Free She's Not There by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith Page B

own.”
    â€œJoe?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCan we go see it?”
    â€œSee what?”
    â€œThe camp.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œRight now.”
    â€œI don’t see why not.”
    We reorganized ourselves and threw on T-shirts and shorts over our bathing suits. Before we headed back to the ragtop, I looked out on the water. The little brown gull was gone and the two big white ones were soaring back to the rookery.

4
    By deciding to visit the camp, I’d begun an unofficial investigation. Shortly, I’d have to file a report and then it would be official. That’s what my director required of his independent investigators. I could enter or begin any investigation, and my first filing, in addition to describing the physical aspects of the crime, was mainly to explain why I believed the FBI should be involved. Sometimes it was for the usual reasons—wire fraud, a crossing of state lines—and sometimes outside the usual reasons, through a loophole, as in: She was from Connecticut, and she came to Rhode Island with contraband. Then my director and I would talk. He would play devil’s advocate. Once he’d said, “Poppy, the devil is not much of a match for you.” He hadn’t denied me thus far. And of course he owed me for getting the disastrous crime lab in order, the reason I was first hired. The rest of his departments … well, he was an extremely busy man. Which worked to my advantage, as did his trust.
    We got on well, my boss and I: got on well during my stint running the lab, got on well since I’d first told him I wasn’t happy being a desk jockey. After all, once I had the lab up and cracking, what was left for me to do? He granted my request to return to the field, one of a handful of independent operators. The only time I’d gotten annoyed with him was when he’d backed Joe and insisted I take a leave after last year. He said, “We’ve reached a point where I ask little of you. I do not interfere when you deem a case important to investigate or reopen. All I expect is that you will do your job, and that’s what you do. Superbly. Allow me this one exception.” The two of them wore me down—not too difficult, considering the state I was in. And considering Delby, who said, “Do it, boss.”
    Forced leave.
    The entrance to the camp was a track through a dripping wet web of vegetation that looked like a mangrove swamp. I asked Joe what the growth was. He said, “Bracken.”
    There was a large professionally constructed sign by the track, brand new, poodle pink and white. Superimposed on a large heart were the words, CAMP GUINEVERE and, in smaller print beneath, For Young Ladies Whose Hearts Are Set on a Trimmer Figure .
    We drove through. Within yards we came to a clearing. Joe braked the ragtop. The sight was miserable. Two dozen teenage girls were slumped on the ground in groups, leaning on—or sprawled upon—their backpacks. Some girls were really big, though by no means morbidly obese. And there were a few who were just a little bit pudgy. All the rest fell somewhere in between. Two thin girls were trying to get them moving.
    We listened to the protests.
    â€œIt’s too far .”
    â€œI hate and detest that beach.”
    â€œNo. N-O! I am totally not going.”
    One of the counselors said, “Listen up. If we go to the beach today, we’ll have pizzas from town tonight. For dinner. I promise. I’ll go pick them up myself.”
    The promise worked. The campers pulled themselves to their feet, helped one another with their backpacks, and followed the counselors to a path beyond the clearing, more a dank green tunnel than a path. Amid their chatter, one of them called to the leader, “There better be extra pepperoni on mine.” The counselor, though, was already attempting to redirect the focus. She was singing “Be Kind to Your Web-Footed Friends.” The