What We Find. Робин Карр
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making and wrapping sandwiches to keep in the cooler along with a few other lunchable items, she baked every morning—sweet rolls, buns, cookies, brownies, that sort of thing. Frank ate a lot of that and apparently never gained an ounce.
Maggie could hear Sully scraping out the gutters around the store. Seventy and up on a ladder, still working like a farmhand, cleaning the winter detritus away. That was the problem with March—a lot to clean up for the spring and summer. She escaped out to the porch to visit with Frank before Sully saw her sitting around and put her to work.
“What are you doing here?” Frank asked.
“I’m on vacation,” she said.
“Hmm. Damn fool time of year to take a vacation. Ain’t nothing to do now. Dr. Mathews comin’?”
“No. We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“Hmm. That why you’re here during mud season? Lickin’ your wounds?”
“Not at all. I’m happy about it.”
“Yup. You look happy, all right.”
I might be better off cleaning gutters, she thought. So she turned the conversation to politics because she knew Frank had some very strong opinions and she could listen rather than answer questions. She spotted that guy again, the camper, sitting in his canvas camp chair outside his pop-up tent/trailer under a pull-out awning. His legs were stretched out and he was reading again. She noticed he had long legs.
She was just about to ask Frank how long that guy had been camping there when she noticed someone heading up the trail toward the camp. He had a big backpack and walking stick and something strange on his head. Maggie squinted. A bombardier’s leather helmet with earflaps? “Frank, look at that,” she said, leaning forward to stare.
The man was old, but old wasn’t exactly rare. There were a lot of senior citizens out on the trails, hiking, biking, skiing. In fact, if they were fit at retirement, they had the time and means. As the man got closer, age was only part of the issue.
“I best find Sully,” Frank said, getting up and going into the store.
As the man drew near it was apparent he wore rolled-up dress slacks, black socks and black shoes that looked like they’d be shiny church or office wear once the mud was cleaned off. And on his head a weird WWII aviator’s hat. He wore a ski jacket that looked to be drenched and he was flushed and limping.
Sully appeared on the porch, Beau wagging at his side, Frank following. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, that’s just wrong,” Maggie said.
“Ya think?” Sully asked. He went down the steps to approach the man, Maggie close on his heels, Frank bringing up the rear and Enid on the porch waiting to see what was up.
“Well, there, buddy,” Sully said, his hands in his pockets. “Where you headed?”
“Is this Camp Lejeune?”
Everyone exchanged glances. “Uh, that would be in North Carolina, son,” Sully said, though the man was clearly older than Sully. “You’re a little off track. Come up on the porch and have a cup of coffee, take off that pack and wet jacket. And that silly hat, for God’s sake. We need to make a phone call for you. What are you doing out here, soaking wet in your Sunday shoes?”
“Maybe I should wait a while, see if they come,” the man said, though he let himself be escorted to the porch.
“Who?” Maggie asked.
“My parents and older brother,” he said. “I’m to meet them here.”
“Bet they have ’em some real funny hats, too,” Frank muttered.
“Seems like you got a little confused,” Sully said. “What’s your name, young man?”
“That’s a problem, isn’t it? I’ll have to think on that for a while.”
Maggie noticed the camper had wandered over, curious. Up close he was distracting. He was tall and handsome, though there was a small bump on the bridge of his nose. But his hips were narrow, his shoulders wide and his jeans were torn and frayed exactly right. They met glances. She tore her eyes away.
“Do you know how you got all wet? Did you walk through last night’s rain? Sleep in the rain?” Sully asked.
“I fell in a creek,” he said. He smiled though he also shivered.
“On account a those shoes,” Frank pointed out. “He slipped cause he ain’t got no tread.”
“Well, there you go,” Maggie said. “Professor Frank has it all figured out. Let’s get that wet jacket off and get a blanket. Sully, you better call Stan the Man.”
“Will do.”
“Anyone need a hand here?” Maggie heard the camper ask.
“Can you grab the phone, Cal?” Sully asked. Sully put the man in what had been Maggie’s chair and started peeling off his jacket and outer clothes. He leaned the backpack against the porch rail and within just seconds Enid was there with a blanket, cup of coffee and one of her bran muffins. Cal brought the cordless phone to the porch. The gentleman immediately began to devour that muffin as Maggie looked him over.
“Least he’ll be reg’lar,” Frank said, reclaiming his chair.
Maggie crouched in front of the man and while speaking very softly, she asked if she could remove the hat. Before quite getting permission she pulled it gently off his head to reveal wispy white hair surrounding a bald dome. She gently ran her fingers around his scalp in search of a bump or contusion. Then she pulled him to his feet and ran her hands around his torso and waist. “You must’ve rolled around in the dirt, sir,” she said. “I bet you’re ready for a shower.” He didn’t respond. “Sir? Anything hurt?” she asked him. He just shook his head. “Can you smile for me? Big, wide, smile?” she asked, checking for the kind of paralysis caused by a stroke.
“Where’d you escape from, young man?” Sully asked him. “Where’s your home?”
“Wakefield, Illinois,” he said. “You know it?”
“Can’t say I do,” Sully said. “But I bet it’s beautiful. More beautiful than Lejeune, for sure.”
“Can I have cream?” he asked, holding out his cup.
Enid took it. “Of course you can, sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll bring it right back.”
In a moment the gentleman sat with his coffee with cream, shivering under a blanket while Sully called Stan Bronoski. There were a number of people Sully could have reached out to—a local ranger, state police aka highway patrol, even fire and rescue. But Stan was the son of a local rancher and was the police chief in Timberlake, just twenty miles south and near the interchange. It was a small department with a clever deputy who worked the internet like a pro, Officer Paul Castor.
Beau gave the old man a good sniffing, then moved down the stairs to Cal who automatically began petting him.
Sully handed the phone to Maggie. “Stan wants to talk to you.”
“He sounds like someone who wandered off,” Stan said to Maggie. “But I don’t have any missing persons from nearby. I’ll get Castor looking into it. I’m on my way. Does he have any ID on him?”
“We haven’t really checked yet,” Maggie said into the phone. “Why don’t I do that while you drive. Here’s Sully.”
Maggie handed the phone back to her dad and said, “Pass the time with Stan while I chat with this gentleman.”
Maggie asked the man to stand again and deftly slid a thin wallet out of his back pocket. She urged him to sit, and opened it up. “Well, now,” she said. “Mr. Gunderson? Roy Gunderson?”
“Hmm?” he said, his eyes lighting up a bit.
Sully