Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“Yeah. But we got the information, Skipper. It’s on Thomas LeRoy’s computer, and that’s exactly what we were going for.”

“And in the meantime, my good friend is missing. I think it’s time we make a truck to truck, trailer to trailer, and tent to camper search.” I gingerly let myself down off the truck bed.

“At four in the morning?” Styles didn’t sound like he liked the idea.

“Hey, we’ve got a good chance of finding everyone home.”

“Good point.”

There was no way I was letting Em out of my sight, and I think Daron was a little concerned about going out by himself. So, while we could have covered a lot more territory if we’d split up, we decided to all three go together. At least that was the plan.

We were halfway on our walk to the village when Daron suddenly remembered he’d left something back at the truck. He wouldn’t say what it was, just that he had to go back. We offered to walk with him, slowing us down even more, but he refused and I watched him trek back toward the truck till he was swallowed in the dark.

“That can’t be good.” Em took my hand.

“He’ll be fine. He’s gotten himself out of more jams than anyone I know.”

“Skip? I don’t trust him.”

“He’s never given you a real reason to.”

“Again, everything we have heard tonight has come from him. The story about this Bland, how he trusted his money and his story to Daron. And the stuff about the FBI and the guys who were following me. All Daron’s story.”

She had a great point. If he was lying about any of it, we were on a wild goose chase. And what purpose would it serve for him to lie?

“There’s one thing that we know is true.” I looked up at the sky and could see the stars, clear and bright. Early-morning light was still a couple of hours away, and the inky black sky showcased the fiery balls of gas as they sparkled through the atmosphere.

“What’s that? What’s true? I’m confused and I’d like to know one thing that’s true. Tell me.”

“James is still missing. And the longer he’s missing, the more worried I am.”

S tyles had disappeared. We gave him five minutes, then another five, and finally we walked back to the parking lot to see where he was. The Buick was gone.

We walked back to the village, and I checked my cheap Timex. It was going on four a.m. I could hear the faint sound of a radio or CD player, very soft, playing a Kenny Chesney song, and I remembered the tailgate party before his last concert in Lauderdale. Em and I had driven up, set up in a big parking lot, and ended up playing beerpong with a couple of college kids and some kid’s sixty-year-old mom.

I struggled to pick up the lyrics as we walked. Something about sitting around, wasting another day while he drinks another beer in Mexico.

“Where do we start?” Em surveyed the tents and campers. “We already know that he’s not in Bruce Crayer’s tent.”

“Yeah. If I knew which one was Stan’s I’d look there.”

“Stan lives here too? In the village?”

“I assumed he does. These guys are nomads. I don’t imagine they have much of a home base. Even though they’re full time with Cashdollar, I think they do carnivals and county fairs when he’s not traveling.”

“You could make a living like that?”

“Em,” I was whispering again. I didn’t want to wake everyone in the village, only one unit at a time, “there are thousands of these events. James did a search on the Internet and there are two hundred fifty-four counties in Texas alone. Like sixty-seven in Florida, maybe eighty-eight in Ohio, and everyone of them has some kind of event. And these things go on every day of the year. In every state in the Union. I mean, we could travel fifty-two weeks a year and never run out of places to go until we’re ninety years old.”

She was silent. Then, “You’re giving that some thought?”

I laughed. Silently. “No. It’s one of those things you just say when you’re putting it all together. We were just talking, that’s all.”

“Well,” she spoke in a hushed tone, “I’m not coming along if you do. If you ever do decide to travel as junk-food vendors, you be sure and let me know how it all works out. Okay?”

I didn’t always say the right thing around her. But right now, I was just hoping that my junk-food partner would still be around for tomorrow’s meal.

“I’m still not sure what you have in mind. Do you want to go up to each of these places, wake them up, and ask if they’ve seen James? Is that the plan?”

“Unless you’ve got a better one.”

“This seems so stupid and so pointless.”

She was right. And what was I going to do? Actually say, “Have you seen this guy, he’s kind of scruffy at the moment, old T-shirt, jeans, hasn’t been home in a couple of days.”

We approached the first small, aluminum camper. It was banged up, and two propane tanks were hung on the back. The dim light from the moon gave it an eerie silver-yellow glow, like maybe a ghost lived there. Someone had strung a laundry line from the camper to a scrub pine. A set of men’s underwear, a couple of T-shirts, and some cargo shorts hung on the line. As we got closer, the music got a little louder. Someone in the trailer had the radio on. Inside me, I rejoiced. Maybe someone was actually awake and I wouldn’t have to wake him. I did a quick look around, half expecting to see Crayer, with his pistol in hand.

On the radio Chesney had been replaced with Willie Nelson and Toby Keith singing “Whiskey for My Men, Beer for My Horses.”

“You’re going to knock.”

I was getting my courage up. And I was going to knock, but I heard rustling inside, like someone getting up and going to the bathroom. And then you could hear a stream of water, like someone using the toilet. These little campers offered not much in the way of privacy.

“Give them a minute.”

“Skip, this is embarrassing.” She backed off and stood about thirty feet from me. I can’t say I blamed her.

The noise stopped and for a moment there was just the crickets and the country music. Then there was a loud belch coming from inside the camper. I mean loud.

“My God, you can hear everything that goes on in these things.” Em was whispering from thirty feet away, but I could hear her. I hoped whoever was inside couldn’t.

I softly walked up to the wooden stoop and stepped up, cringing. In another few hours it wouldn’t bother me at all. It would be daylight, and everything would be fine. But in the middle of the night, it just didn’t feel right. In another few hours, who knew what would have happened to James.

I looked back and the darkness nearly covered Em. I could barely see her nodding her head in encouragement. I knocked lightly. There was no answer. I tapped again, just using my index finger on the door. Nothing.

I knew someone was inside, and there could be no question they heard me. So they chose not to answer. I wouldn’t either. How stupid to answer the door in the pitch-black of the nighttime. I glanced back one more time at Em. This time she’d disappeared into the gloom. There was nothing else to do but try again. Or give up before I got started.

I gave it one more try. A little louder this time. The songs switched and now Carrie Underwood was singing. “Save me from this road I’m on, Jesus take the wheel.” I thought about saying a little prayer right about then. I needed someone on my side and figured it couldn’t hurt. Just as I started to step down from the wooden platform, the door creaked open. The first thing I thought was that it desperately needed some oil. Slowly the door opened, the creaks giving a spooky sound and feel to the old camper. It was like an old horror movie.