“For everything,” she added.

Life was good.

An hour later Victor called me on my cell phone. A quadriplegic little person on a ventilator, Victor’s metallic voice was singularly creepy.

“Mis…ter Creed…they took…the…money,” he said.

“The couple from Nashville?”

“Yes, Rob and…Trish.”

“Big surprise, right?”

“When you get…a chance I…would like you to... kill the… Peterson…sis…ters.”

I paused a minute, trying to place them. “They’re in Pennsylvania, right?”

“Yes, in…Camp…town.”

I assumed my best minstrel voice and said, “You mean De Camptown Ladies?”

Victor sighed. “Really…Mis…ter Creed.”

“Hey, show some appreciation! In France I’m considered a comedic genius.”

“You and…Jerry Lewis….So, will you…go to…Camptown and…kill the… Petersons?”

“Doo Dah!” I said.


 

Chapter 2

There are no racetracks in Camptown, Pennsylvania, population four hundred seventeen. Nor are there any bars. You want a drink, you head fourteen miles west to Towanda. Closest nightlife is Scranton, fifty miles away.

The little town became famous throughout the world in 1850 after Stephen Foster published his famous song, “De Camptown Races.” The horse race Foster immortalized started in Camptown, ended in Wyalusing, and yes, it was about “five miles long.”

By the time I got my rental car and hit the road I was so hungry I took a chance on a beef burrito at the Horse Head Grill in Factoryville. I should have known better. You want a burrito, go to El Paso, not Factoryville. My lunch tasted like something you’d ladle out of an outhouse pit and serve to the finalists on Survivor.

But I digress.

Camptown is located in Bradford County, where the most recent crime stats showed 248 burglaries, 39 assaults, 24 rapes and two murders. If all went well, the Peterson sisters would double the murder tally in time to make the six o’clock news.

 Which I intended to watch.

On a TV.

In a bar.

In Scranton.

“Your destination is one hundred feet on the right,” said the sexy lady’s voice on my navigation system. She led me to a long, white-gravel driveway that I purposely overshot. After driving a couple hundred yards, I turned and approached from the opposite direction, checking for witnesses. Once comfortable with the general layout, I pulled my rental car into the driveway and followed it to the concrete pad where a green 1995 Toyota Corolla was parked.

The Petersons were living in a white double-wide trailer with a brown metal roof. To that they’d added a screened porch that overlooked about two acres of front yard that was few trees and mostly dirt. I parked, cut the power and sat, waiting for dogs.