A quartet of Corvettes. Two bathtub Porsches, one with a racing number on its door. Brad Dowd’s newer silver roadster, a black Jaguar D-Type, lurked like a weapon, unmindful of the cream Packard Clipper towering snobbishly in the next stall.

Slot after slot, filled with lacquered, chromed sculpture. Red Ferrari Daytona, the monstrous baby-blue ’59 Caddy Brad had driven to Nora’s house, silver AC Cobra, bronze GTO.

Every hood cold.

Milo straightened from the deep bend it took to inspect a yellow Pantera. Walked to the far wall and surveyed the collection. “A boy and his hobbies.”

“The Daytona costs as much as a house,” I said. “Either he pays himself a huge salary, or he’s been siphoning.”

“Unfortunately, chrome don’t bleed, and it’s blood I’m after.”

* * *

Outside the barn, he replaced the open lock and wiped it clean. “Gazillion dollars’ worth of go-carts and he doesn’t bother bolting.”

I said, “He doesn’t expect visitors.”

“Confident fellow. No reason not to be.” We began the return trip to the car, walked around the south side.

Ten steps later, we stopped, synchronized as a drill team.

A gray circle. Easy to spot; the grass had died two feet from the perimeter, leaving a halo of cold, brown dirt.

Steel disk, nubbed with little metal pimples. A lever folded flat pulled up easily when Milo tried it. An inch of lift evoked a pneumatic hiss. He let it drop back into place.

I said, “Bert the Turtle.”

“Who?”

“Cartoon character in these booklets they gave out to schoolkids in the fifties, teaching the basics of civil defense. A bit before my time but I had a cousin who held on to hers. Bert was big on ducking into his shell. Knew proper bomb-shelter etiquette.”

“In my school it was drop-drills,” he said. “Put your head between your knees and kiss your ass good-bye.”

He toed the edge of the shelter lid. “Ol’ Walter really was worried about the communists.”

“And now Brad reaps the benefits.”

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 42

Milo walked around looking for a surveillance camera.

“None I can see, but who knows...”

Returning to the shelter lid, he squatted, lifted the handle a few more inches. Hiss hiss. He let it fall back into place.

“Air lock,” I said. “Keep nuclear fallout at bay.”

“Play canasta while the bombs drop.” Stretching prone, he pressed his ear to steel. “You hear the cries of a damsel in distress like I do?”

Off in the distance, a puny breeze barely ruffled the meadow. The trilling bird had gone mute. If clouds made noise, the silence might’ve relented.

I said, “Loud and clear. Grounds to search.”

He lifted the handle halfway. Peered in. Had to stand and put his weight into completing the arc. The hatch gave way with a final whisper and he stepped back. Waited. Inched over to the opening. Looked down again.