relaxation elusive. People unnerve me until I really get to know them. Cooper and Watson are pretty much the only people that know the real Jon Hudson, but Collins is already worming her way past my defenses, though not intentionally.
I pull a maple branch aside so that Collins can pass, but then I see something on the ground and let it go. The branch snaps against her legs and elicits a shout, but then she’s by my side, looking down at my discovery.
“It’s a path,” she says. “Could be a game trail.”
I shake my head. “No. Animals don’t disguise their paths.” The worn center of the path has been covered with leaves, but the slight depression is impossible to conceal. “Which way did Mr. Johnson say he heard the footsteps heading?”
Collins points to the right.
I stand and look back, trying to see any hint of the log cabin. It’s hidden. “Mr. Johnson has good ears.” I step over the path, careful not to disturb the leafy disguise and walk twenty feet beyond it. Collins follows my lead and we follow the path without walking on it. If someone is up to no good out here, it might require a longer investigation, and there’s no sense in tipping off the bad guys that someone has found their path.
The path ends a half mile farther when it merges with the dirt road. But it continues on the other side. The road here is in even worse disrepair. Foot-deep potholes. Large rocks uncovered by years of unchecked erosion. Even Collins’s SUV couldn’t get through here.
“This isn’t right,” Collins says.
“A little pavement wouldn’t hurt,” I say.
“No, look at the rocks. They’re too big.”
She’s right, the rocks are pretty big, impossible to drive over, but I’m not exactly a dirt road expert.
“A lot of the dirt roads in town need to be graded every year. Some get new dirt. If it’s a busy road, I get to sit and watch. There are a lot of stones in the dirt they use, but nothing bigger than my fist. She holds up a clenched fist. Callused skin covers all of her knuckles. Interesting. “Some of these are more than a foot tall. That means the original layer of dirt was even higher. Makes no sense.”
She’s right. “Someone put rocks here, which means—” We both turn to the left, looking down the dirt road. “—we’re going thataway .”
We make good time on the road. The large rocks disappear after fifty feet. Definitely a manmade deterrent. But why? Are some hillbillies out here making moonshine? We’re not even in the right part of the country for that. We’ve barely gone a half mile when the road ends at a chain link gate overgrown with vines. A fallen tree has come down in front of gate, its roots pulled from the ground as though toppled by the wind.
Collins kicks the tree with her boot toe. “Convenient.”
“Dirt bikes could get past the boulders,” I say. “Not this.”
“So what’s the big secret?”
The gate is eight feet tall and nearly impossible to see through. A spiral of razor wire tops the gate, which is connected on either side to a ten-foot-tall chain link fence—also topped with razor wire. Big secret is right. “Have any militias in the area? Cults?”
“Not that I know of.”
I slide over the tree for a closer look at the gate. There’s a sign under the vines. My keys are still in my pocket, so I take out the small jackknife, which I keep sharp, and I cut vegetation away. The white, metal sign is splotched with rust, but I have no trouble reading the text. At the top is a bright red message that would unnerve just about anyone:
U.S. ARMY
RESTRICTED AREA
USE OF DEADLY FORCE
IS AUTHORIZED
WARNING
It’s followed by a paragraph of text:
This site has been declared a restricted area by the authority of the Commanding General, in accordance with the provisions of the directive issued by the Secretary of Defense on 20 August 1954, pursuant to the provisions of Section 21, Internal Security Act of 1950. Unauthorized entry is
I pull a maple branch aside so that Collins can pass, but then I see something on the ground and let it go. The branch snaps against her legs and elicits a shout, but then she’s by my side, looking down at my discovery.
“It’s a path,” she says. “Could be a game trail.”
I shake my head. “No. Animals don’t disguise their paths.” The worn center of the path has been covered with leaves, but the slight depression is impossible to conceal. “Which way did Mr. Johnson say he heard the footsteps heading?”
Collins points to the right.
I stand and look back, trying to see any hint of the log cabin. It’s hidden. “Mr. Johnson has good ears.” I step over the path, careful not to disturb the leafy disguise and walk twenty feet beyond it. Collins follows my lead and we follow the path without walking on it. If someone is up to no good out here, it might require a longer investigation, and there’s no sense in tipping off the bad guys that someone has found their path.
The path ends a half mile farther when it merges with the dirt road. But it continues on the other side. The road here is in even worse disrepair. Foot-deep potholes. Large rocks uncovered by years of unchecked erosion. Even Collins’s SUV couldn’t get through here.
“This isn’t right,” Collins says.
“A little pavement wouldn’t hurt,” I say.
“No, look at the rocks. They’re too big.”
She’s right, the rocks are pretty big, impossible to drive over, but I’m not exactly a dirt road expert.
“A lot of the dirt roads in town need to be graded every year. Some get new dirt. If it’s a busy road, I get to sit and watch. There are a lot of stones in the dirt they use, but nothing bigger than my fist. She holds up a clenched fist. Callused skin covers all of her knuckles. Interesting. “Some of these are more than a foot tall. That means the original layer of dirt was even higher. Makes no sense.”
She’s right. “Someone put rocks here, which means—” We both turn to the left, looking down the dirt road. “—we’re going thataway .”
We make good time on the road. The large rocks disappear after fifty feet. Definitely a manmade deterrent. But why? Are some hillbillies out here making moonshine? We’re not even in the right part of the country for that. We’ve barely gone a half mile when the road ends at a chain link gate overgrown with vines. A fallen tree has come down in front of gate, its roots pulled from the ground as though toppled by the wind.
Collins kicks the tree with her boot toe. “Convenient.”
“Dirt bikes could get past the boulders,” I say. “Not this.”
“So what’s the big secret?”
The gate is eight feet tall and nearly impossible to see through. A spiral of razor wire tops the gate, which is connected on either side to a ten-foot-tall chain link fence—also topped with razor wire. Big secret is right. “Have any militias in the area? Cults?”
“Not that I know of.”
I slide over the tree for a closer look at the gate. There’s a sign under the vines. My keys are still in my pocket, so I take out the small jackknife, which I keep sharp, and I cut vegetation away. The white, metal sign is splotched with rust, but I have no trouble reading the text. At the top is a bright red message that would unnerve just about anyone:
U.S. ARMY
RESTRICTED AREA
USE OF DEADLY FORCE
IS AUTHORIZED
WARNING
It’s followed by a paragraph of text:
This site has been declared a restricted area by the authority of the Commanding General, in accordance with the provisions of the directive issued by the Secretary of Defense on 20 August 1954, pursuant to the provisions of Section 21, Internal Security Act of 1950. Unauthorized entry is
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