“On the ominous side.” I indicated a giant monster head. “Your city council had a fever vision in the seventies.”

“The Saga of the Terrible Faces. Tourists seldom visit this spot. They are, in fact, discouraged. The mural is for us.” He tapped a stickman suspended in the claws of a mountain demon. The demon’s maw unhinged in anticipation of its delicacy. “This part is you.”

“Huh, I look fantastic. What tradition are these illustrations? Seneca? Mohawk?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

Several teenagers entered the opposite end of the park. The kids gathered around the backstop. I couldn’t discern finer details except that the boys wore crimson letter jackets and the girls wore white and crimson sweaters and bronze skirts; similar to the colors of Valley High, which were red and pale gold. Franz cocked his head. His ears twitched and he growled.

“You live in Horseheads Village,” I said to Dr. Pruitt while keeping an eye on the kids. He’d seen them too and was doing his best to pretend otherwise.

“Yes, I rent a studio. June called and said you were by the house. She has confidence in you.”

“Kind of her.”

“Thank you for your civility. My June exhibits the warmth of a freezer.”

“She feels similarly about you. What I’m getting at is it’s an interesting choice, to meet in this park.”

“This is a forgotten place, though it exists in plain sight. No one comes here.” He ignored the presence of the high schoolers. “You might profit from the ambiance.”

“The ambiance?” I glanced around skeptically.

“Geography shapes the mind. For weal or woe.”

“Dickey might’ve agreed with you.”

“Burroughs said of this continent, ‘Evil is there, waiting.’ Immortal words.”

“Those words outlived his wife, no argument.”

“I considered anthropology as a major,” Dr. Pruitt said. “We are standing upon Vulture Bluff, dubbed for the turkey vulture population’s affinity for roosting among the trees.” He gestured expansively. “This is the Nameless Field. Native legends aver grass is the only thing that has ever grown here since the Stone Age. It’s either a sacred place or cursed.”

I didn’t inform him I already knew about the vulture part. He enjoyed holding forth, and in that I was sure he and his wife were well suited as a couple.

“Not much of a difference between the holy and the profane,” I said. “Although if I were to lay money on who corrupted the scene, I’d lay it on whitey.”

“General Sullivan, slaughterer of Indians.”

“And equines.” I nodded toward the mural’s carnivorous black horses. “Was he simply defending himself?”

“Either way, he was a heroic benefactor of the turkey vultures.”

“There’s an unwelcoming vibe in this neck of the woods.”

“You’re feeling the oppression of Christian hegemony in conflict with native animism,” he said. “Self-righteous, puritanical men seized this land. You’re also feeling the eyes of the vultures evaluating the sweet texture of your skin. The eyes of many animals. Animals endure.”

“You hate it here.”

“I don’t hate this valley.” He lowered his gaze. “I hate the fuck out of it.”