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  “Is there anyone inside?” an officer asked.

  “Yes. But you’re not going to be able to help her now,” Mark said, and then he glanced back for the boy, but he was gone.

  Part Two

  The High Country

  14

  Doug Oriel, known in Cassadaga as Myron Pate, had driven through the night and Janell slept as Florida fell behind them and they carved into the Georgia pinewoods. She had dreamed often and well in Cassadaga. Sometimes, they were memories of the Netherlands, her first days with Eli. Other times, visions of the dark world and the horrified faces of the foolish people who feared it. In the truck, though, she struggled to find deep enough sleep for dreams at all, and when they came, they were more like flashes of recent memory, Novak behind his circle of light, shining it into her eyes.

  Their first stop was well north of Atlanta, an obscure spot on the map that would have been forgotten completely if not for the interstate that ran through it. Doug pulled into a gas station beside a pump, shut the engine off, and looked at her.

  “It’s your role,” he said. “I can call him, but he will say that—”

  “No. I’ll call. I’m senior.”

  Usually this grated on him, but today he was relieved. This was the very reason he hadn’t been granted leadership. He was a weapon, nothing more. An operator. Without her guidance, useless.

  “If he needs to hear from me, I’ll back up your story.”

  “Just pump the gas,” she said, and got out of the truck.

  In the backseat was a black bag designed to hold a laptop computer, innocuous-looking, invisible. She unzipped it and selected one of the forty cell phones inside, then powered it up for the first time. The gas was pumping, but she could see Doug watching her, and she walked away from the truck and into the shadows at the far end of the parking lot. Then she dialed the first of three carefully memorized numbers. Each one asked for a new number, rerouting her, rerouting her, and rerouting her again. Then, finally, a ring.

  Her throat was tight and her skin prickled. When he spoke, she thought she would not be able to answer. It was that wonderful to hear his voice again. For months, their only communication had been short e-mail messages.

  “It’s me,” she said. “We are in motion.”

  “But Novak is alive?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You believe so?”

  “It is my understanding he escaped the house unharmed.”

  “Then this is not a question of belief. This is a fact.”

  “Yes.” The fact that she had failed.

  “What does he understand?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That seems impossible.”

  “It’s true. His interest is only in Garland.”

  “He can’t see beyond that?”

  “His whole world exists in that ditch where his wife died. It is all that he sees. I spent extra time with him to assess this. Now I wish I hadn’t.”

  “It’s important to know.” He sighed. “But Garland taunted him. If he can possibly track Garland here, we will have to deal with him.”

  She was unaware of the taunt and wanted to know more about it, but he didn’t like questioning or prolonged phone calls, so she stayed silent. For a time, so was he. Thinking, no doubt, about her failure. She could picture Novak in the darkness, his hands in hers, and the memory made her wince. She’d been so close. A few seconds faster, that was all she’d needed to be. She hadn’t expected him to move so swiftly. Hadn’t expected him to move at all. He’d obliged her every request to that point, so there had been no sense of a rush.

  “The house was clean?” he asked at last.

  “Completely.”

  Silence once more. She could hear wind from his side of the call and tried to picture his surroundings. She’d imagined them many times but never seen them. They’d been apart so long, Amsterdam seemed like another life.

  “We will need to move faster,” he said. “That’s the only choice. I’ve already taken steps to expedite operations here. You will have to hurry to join us, and you must not be stopped.”

  “We won’t be.”

  “It will be different energy for you now. Not as strong as it was there. You’ll have to find it in yourself.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, and truer words had never been spoken.

  “So it begins,” he said, and she wasn’t fearful, but joyful.

  It had been a long wait.

  She powered the phone off, smashed it against the concrete wall until fragments of it scattered, and threw the remains into the trash. Doug was waiting nervously beside the truck, and she extended her hand for the keys.

  “I’ll drive now,” she said. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

  It was not the way things were supposed to have begun, but they were in motion now, and that was all that mattered.

  15

  The jail reminded Mark of many he’d known in his youth.

  It was a rural jail, and the deputy who’d arrested him shared a last name with his booking officer, suggesting that good-ol’-boy policing flourished in Volusia County. At least here, though, the good ol’ boys were polite enough, if confused. In the jails of Montana and Wyoming, Mark had met plenty who weren’t so polite. In those days, the officers also hadn’t had cameras recording them, and they’d been drinking buddies with the prosecutors and the judges.

  Tonight, the deputies didn’t know what in the hell to do with him, so they’d put him in the drunk tank. He’d gotten one phone call and had used it to reach Jeff London, offering no details beyond his location. Then they’d locked him up and gone off to consider the situation and determine whether he was a murderer or an arsonist or both.

  Mark passed the time sitting on a bunk beside the stainless-steel sink and water fountain that were mounted on the back of the toilet, a one-piece unit. If you desired a drink of water, you’d better hope there wasn’t another drunk vomiting or shitting. Fortunately, Mark was alone and sober, and—all that really mattered, as he recalled the blond woman down on her knees before him in that dark room, her hands so close to the waiting knives—he was alive.

  The police who eventually came for him weren’t local. It wasn’t the arresting deputy but a captain from DeLand, along with an agent from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. They took his statement, recording all the while.

  “He told you his name was Myron Pate, and she didn’t give you a name?”

  “Correct. She pretended she was Dixie Witte, but she didn’t give a name. He said he was Myron Pate, but I think he lied.”

  “We think so too.”

  “Okay. Then I can’t help you. The only person who would know is Dixie Witte, and I never spoke to her. I assumed it was her body that I found in that basement.”

  “You assumed right.”

  “It’s a small town,” Mark said. “Someone has to know who they were.”

  If the police had heard any names mentioned, they didn’t care to share them. They returned to asking questions, and Mark answered them. Most of them. The captain from DeLand was most interested in why he hadn’t fled the house when he’d had the chance.

  “I was curious.”

  “Not curious enough to call the police, even though you thought you might have just escaped a murder attempt?”

  Mark shrugged.

  “A woman was killed in that house, Mr. Novak. You don’t seem committed to helping us understand how that happened.”

  “A woman was killed in Cassadaga more than two years ago,” Mark said. “It’s why I was there. You now know everything I know about the woman who was killed tonight. We can talk through it again, but you’ve already heard it.”

  They wanted to talk through it again.

  It was somewhere around four in the morning when Jeff London managed to rouse a judge from sleep and convince her that Mark’s questioning had reached excessive lengths if he wasn’t going to be booked.

  Jeff met him outside the jail.<
br />
  “Let’s talk in the car,” Mark said. “I’ve spent enough time here.”

  Jeff drove, and they talked.

  “Unless they were better at bluffing than I think,” Mark said, “the police don’t know any more about who was renting that house from Dixie Witte than I do. Am I wrong?”

  “No. From what I’ve been told—and this comes from the prosecutor here, a guy I’ve known for years—all they’re sure of is that Dixie rented the place for cash, didn’t keep records, and was a big believer in respecting privacy. The neighbors all agree on this. Most of them didn’t like her tenants, and a couple of them saw the guy you know as Myron go into the house with the blond woman, both of them carrying gas cans, right before it went up. That’s good news for you.”

  “Anyone mention a young boy? He was there.”

  “A boy? Not that I’ve heard of.”

  “He was the one who told me people in the house turned over often. And once you’re inside, it is pretty clear that the various tenants think it’s a special home,” Mark said, remembering the wild words scrawled in paint.

  “Tell me what happened,” Jeff said, and Mark did. It was the same speech he’d given the police, with one addition.

  “I have a license plate I need you to run. But first I need to find the kid who has my phone, assuming he kept it. I think he did, because he believes I’ve got the support of a dead man. It’s like being a made guy in the Mafia, apparently. In Cassadaga, a dead man named Walter vouched for me.”

  Jeff stared at him. Mark shrugged. “It’s a different kind of place.”

  “I’m familiar with that. What I want to know is why in the hell you chose not to give the evidence on your phone to the police.”

  Mark didn’t speak. Jeff grimaced and said, “Don’t go down this road. Please, do not go down this road.”

  “I need to find Garland Webb before the police do.”

  “There are other victims now. Not just Lauren. And other suspects. It’s bigger than you, bigger than her.”

  “They know where he is,” Mark said as if Jeff hadn’t spoken. “And the police have had their shots.”

  “There’s no coming back from the choice you’re making.”

  “Would you drive me to the town, at least? If I can find the kid and get my phone, I’ll figure out another way to get the license plate run. My PI license is still valid, even if I don’t work for you.”

  Jeff’s voice was sad and distant. “We’ll get you the plate.”

  Mark hadn’t expected him to agree to that. He said, “You’re losing your faith in the system a little bit yourself, aren’t you?”

  “No, Markus. Not even a little bit.”

  “Then why help me?”

  A mile passed in silence before Jeff said, “Because she died on my watch. Working for my company, on my case. The things you feel? I don’t pretend to know them. It’s not the same. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything.”

  “It wasn’t on your watch.”

  “Like hell. I could have stopped her if I’d wanted to. She pushed it, but I could have said no.”

  “She pushed it?”

  Jeff nodded. He usually looked far younger than his years, but not now. “It was her idea. She didn’t just ask to go. She demanded, almost. She wanted to see the town, she said. It was odd, and I shouldn’t have allowed it. So, yeah, it was on my watch. Her interest in the town was strange, and I didn’t listen to my instincts. She never belonged there, and yet I facilitated it.”

  “How she could put any kind of faith in the stuff they’re selling in that town, Jeff, it just kills me. Because it’s so obviously a con. And she was too smart to fall for a con. Too analytical, too by-the-book. She knew the psychic claims wouldn’t be worth a damn in court, and all she cared about was building courtroom product. I didn’t understand it the day she left, the last time we spoke, and I still don’t. She knew better.”

  He heard the anger in his own voice. So absurd, but so hard to avoid. The grief never left, but the anger came and went, just like the boy had said of the people at that evil house in Cassadaga. It came and it went, an outlandish, self-righteous rage: How could you let yourself get killed, Lauren? Didn’t you understand how much I loved you, needed you, how absolutely lost I am now and always will be without you?

  As if it had been selfish of her to die.

  Jeff pinched his brow and held it for a few seconds. Then he said, “You’re a good detective, and a better man. You might actually find Webb first. And when you do, you’ll make the right choice. You don’t believe that anymore, but I still do.”

  They didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive.

  16

  Sabrina was fed oatmeal again. The woman who’d smashed Sabrina’s nose with a flashlight only a few hours earlier now watched her eat with a smile.

  “I need something to call you,” Sabrina said.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “That’s not true. You’ve already given me Eli’s name. I know Garland’s. And you told me that I need to learn to be happy here, and to listen. That’s hard to do if I’m scared of you, and everything is more terrifying if you’re all strangers. Don’t you understand that?”

  The woman hesitated, then said, “Violet.”

  “Violet. Any last name?”

  “No, dear. Just Violet. Eli has a presentation for you. Are you able to go outside without the trouble we had last time?”

  Sabrina’s face ached and she could breathe comfortably only through her mouth. She had no desire to repeat the last time.

  At least not until she had a plan for the fence.

  “I’ll be good,” she said. “I know the rules now.”

  “I hope so.”

  Violet uncuffed her and they went to the door. Both interior and exterior locks required keys. When they stepped out into daylight, Sabrina got her first sense of the scope of her surroundings.

  They were on a high plateau rimmed by mountains, peaks looming in all directions. The slopes fell away from every side of the cabin, and fir trees screened it from view. Beneath the tree line was a ring of boulders; some of them seemed natural to the terrain, but others were too carefully aligned, as if they’d been excavated and moved into place to form a perimeter fence. Far below, down a steep slope of loose sandstone and scree, a stream cut through a valley basin. Where the stream fell out of sight, tumbling down to a lower elevation, another tree line blocked visibility. Traces of old snow lingered, but nothing fresh, and most of it had melted. They were somewhere well south of Red Lodge, and maybe east. There were no roads that she could see, no homes, no cars.

  They were entirely alone.

  “Good morning,” a voice from behind her said, and she turned to see the man named Eli, the first look she’d gotten at him in daylight. Average height, average build, with long hair tied back. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about him except for his eyes. They were inkwell dark, and forceful.

  “Where is my husband?” Sabrina said.

  He smiled. It was a smile that would have charmed anyone, she thought, or at least anyone he had not chained to a wall first.

  “Your husband is fine and well. He’s doing important work. You should be very proud of him.”

  A gust of wind rattled the fence. Eli faced it and breathed deeply, contented.

  “Here’s something you should consider,” he said. “A quote that inspired me. Perhaps it will inspire you.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was deeper, with a powerful timbre. Violet nodded at the sound.

  “‘For your people, the land was not alive,’” he said. “‘It was something that was like a stage, where you could build things and make things happen. You were supposed to make the land bear fruit. That is what your God told you.…There were more of you, so your way won out. You took the land and you turned it into property. Now our mother is silent. But we still listen for her voice.

  “‘And here is what I wonder: If she sent diseases and harsh winters
when she was angry with us, and we were good to her, what will she send when she speaks back to you?

  “‘You had better hope your God is right.’”

  He stopped speaking and smiled.

  “What do you think of that?”

  “It’s a powerful question.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “It also sounds like it belongs to the Indians. And that isn’t you.”

  The smile widened. “Ah, Sabrina, but you’re wrong. We’re too far gone in this world to worry about heritage, about ethnicity. There are only two relevant parties now—people and power. Who has power, and who deserves it.”

  “I guess you think that’s for you to determine.”

  “Oh, I won’t determine a thing, Sabrina. Your nation is laced with the fuses of fear. All I’m going to do is provide the match. I’m fascinated to see how it turns out.” He looked out over the mountains again, took another deep breath, and whispered, “‘You had better hope your God is right.’”

  When he finally turned back to her, the smile was gone.

  “I understand that last night you made a mistake that led to two injuries.”

  Sabrina waited.

  “Are you familiar with the work of Nikola Tesla?” Eli Pate said.

  The name was vaguely familiar. “Electrical genius,” she said, and he seemed pleased until she added, “like Edison.”

  His eyes tightened immediately. “Tesla’s understanding was far ahead of Edison’s—ahead of the entirety of mankind—and it still took years for the money-obsessed pigs who ran the world to recognize it. And while the battle raged, Edison engaged in a campaign designed to destroy Tesla’s reputation, to obscure the truth with lies, to promote his own ideas even though he knew they were inferior, and to line his pockets rather than help the world. Highlights of this campaign included the slaughter of innocent animals that he claimed were dying by the droves due to Tesla’s alternating-current system. Our dear hero Thomas Alva Edison reached his zenith when he electrocuted an elephant in an attempt to discredit Tesla’s system. This is true.”