I paced McKinnon’s side of the fence, keeping about six feet away to avoid any Sea-2-Sea motion detectors. Close to the eastern boundary of my sketch of McKinnon’s land, I did find a hole. I squatted to study it. I had a plastic spoon and one of the plastic bags I keep on hand to clean up after Peppy. I dug up a few spoonfuls of dirt and tied a knot in the top of the bag. I counted off paces from the eastern end of the silo complex and made a note so I could find the spot again—I was hoping McKinnon had dug on the Sea-2-Sea side of the fence at the same longitude.

Next step involved taking my iPhone out of its Faraday cage to use an app that detects infrared rays. This meant revealing my location if anyone was tracking me. Maybe the bug in my room was the only surveillance they thought they needed. Maybe it wasn’t even there for me—perhaps a previous tenant had been doing surveillance on an errant spouse or a disloyal dog.

If Baggetto or Gisborne was tracking me, though, I had about fifteen minutes before they showed up. I sprinted over to the fence to scan it.

The app found Sea-2-Sea’s cameras easily: they were set in the tops of the fence posts and at the midpoint of each section of fencing, creating a cat’s-cradle kind of pattern. It should be possible to circumvent, with a little careful planning. I shut off the phone and stuffed it back in my day pack, jogged down to the road and into the Mustang. I made a fast U-turn and floored the car, churning up gravel and dust as I rocketed south to Old K-10.

The road was empty. The fierce wind had blown away most of the clouds; in my rearview mirror, I could see a dull orange sunset outlining the university’s buildings along the top of Mount Oread.

I was almost at the Wakarusa when I saw the flashing lights of a cop car in the mirror. It had exited from the main highway, I guessed, heading north at speed. I sucked in a breath, but the cop car—no, cars, there were three of them—continued past the Old K-10, turning toward the silo. That showed one thing, or three, I guess: my phone was being monitored, my Faraday cage was a success, and they hadn’t put a bug in my car.

My hands were damp, sliding on the steering wheel. I braked near the low bridge over the Wakarusa and turned onto a county road that skirted the river. I pulled over to the edge but kept off the verge—the Mustang wasn’t designed for mud. Maybe next time I totaled a car, I’d get an off-road vehicle, something sturdy, like a decommissioned tank.