Pulling away from the cemetery, he entered the thick woods. Branches slapped and tugged at his SUV, as if refusing to let him leave. Navigating his way out, pushing slowly through the overgrowth, he considered Gibby.

Something wasn’t right about that guy. An ex-con, acting like he was up to no good, like he was hiding something.

It was frustrating that Gibby wouldn’t talk, but Cass did, giving Wyatt enough to build an exclusive news feature. They were a strange couple, that’s for sure, but they were among the last people to see Samantha Moore before she vanished.

The question is, have they been ruled out as suspects? I’ll check with Rod Noble.

Wyatt wanted to know more about Cass and Gibby, and the creepy place they’d claimed out here. Reaching the narrow dirt road that knifed through birch and maple forests, he recalled Cass saying that a property manager lived over the hills to the north.

Wyatt stopped to consult his maps, thinking if he could find his way to the manager’s house, he could request an interview. But after checking, he couldn’t find a shortcut leading to the location. What he saw meant a long, roundabout drive. Brushing away a wasp that had whirled though his open window, a new thought occurred.

There’s a guy who knows the region well and knows the case.

Wyatt took up his notebook, flipping to his interview with Jonas Seaver, manager of the Green Rolling Hills Inn, recalling his son, Fletcher.

Another oddball.

But, according to his father, Fletcher had taken part in every volunteer search for Samantha Moore that he could. And he’d spent a lot of time hunting and fishing in the woods. “He knows the Kingdom like the back of his hand.... He took searching for the girl to heart.”

Fletcher was a contractor. He lived in Orleans at Hemlock Creek Estates. He drove a camper with a leaping-fish decal.

Trusting his instincts, Wyatt headed there.

***

Orleans wasn’t far, Wyatt figured, after double-checking his maps.

It didn’t take long before he passed Zeffie’s Gas & Grocery and was traveling on pavement back to Spiritsburg.

Now, Orleans was less than 10 minutes away. He went east on Route 58, going under Interstate 91. Driving along a leafy stretch that wound around the village businesses and homes, Wyatt recalled how, during their brief meeting at the motel, Fletcher had been cold to the fact that he was a reporter on the story.

I’ll handle that. It’ll be a small price to pay, because if what his father said is true, Fletcher could enlighten me on the search, the region, and, hopefully, Cass and Gibby.

Turning into Hemlock Creek Estates, Wyatt hadn’t gone far into the mobile-home park before he was forced to stop and get out.