covered pickup with California plates parked by the side of a well-traveled road. He pulled up behind it, got out of his Range Rover and looked the pickup over. It was in pretty good shape for its age, but dirty. The owner had probably spent lots of time on back roads and hadn’t visited a car wash in a long time.
He shined his flashlight into the windows. The seatswere covered with towels and there were clothes, a bedroll and camping gear in the back. It was important to talk to campers from out of the area whenever possible; a lot of people didn’t realize the dangers hidden behind the great beauty of the mountains. There were fire hazards, wildlife that could be dangerous if misunderstood and the human element. Clarence Mull was not the only squatter hidden in the forest. And there were marijuana farms hidden back there with very territorial landlords. A camper or hiker could easily stumble into unfriendly territory.
“Ho there,” a voice called.
Tom saw a tall redheaded man lumbering through the brush toward his truck. He had a shaggy and unkempt look about him, but he was dressed in the sort of clothing an old-fashioned college professor might wear—khaki pants, brown, laced shoes, sweater vest and tweedy jacket with patches on the elbows. Around his neck dangled binoculars and a camera; over his shoulder a large canvas bag.
“Hello, Officer, is there a problem with my vehicle?”
“I was going to ask you the same question, sir,” Tom said. “I thought it might be abandoned.”
“No chance of that, Officer.” He came around the truck to stand in front of Tom. “I haven’t broken any laws, have I?” he asked. His accent was either British or Australian, Tom wasn’t sure. Formal, in any case. And perhaps a tad effeminate as well.
“Depends on what your business is.”
“Bird-watching, as a matter of fact. I’ve beenchasing a ruby-crowned kinglet, a rare sight for this part of the country, particularly in the late summer and early fall. It’s a tiny little beauty and I suspect there’s a nest around here.” He chortled as if he’d told some sort of joke. “Little blighter probably has a whole family and I aim to get a shot,” he said, patting his camera.
“That might not be such a good idea. If you get more than twenty feet off the road, you’re on private property.”
He looked around, craning his neck. “What’s this then? A farm of some sort? I can’t think anyone would care if I slipped around the shrub and muck in search of a tiny bird. I don’t mean to damage any property or let the livestock loose.”
Tom took out a pen and tablet. With his pen he pointed to a No Trespassing sign on a post just a few yards up the road. “In fact, it’s a family home on a piece of acreage and there isn’t any issue of you doing damage. It’s an issue of them deserving the privacy they invested in.”
“I don’t even see a house!” he protested.
“If you slip around the brush and muck for long, you’ll eventually run into a house. Can I see some identification?”
The gentleman opened his satchel, pulled out a wallet and handed it to Tom. “I must inquire once again, Officer, have I committed a crime?”
Tom flipped open the man’s ID. Paul Faraday. San Jose address. He copied the information onto his small tablet and handed the billfold back. “Not that I’m awareof, Mr. Faraday. I just like to know who’s come to town. Where are you camping?”
“I’m actually thinking of visiting your bed-and-breakfast tonight. I could do with a cup of hot tea and a soak.”
“Have you been camping around here?”
“I spent one night in Redwood Valley. In search of a crafty little bobolink.”
“What campgrounds?”
He shrugged and smiled, his teeth large. “I can’t remember, frankly.”
“Maybe you have a receipt?” Tom asked.
“I wouldn’t have saved it, Officer. I get the impression you’re quite annoyed with me for something, and I can’t imagine what.”
Neither can
He shined his flashlight into the windows. The seatswere covered with towels and there were clothes, a bedroll and camping gear in the back. It was important to talk to campers from out of the area whenever possible; a lot of people didn’t realize the dangers hidden behind the great beauty of the mountains. There were fire hazards, wildlife that could be dangerous if misunderstood and the human element. Clarence Mull was not the only squatter hidden in the forest. And there were marijuana farms hidden back there with very territorial landlords. A camper or hiker could easily stumble into unfriendly territory.
“Ho there,” a voice called.
Tom saw a tall redheaded man lumbering through the brush toward his truck. He had a shaggy and unkempt look about him, but he was dressed in the sort of clothing an old-fashioned college professor might wear—khaki pants, brown, laced shoes, sweater vest and tweedy jacket with patches on the elbows. Around his neck dangled binoculars and a camera; over his shoulder a large canvas bag.
“Hello, Officer, is there a problem with my vehicle?”
“I was going to ask you the same question, sir,” Tom said. “I thought it might be abandoned.”
“No chance of that, Officer.” He came around the truck to stand in front of Tom. “I haven’t broken any laws, have I?” he asked. His accent was either British or Australian, Tom wasn’t sure. Formal, in any case. And perhaps a tad effeminate as well.
“Depends on what your business is.”
“Bird-watching, as a matter of fact. I’ve beenchasing a ruby-crowned kinglet, a rare sight for this part of the country, particularly in the late summer and early fall. It’s a tiny little beauty and I suspect there’s a nest around here.” He chortled as if he’d told some sort of joke. “Little blighter probably has a whole family and I aim to get a shot,” he said, patting his camera.
“That might not be such a good idea. If you get more than twenty feet off the road, you’re on private property.”
He looked around, craning his neck. “What’s this then? A farm of some sort? I can’t think anyone would care if I slipped around the shrub and muck in search of a tiny bird. I don’t mean to damage any property or let the livestock loose.”
Tom took out a pen and tablet. With his pen he pointed to a No Trespassing sign on a post just a few yards up the road. “In fact, it’s a family home on a piece of acreage and there isn’t any issue of you doing damage. It’s an issue of them deserving the privacy they invested in.”
“I don’t even see a house!” he protested.
“If you slip around the brush and muck for long, you’ll eventually run into a house. Can I see some identification?”
The gentleman opened his satchel, pulled out a wallet and handed it to Tom. “I must inquire once again, Officer, have I committed a crime?”
Tom flipped open the man’s ID. Paul Faraday. San Jose address. He copied the information onto his small tablet and handed the billfold back. “Not that I’m awareof, Mr. Faraday. I just like to know who’s come to town. Where are you camping?”
“I’m actually thinking of visiting your bed-and-breakfast tonight. I could do with a cup of hot tea and a soak.”
“Have you been camping around here?”
“I spent one night in Redwood Valley. In search of a crafty little bobolink.”
“What campgrounds?”
He shrugged and smiled, his teeth large. “I can’t remember, frankly.”
“Maybe you have a receipt?” Tom asked.
“I wouldn’t have saved it, Officer. I get the impression you’re quite annoyed with me for something, and I can’t imagine what.”
Neither can
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