Nilsen's Hollow

  PROLOGUE

  Technically, I should be dead.

  At least, that’s what a doctor, a paramedic and a cop have told me on three separate occasions. Getting myself into dangerous situations has become a bad habit.

  I guess I’ll never learn.

  The first time, I was seven years old.

  One morning, as I crossed a road on my way to school in the English village where I grew up, a Ford Escort screamed around a blind corner and hit me side on, sending my small frame into a wall. The driver, Lloyd Spencer, jumped out and carried my limp and broken body a quarter of a mile to my house. A smarter man would have called an ambulance. He left my distraught mother to drive her mangled son to the hospital. Apparently, his kid was late for school. Had to go. Sorry.

  Convicted of Driving without Due Care and Attention, Spencer paid a small fine and had five penalty points added to his license. We received £900 in compensation. Who says the British legal system is inept?

  A few years ago, when skydiving in California, my parachute failed to open.

  There was a malfunction with my main chute, which I cut away, but I then experienced a problem with my reserve, which also failed; flapping, spiraling and utterly useless as I hurtled towards the ground, convinced I was going to die.

  A hangar roof broke my fall, flexing sufficiently to reduce the impact. Remarkably, I escaped with only moderate head and neck injuries and made a full recovery.

  On the third occasion, someone was pointing a gun at me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I write for Dream Car magazine. Maybe you’ve seen it. Perhaps even read one of my articles. We’re the new kids on the publishing block, so I’d understand if you haven’t. It’s a great job, we’re generously remunerated and the office is only a few miles from my house in Kensington, a district of west and central London. The owner, publisher and editor, Frank, allows us a surprising amount of creative freedom. He only has one rule: we have to be passionate. This keeps the subjects diverse and the articles fresh. We write features about readers’ and celebrities’ cars, about our own experiences and also do what we call spot pieces when one of us feels like writing about a car that we particularly like. For example, in last month’s issue I wrote an article about the Ford Capri 280 Brooklands that I used to own, drove and reviewed the latest Ferrari and did a piece on Jay Kay; Jamiroquai’s lead singer, and his car collection.

  On a drizzly Monday morning in April, I carried three paper cups of Starbucks coffee upstairs to our offices and straight into a conversation that changed my life.

  I handed coffees to Chris and Eric, fellow staff writers and enthusiastic drinking buddies in the pub over the road, currently engaged in an argument about cinematic car chases.

  ‘I hate to break up such an important discussion ...’

  We turned. Frank was standing in front of Eric’s cubicle. As always, he was dressed in a dark tailored suit that flattered his slim build. Elegant, cultured, a tad standoffish, clean-shaven and always immaculately groomed, Frank regarded us with his usual amused expression, as if he had seen it all before. Twice. Although well-educated, (Eton, Oxford), Frank was not as rich as his confident urbane tones seemed to imply. Two unsuccessful businesses and an ex-wife saw to that. He lived in a pleasant yet modest house with a pretty, affable Spaniard. As a boss, Frank was friendly, but demanding. He could be an asshole at times: remarkably anal about hanging our coats on a rack and not on our chairs, and extremely sarcastic when he became impatient, which happened daily. Frank was also capable of more creative profanity than any person I have ever known. I found witnessing a well-spoken, dignified fifty-one-year-old man hurling inventive insults at the copier a tad surreal. Frank earned our allegiance, however, because; apart from allowing our creativity to roam free, he occasionally gave us interesting assignments and treated us like human beings.

  ‘Hey Frank,’ I said.

  Chris and Eric acknowledged his presence by lifting their coffees.

  His vivid dark blue eyes locked onto mine. ‘I have an assignment for you.’

  ‘A glamorous actress has read one of Sam’s articles, wants to show him her Mercedes, then screw his brains out?’ Chris asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wish,’ I sighed.

  ‘You want him to test a minivan?’ Eric said.

  We all made vomiting noises.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,’ Frank said. ‘We’ve had an email from a chap in Montana. He owns a 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1. It’s got the 428 and a manual box. Mint, apparently.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Chris and I said together.

  ‘I know how much you lust after those, Sam, so if you want to fly out and interview the guy, Cindy will book you an air ticket and what not.’

  ‘Bet your arse I want to go.’

  ‘Great. I thought so. She’ll book the next available flight. Okay?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Splendid. Cindy will drop by later with the details.’

  ~

  The earliest flight that Cindy, Frank’s secretary, could book was with Delta four days later. It was a long day. I rose early, yawning my head off. Packed my suitcase, which I should have done the day before. Took the London Underground to Heathrow Airport. Tried sleeping on the plane, but couldn’t. Drank coffee instead. Arrived at Glacier International Airport at 11:25 p.m. (local time) still yawning my head off. Picked up and drove the rental car to the Hunton Inn in Kalispell. Took a shower. Watched the first twenty minutes of The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, alternately laughing and yawning my head off until tiredness got the better of me. Went to bed.

  I’d been thinking about buying a Dodge Challenger SRT8, so the boss let me hire one on the condition I wrote about that, too. In the morning, I walked out of the warm hotel into a cool spring day. Sparse clouds cast lazy, slowly evolving shapes across a rich blue sky. Sunshine caressed the town. Compared to London, Kalispell was tranquil, the air sweet. A pleasant change. My grandfather occasionally says that you can’t beat the English countryside when the sun shines. I think he would say the same thing about Montana, particularly up in the Rockies where one can get a taste of all four seasons in a single day.

  The scenery on the drive over to Mach 1 guy’s house was beautiful. Snowcapped mountains. Pine forests. Quiet roads. I passed through Lennon, a pretty lakeside town surrounded by the Rhoda and Pearson mountain ranges, where I would be staying for the next few days, and turned left onto Highway 102. Mach 1 guy lived in Marguerite’s Cape, a small rural community situated on a large forested arm of land that jutted into the western side of Stratford Lake, twelve miles outside of town. After a leisurely drive, I turned into Marguerite’s Cape Road and cruised down narrow lanes, found his place without any trouble and pulled into the driveway. Although a large handsome two-story house with acres of windows, his was modest and unassuming compared to the other properties that I glimpsed through the trees. It came as no surprise when I later learned that the locals referred to the neighborhood as Millionaire’s Cape.

  I turned off the engine and got out, stretching in the sunshine. The garage door was open and a tall, stocky, round faced, bearded man in his early sixties peered out, then walked over to the Dodge, wiping his hands on an old cloth. He appraised me, decided I was harmless, then said, ‘Sam Munro? From Dream Cars magazine?’

  ‘The one and only,’ I replied, extending a hand.

  He smiled, gripped mine tightly; skin rough like a laborer’s, and siphoned my arm.

  ‘Doug Bamber. Good to meet you. Big fan of the magazine. Have it on subscription. I enjoyed your article on the Triumph GT6. So much in fact, I went out and bought one.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Uh-huh. A ‘74 Mark 3. I’ll show you that, too. Took over a year
to find. It’s a beaut. The previous owner kept it in pristine condition.’

  Frank will love me, I thought. Three articles for the price of one.

  We published the GT6 feature in issue 10. Our readers had enjoyed it, so another would probably go down well, especially after a two-year interval.

  ‘That a rental?’ he said, nodding at the Dodge.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘Doesn’t like corners.’

  Doug grinned. ‘Welcome to America. Haven’t driven any current muscle cars, but I expect the Mach is even worse.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s much sexier.’

  ‘Damn right. No photo guy?’ he added, peering inside the car.

  ‘You’re looking at him.’

  ‘Yeah? Save the magazine some money, huh? Bet they love you?’

  ‘Yep. And when I splash on some Old Spice I have to beat ‘em off with a stick.’

  His grin widened. ‘Okay, grab your camera and I’ll back the cars out.’

  The Mustang was stunning. Every square inch gleamed and the exhaust note was intoxicating. I took a few hundred photographs of it and the GT6, then Doug took me out in both. We did the interview in his living room, during which a soppy Golden Retriever made repeated attempts to sniff my crotch and Doug absently played with his wedding ring.

  Doug’s house was open plan with a rustic feel. Wooden beams and rock accents dominated the design. He showed me around, starting with what he called the great room on the ground floor. On the right-hand side, an impressive fireplace made from rough gray rock ran from floor to ceiling. Two sofas and three armchairs, arranged around a low antique table, dominated the middle of the room. On the far left was a huge kitchen, practically a separate room with another sofa and a chunky table and chairs. To the right of the entrance hall, a long dining room overlooked the front lawn. Behind that, a den, living room and library. Every room had oversized picture windows that afforded marvelous views of the front and back yards, lake and mountains.

  After the tour, Doug grabbed four beers from his fridge, put two into a small cooler, handed me one and suggested we adjourn to the backyard. It was vast. A remarkably green lawn (no doubt cultivated from a carefully chosen packet of seeds) led down to a boat dock, a small powerboat reminiscent of the black Glastron in Live and Let Die moored alongside. To the right of it were twin boathouses, shaded by a tall pine tree. We sat down on robust wooden chairs and drank our beers in companionable silence as the soppy Golden Retriever (christened Polly by Doug’s granddaughter) resumed her unwelcome exploration of my nether regions until Doug told her off and she lay down across his feet and fell asleep.

  After a few minutes of gazing across the water and ring fiddling, Doug said, ‘How was your flight?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Suffered from a numb arse for a few hours afterwards, but that’s all part of the joy of flying.’

  ‘Arse,’ Doug laughed, exaggerating my pronunciation. ‘I love the way you Brits speak.’

  I grinned at him, then said, ‘So what did you do before you retired?’

  ‘Worked for The Bank of Montana in Helena. Kept a house here. Came back at weekends. Took early retirement in 2006. Sold the other place. Moved in permanently. It’s cool. My youngest daughter and grand-kids live in Milton, on the other side of the lake, so they’re reasonably nearby.’

  ‘Bank of Montana? As senior management?’

  He studied me, surprised. ‘How’d you guess that?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  His eyes didn’t leave mine. ‘A hunch, huh? More to you than meets the eye.’

  I shrugged and changed the subject. ‘You were born in Montana?’

  ‘Born and raised in Lennon. Nice town. Good location. Pretty.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. Hope to do a little sightseeing while I’m here.’

  ‘How long you over for?’

  ‘Four nights.’

  ‘Here for the weekend, then?’

  ‘Yup. Fly back Monday morning.’

  ‘Staying in town?’ Doug grinned. ‘Sorry, I’m asking too many questions.’

  ‘No no, it’s fine. Yeah, I’m staying at the Stratford Lake Hotel.’

  ‘Oh, Martha’s place.’

  ‘Know her?’

  He nodded. ‘Yessir. In a small town, everybody knows everybody and each other’s business. But yeah, Martha and I go way back.’

  ‘I spent last night in a soulless room in Kalispell.’

  ‘Well, the Stratford is one of the oldest buildings in Lennon. Plenty of character. You’ll be snug there. Look, as you’re gonna be around for the weekend, come by tomorrow afternoon if you like. The Mach could use another run out and I’m having a cookout in the evening. Just a few friends. You’d be welcome to join us.’

  I was delighted. After some sightseeing, I had expected to spend the evening lying on my bed watching TV. Small towns in any part of the world aren’t renowned for their thriving nightlife. I thanked him and accepted, drank another beer, then said it was time I checked in at the Stratford.

  ‘My daughter will be over tomorrow so you might catch her before we head off,’ Doug said as he led me through the house. ‘She’s a vet. Got a day off so she’s coming over before having lunch with a girlfriend. Great kid.’ He smiled again. ‘Not that I’m biased or anything. You’ll like her.’

  ‘Look forward to it,’ I said, not that I was all that fussed. I wasn’t interested in meeting any women.

  We stepped outside into the sunshine and over to the Dodge. I stopped, staring at the passenger door, frowning.

  It was ajar, sticking out by about an inch as if someone, when shutting it, did not push the door hard enough.

  ‘I thought you locked it,’ Doug said at my shoulder.

  ‘I did. And set the alarm. Somebody has broken in.’

  ~

  ‘I didn’t hear it go off,’ Doug said.

  ‘Me neither. Give me a minute while I check to see if anything’s been taken.’

  I opened the door and the alarm shrieked, making us jump. I hastily deactivated it.

  ‘Damn that’s loud,’ Doug said, wincing. ‘I don’t get it. Someone breaks into your car, the alarm doesn’t go off, but when you open the door, it does.’

  I scratched the base of my scalp, an old habit of mine when I was confused and trying to work out what the heck was going on. ‘Kinda weird, huh.’

  ‘Yeah. Could they have deactivated it, got in, then reset it when they left?’

  ‘And leave the door partially open? No. Doesn’t make any sense.’

  We crouched down and peered at it.

  ‘No sign of forced entry,’ I said.

  We stood up. I put my digital voice recorder and camera gear on the passenger seat and climbed in. Checked the glove compartment. The maps and point-and-shoot camera that I’d put in there were untouched. Got out and checked the trunk. Breathed a sigh of relief. My suitcase and laptop were still there.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Doug asked.

  I closed it. ‘Yeah. Nothing missing. Which is a surprise.’

  ‘No? That’s weird. Who breaks into a car without setting off the alarm, but doesn’t take anything?’

  ‘God knows. Do you think this is a case for Sam and Dean Winchester?’

  Doug laughed. ‘Maybe if your car starts levitating or killing people, then yeah, give ‘em a call.’

  I grinned and shook his hand. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Doug.’

  ‘Likewise. Drive carefully. Some of these roads catch strangers out. And there’s frequently some kid punching the gas on the straights.’

  ‘Will do. See you tomorrow.’

  I got in and was just about to fire up the Dodge’s Hemi when I spotted something in the passenger footwell. Dirt and pine needles.

  ‘Hey, look at this.’ I opened the door and gestured for Doug to come over. He squatted beside the car, both of us staring in silence.

  ‘Not there before?’ he said.

  ‘No
pe.’

  ‘An animal with muddy pine needle covered paws has gotten in?’ he suggested.

  I gave him a look. ‘Deactivated my alarm, sat in the car, then wandered off without closing the door?’

  ‘Yeah. Dumb suggestion. Sorry. Any ideas?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Well, I’m stumped.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Shaking my head, I closed the door, started the Dodge and put it in gear.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, then turned the car around and rumbled down Doug’s drive, waving from my open window.

  ~

  The Stratford Lake Hotel was large, oblong, three stories high, built in brick and straight out of a Hollywood western. The photos on the website didn’t do it justice. Although I later suspected that some of its interior character was due to its owner’s personality, rather than the architecture and décor. Martha, I soon found out, lent more atmosphere to the place than a team of designers ever could. The Stratford was on U.S. 50: Amalfi Road, one of the two main shore hugging routes into Lennon. I cruised down a long driveway and parked in the hotel’s small lot. A strong breeze ruffled my hair as I tugged my suitcase from the trunk, set the alarm and walked into the hotel. Constructed entirely from glossy cherry wood, the Stratford’s lobby exuded warmth and Rocky Mountain charm.

  ‘You must be Mr. Munro,’ a female voice said.

  A plump woman in her late fifties; hair dyed a particularly alarming shade of orange, strode in from a side room and positioned herself behind the reception desk. She beamed as if I was her long-lost nephew.

  ‘Welcome to Lennon!’

  I smiled back and strolled over. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My name is Martha Hanway. I’m the co-owner and manager. I think I spoke to your secretary.’

  ‘My boss’s. I don’t have one.’

  She carried on as if she hadn’t heard, eyes wide, staring at me in fascination. I felt like a rare, exotic museum exhibit. ‘Doug Bamber just called to say you were on your way over. I was beginning to wonder where you were.’