She looked at Merlin. “Do you ever get the feeling that something isn’t right? Of course you do—one look at Pete and you knew he was a shithead. You’ve got better instincts than I do.”
Merlin didn’t disagree. Evangeline couldn’t shake the quiver of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. She felt as if something catastrophic was about to happen. It was probably nothing more than the end of her sabbatical looming on the horizon, but it seemed like something more troubling was ahead. She wanted to stop time, pull the camper up, and stay in the woods, away from prying eyes and prying hands.
She shook herself. It wasn’t as if northern Montana was a hotbed of big-box stores and suburbia. Where she was heading wasn’t much different than the wilds of Canada. It was just closer to the realities of her ordinary life.
“I’m being an idiot, Merlin,” she grumbled. He simply looked at her. “We need to get to our new campground before it gets dark, and I can’t sit around with my thumb up my ass brooding. Tell me to get a move on.”
Merlin rose up on the seat, gazing at her intently. “Okay, message received,” she muttered, making a face, as she pulled out onto the narrow paved road, heading toward the border crossing.
It was even smaller than she expected. One window, though she knew perfectly well they weren’t going to just let her go through, not with a dog and a trailer. She was flagged over before she even approached it, and she pulled up behind the small building with a sigh, yanking the cap off her head and threading her fingers through her hair. It was going to be a long day.
She’d underestimated the border agent’s zeal. He was a tall man, with a moustache and a lean build, but he still seemed to crowd her. Presumably that was the reason he was the first man in a uniform who Merlin immediately distrusted, and the feeling was mutual. He’d made her put Merlin in the kennel in the back of the building, then locked her in a room where she could watch him tear poor Annabelle to pieces while she listened to Merlin’s mournful howl. Everything came out, even her granola and smoothie mixtures. She half expected him to upend the toilet, which wouldn’t be that bad because she didn’t like to use it, preferring the wilderness if given the choice. She’d gotten very adept at squatting.
It was going to take hours to put everything back together, and that wasn’t part of the border agent’s job. She wasn’t getting out of here anytime soon, and she began revising her itinerary. Of course they’d taken her cell phone, but she had an almost photographic memory, and there was a little-used campground just a couple of hours past the border where she could stay for the night instead of her planned stop. She let a litany of truly obscene epithets run through her head as she looked at the sour-faced guard. One of the other agents should be questioning her while he went through the trailer, or vice versa, but the two other people in the building didn’t seem to feel any more friendly toward her own personal border agent than she did.
And even though she’d taken precautions, she was going to need a toilet sooner or later. Plus, Merlin hated being away from her, and his howls were getting more determined. She lost track of time—there was no clock in sight and she used her smart-phone instead of a watch—but eventually her entire life was spread out by the side of Annabelle, and the unpleasant-looking guard was sauntering back toward the building. At least one of the other guards was repacking her trailer. She knew from experience they could have left it up to her, and she thanked heaven for small favors. Now if she could only have a bathroom.
She knew better than to ask. The border guard came into the room, pulled out a chair, and sat across from her, a sour expression on his face.
“Are you going to stop that damned dog from barking?” he opened the interview.
No attitude, she reminded herself. He was just doing his job. “I can’t very well calm him if I can’t even see him,” she said politely enough.
He shuffled through her papers, screwing up her careful order, dropping a sheet on the floor and stepping on it before he picked it up, leaving a big boot print in the middle of it. “So your dog’s papers are in order. Yours, not so much. There’s no record of when you entered Canada.”
She controlled her weary sigh. “They don’t stamp passports when I drive through. I entered Canada on May twenty-seventh, as you can see from my notes and my records, and I’ve been there ever since.”
“Doing what?”
It was right there, and she’d already explained herself twice, but she patiently did it again. “Research for a book on abandoned vacation lodges from the early part of the 1900s.”
“You got any proof of that?”
Don’t lose your temper, she reminded herself. “I have my identification card for Greenbough College, where I teach the history of architecture, I have pages and pages of notes and drawings, I have a letter of permission from the Minister of Canadian Heritage, I have camping receipts from the areas where I’ve been working.”
He grunted. “There was nothing incriminating in your trailer. I’m just deciding whether to send you to the auto unit to pull your tires.”
Alarm shot through her. Not that there was anything to see, but that would take hours, and Annabelle was finicky; and how damned long would it take before she could get a bathroom?
She kept her face stoic, knowing he was watching her for every tic. “Is there anything I can help you with?” she said politely.
He ignored her question, turning back to the papers. “I think that dog is dangerous. I’m thinking of having him kenneled till we can get a vet in to certify that he’s not a problem.”
“What?” Her voice rose in panic. She wasn’t about to leave Merlin in their hands. “Why?”
“I don’t have to give you a reason, Ms. Morrissey. And why do some of your possessions identify you as Evangeline Williamson, with another address entirely?”
Shit and double shit. “Because I got divorced.”
“How long ago?”
“Three years.”
“That should be time to update everything.”
“I have a lot going on.” She sounded a bit testy, and she cleared her throat. “Please don’t impound Merlin. He needs to be with me.”
“He stays here . . .” he began. Just then the door opened and one of the more pleasant looking agents poked his head in.