“You’ve had other adventures beyond Bangladesh,” I said.

“Nothing as titillating. I did fieldwork in England. Our department found this enormous Viking coprolite in a marsh. Eleven, twelve hundred years old, fossilized dung. Could split a pot helmet with it. Speaking of helmets . . . We also recovered a chainmail coif with an intact skull. Amazing.” He dexterously extracted a fresh cigarette one-handed and lit it with a gas lighter. The sort of fancy doohickey you got as a retirement gift. “Synchronicity that you mention the Bangladesh essay. Sean was a child when I embarked with the doctors on the quixotic voyage. In its aftermath, I worked at a private research facility in Santa Rosa.”

“I take it you had a personal relationship with the doctors,” I said.

“Yes. June and I rented a house in Santa Rosa and maintained regular contact with Campbell and Ryoko. The men were confirmed bachelors. They doted upon Sean as the child neither would ever have.”

“So, you saw them often.”

“We routinely drove to their house for various get-togethers,” he said. “They were nomadic and the latter 1980s is possibly the longest the duo ever settled in one place. Wherever they reside is akin to a portable museum. Fossils, bones, ancient weapons. Sean was positively dizzy with wonder. He grew rather attached, especially to Dr. Campbell. The feelings were mutual—Howard became Sean’s de facto godfather. June and I eventually returned to New York, to our roots. Our children scattered to the winds. Sean attended Sonoma State and made California his permanent home.”

“Well, you mention synchronicity. This is more than synchronicity, Dr. Pruitt. I’ve examined Sean’s college essay defending the anthropological work of Campbell and Ryoko. The men exerted a significant influence on him well into adulthood.”

“Every step leads a man toward his end.”

“It takes a village,” I said. “Badja Adeyemi said that Sean pressed him for a position with the project. I note that Campbell and Ryoko are listed as consultants. There’s a connection, perhaps?”

Dr. Pruitt nodded.

“Nothing occurs in a vacuum. This valley is rich in folklore, as you can attest. During college, Sean visited Campbell and Ryoko regularly. Became a fixture at the California villa. Wherever those two reside is known as the villa. He majored in anthropology in homage to their more popular aesthetic. Did nothing with it, sadly. From would-be Livingston to a rent-a-cop.”

“Met a girl, got hitched . . .”

“Love snared him. Meanwhile, the doctors traveled extensively, were absent for years at a stretch, and retired to an estate in Massachusetts.”

“A bizarre research project, wasn’t it?” I said.

“Considering their wingnut record, that’s quite a mouthful.”

Franz struggled against his leash, determined to investigate a scent trail.

“Come,” Dr. Pruitt said. “Let’s see where this goes.”

■■■

The dog led us to the perimeter fence, where he victoriously urinated to mark the spot. Reflecting on that last tall cup of joe, I kind of envied Franz.

Murals decorated sections of the fence; accomplished work, vibrant colors muted by the elements and the slow burn of decades. Vaguely Native American renditions of the sun and moon and totems. Some illustrations went darker. Stylized monster birds descended talons-first upon stylized stick-figure men. The grandest and most dreadful of the flock resembled a beautiful winged woman laughing as she brandished a spear. Herds of skeletal black horses stamped and reared and beheaded stick figures. Grotesque skulls (the height of tall trees and disproportionately broad) emerged from mountain caves on stunted legs, waving stunted arms; crowds of stick people bowed in veneration. Seldom-trimmed branches and encroaching brush obscured and defaced the artwork. The fence had struggled to hold off the wilderness for decades and buckled in exhaustion.