He stared in that direction, wrinkled brow expressing confusion.

“No, no plans to convert you. I’m here by way of Aidan Peale is all.” A glance around the yard revealed a few battered children’s toys, a couple of tricycles and a small swing set. They didn’t appear to have seen use for years.

“Aidan?” He shifted the cigarette with his lips. “I apologize for mistaking you for a salesman. Don’t care much for strangers poking around. Guess I got a habit of keeping folks from running over the kids the wife used to keep around. She didn’t always pay a rightful mind to them.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Your wife doesn’t babysit kids around here these days? I got the impression she looked after the Peale child now and again. Kayla isn’t it?”

“Hell’s fire. That ragamuffin take off again? It’s a regular event round here. No, Faye don’t watch her, nor any others since she took on that café. Thing is a damned nuisance to my way of thinking. Strange folks coming and going with no plan a tall for sticking in. Not the way Faye sees it though.” His eyes took a forlorn turn toward the not so distant mountains. “Got the devotions of a hyena in her.”

My brain stumbled over a bit of his words, struggling to register a memory. I was missing a connection that should have been obvious. The mislaid piece bothered me worse than a fly trapped in the pickup cab during a snowstorm. I left it alone, switched back to the absent child. “Aidan told me that Faye watches Kayla now and again.”

Hugh blinked. “Yeah, she has done. Not often. On’y of late her hands is full with her café is all. She tired of babysitting kids and stepped into that mess. Says it’s more fulfilling, talking to the town folk all day.” His gaze drifted again. The idea of his wife spending all of her time away from the compound clearly bothered him deeply.

The niggling detail kept poking at me. I pushed it off to admire the piles of antique farming equipment scattered about the yard. “You and Aidan rivals in the reclamation trade?”

He stared at me. “Keeps out riffraff and G-men. Ain’t got no time for Uncle Sam’s minions poking fingers in my pie.” His eyes held an ugly glint of hatred. “Sides, the Woman don’t like visitors sneaking up when I ain’t around.” He pointed out three security cameras mounted high on power poles.

My eyes traced the sleek bodies of each security camera as I murmured about their practicality. “Smart to keep an eye on things, that’s for sure.” Men like Hugh Jenkins could be deadly. His anti-government sentiment turned up memories of the Montana Freeman who’d held a standoff with the FBI not fifty miles from my hometown. The “type” of Montanan that clutched both courageous and cowardly qualities in the same fist. A shrewd operator kept eyes averted while processing information and planning a move forward.

While my mind toiled over the threat probabilities of this antiestablishment doomsday prepper, that irritating bother paid out—ka-ching! Faye! Her name echoed in my brain, a beacon of clarity. Faye, the friendly face from the Daily Diner. The most helpful citizen I’d run into since landing in this curious burg. 

No wonder I couldn’t form a correlation with Hugh Jenkins. He was this paranoid guardian of ultimate truth, barricaded against intrusion from ignorant outsiders, married to Faye, a community leader who embraced the public. Combined with the odd circumstance of Faye running both a diner in town and a daycare in the hills, I had no chance of connecting the dots. 

This bizarre communal model strengthened my belief that someone took Kayla. She wasn’t just lost or playing in the woods. Around here, everybody kept tabs on everybody else.

I brought the connection into our dialogue. “Faye of the Daily Diner is your wife?”

It had the desired effect of soothing Hugh. He smiled. “Oh yeah. That’s my woman. Prolly chatted your ear right off’n you.”

“She was very helpful.”

His tone darkened a notch. “Be better were she around the house more.” He glanced at the toys littered around the yard. “I kinda miss the little urchins, even though they was always getting into stuff.” He waved toward the giant log stacker. “Anyways, that Kayla Peale ain’t been around here for a spell.” He gave me a hard stare, like he’d remembered a rule about not talking to strangers.

“Well, she is a handful is what I’ve heard.” I snickered enough to lighten the moment. “Lorna and her eldest daughter asked me to look for the girl, Kayla. Aidan claims he hasn’t seen her but mentioned you folks so I thought I’d come by.”

Jenkins shook his head, a heaviness in his eyes. “Them two needs to work some things out,” he grumbled. “Fore they lose that kid for good.” 

Once again, the ominous tone took a standard idea about child welfare and turned it black.

I climbed into my truck. “If you see the child or hear about someone who does, give Lorna a call. She’s very worried.” My hand threw him a departing wave as I maneuvered around the lethal jaws of the saber-toothed LeTourneau, leaving behind the labyrinth of discarded machinery for the security of communal exposure.

A scan for the mischievous little bear on the way to the road had me longing for his safety, along with the safe return of innocent Kayla Peale.