| |
ALTHOUGH SUSAN was punctual for a change, by the time I grocery shopped, threw in some laundry, and fixed dinner for Fideaux and me it was evening before I got to do what I was so eager to do—put on pajamas and sit down at Rip's old computer with a glass of merlot.
"Indiahoma," I recited, typing in the Oklahoma location Susan and Mike had chosen soon after their marriage.
It had been a while since I’d indulged in a little harmless snooping, and I caught myself hunched forward in pounce position, snitching quick sips of wine, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Even if all I learned was that Mike Swenson liked to move his family around, so what? It was my time to waste as I pleased.
Turns out that Indiahoma is situated between Oklahoma City and Wichita Falls slightly off Route 44. The old want ads I found were for truck drivers, medical professionals and military trainers, but especially medical professionals. Opportunities to work from home were also plentiful but usually required an investment of money up front. The town’s population was evenly divided between men and women, the total a mere 380 souls with an average of 38.64 years. Many were Native Americans or Hispanics with a small assortment of assimilated Europeans.
What I really needed was access to the archives of the local paper, The Lawton Constitution, and that, too, required money up front. Sixty cents for a one-day account.
"I think I can afford that," I informed Fideaux, but the dog had fallen asleep.
Knowing the year the Swensons married would have helped, but pressing George for more detail would have made him suspicious. I went with my best guess—three years ago—and spent an hour delving into ancient Oklahoma news. If I encountered so much as a hint of criminal activity by anyone named Swenson, I planned to phone the appropriate police department and hope they could put my worries to rest.
Nothing turned up. The only fishy part of the family’s brief residence in Indiahoma was Indiahoma itself. From the look of it, people were moving out, not in. Plus it just plain seemed like an odd choice.
Stop Two: Pollock, Louisiana, easily remembered because of the artist famous for splashing paint on large canvases. A good-looking guy starred in the movie. What was his name? Another search for another night.
Pollock, the town, appeared to be part of Grant Parish in the Alexandria, Louisiana, metro area, population about 368 in 2003, named for a guy who owned a lumber mill. Employment opportunities leaned toward store managers and the same come-on, work-at-home jobs offered in Indiahoma. I chalked that up to the site I was consulting rather than a trend. They also needed a U.S. Army Chaplain.
Potential pay dirt! Fifteen miles north of Alexandria in the middle of the Kisatchie National Forest, a United States Penitentiary needed correctional officers ASAP. A couple more mouse clicks informed me of an adjacent minimum security prison for slightly less scary male offenders. The convenient "inmate locater" assured me that no Swensons resided there either now or three years back.
Stop Three: Montezuma, New York, a pinprick on the map west of Syracuse just south of Lake Ontario. Influenced by a trip to Mexico back in the early 1800s, New York doctor Peter Clark named his soggy estate Montezuma. Neither the extraction of salt, a necessary industry if not an especially lucrative one, nor the Erie Canal bothered Peter's marshland much, but the Cayuga-Seneca Barge Canal built in 1910 lowered the water a drastic ten feet, and humans have been trying to repair that shortsighted error ever since. Dikes, for instance, and the reintroduction of nesting eagles. Nothing, however, prevented lots of carp from infesting the pools when Cayuga Lake overflowed, and unfortunately these "nuisance fish" bred and ate and pooped themselves into trouble with the species in charge.
The reported population of 1,431 were mostly Caucasian, so the Swensons would not have attracted attention in that respect. Although the average income for males was higher than at the family’s previous stops, over fifteen percent of Montezuma’s residents still lived below the poverty level.
More and more I wondered what jobs Mike might list on his resume. And why such obscure places to ply his trade, whatever it was?
Next came Jacksonville, Florida, and since that move actually made sense, I allowed myself to go to bed. My concentration was gone anyway.
Comfortably nestled down, my fingers twined in Fideaux’s kinky fur, my last waking thoughts were about Susan. My personal reservations about her aside, I had difficulty imagining her staying with a violent man. Nor could I imagine the wife of a violent man taking a job over her husband’s objections.
Anyhow, it seemed to me that most criminals (the ones in the annex, not the high security prison) were primarily after money, and none of the tiny hamlets I’d researched offered much temptation in that regard.
They were, however, excellent places to hide.