"What are you getting into, Holly?"
"I don't know, and that's why I'm being cautious. Don't do anything rash, but if I miss two calls, come get me."
"All right, but you watch yourself. Ham, too."
"Thanks, I'll talk to you later." She punched out.
"You really think that's necessary?" Ham asked.
"I sure hope not."
As they approached the turnoff to Lake Winachobee, they ran into a line of stopped traffic, and two minutes passed before they were able to turn left. A sheriff's deputy, probably an off-duty hiree, was directing traffic, and they followed a dozen other cars down the dirt road.
"We must be in the next county," Holly said, checking the map. "That's not an Indian River County deputy. Yes, here it is-Deep Lake County. I've never even heard of it."
"Doesn't seem to be much to it," Ham said, glancing at the map.
"Except all this traffic."
"Maybe they're having a fishing tournament," Ham said.
"You see any fishing gear on these cars and trucks?" Holly asked.
"Now that you mention it, no, but I see a lot of rifle racks."
"Who are these folks? What do you think?"
"They look pretty ordinary," Ham said. "There's one truck just like mine, the rest are American cars or SUVs. I don't see any Japanese or German stuff."
"So they're patriots."
"Automotive patriots, anyway," Ham said.
"I guess we're dressed the part," Holly said. They were both wearing old camouflage fatigue tops over jeans, their usual fishing outfits. There was a faded spot on Ham's sleeves where his stripes used to be.
The traffic moved swiftly down the dirt road, kicking up dust. Ham rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioning.
Holly could see the row of Main Street buildings ahead, but before they reached them, another deputy directed them to turn right, along with all the other traffic.
"I hope this isn't some kind of Klan meeting," Ham said. "I might have to shoot somebody."
They were directed into a large clearing in the pines, and ahead stood a tent that would house a small circus. They parked the truck, and Holly insisted that Ham lock the glove box. Everybody was filing toward the tent, and they fell in with the group.
They were an ordinary, blue-collar-looking group, Holly thought, though some of them looked more prosperous than that. There were families with small children and teenagers, all neatly dressed-no long hair or tattered jeans.
"Must be a revival meeting," Ham said. "These look like church folk."
Holly looked around for posters or flyers advertising the event, but saw nothing. Just outside the tent they joined a line that had formed, and a couple of minutes later they were approaching a ticket desk, except no tickets were being sold. Instead, people were laying twenty-dollar bills on the counter, and they were being put into a box.
"Thank you," a woman behind the table would say, as the people laid down their money.
Ham came up with two twenties, put them on the table and got thanked, but no tickets were offered, no hands stamped. They pushed past a canvas flap and stepped inside the big tent.
Holly stopped and blinked. At least three hundred people were milling about among exhibits, and there was a loud murmur of constant conversation. The tent, to her surprise, was air conditioned, and it seemed to be filled with displays of guns-everything from pistols to assault weapons. There were booths with World War II Nazi memorabilia and displays of Confederate swords and uniforms. Everybody was busily doing business, buying and selling.
Holly and Ham exchanged a glance.
"I wasn't expecting this," Ham said.