“Figured I may as well tag along and hog the glory if there’s any to be had.”

“Impulsive in your dotage.”

“Burning vacation days. If I stay home, my kids and their kids will descend like harpies and I’ll never be rid of them. What’s the agenda today?”

“I’m going to drop in on a fellow with keys to the kingdom.”

“I have no idea why I’m here,” Lionel said.

“Baby, I told you,” Bellow said. “You can drive the car.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

We boarded the SUV. Always roll with a rental in unknown, possibly unfriendly territory, given the choice. Bellow had rented a sedan at JFK. He agreed the SUV was a superior vehicle for trolling the back roads. Lionel punched in Lenny Herzog’s address and studied the coordinates. The GPS calmly dictated the turns in a dry, professorial tone. He lit a cigarette and lowered the volume.

“As if I’m gonna trust you, you smooth-talking sonofabitch.”

Bellow sat in back. He met my eye in the rearview.

“Want me to make a call? Possibly save you a day tramping in the boonies.”

“Can’t save a man from doing what he loves.” Tempting as it was to avail myself of his not inconsiderable resources, he’d come to New York on his own time at his own discretion and not by Bureau mandate. Maintaining a low profile was the smart move. There were worse fates than “tramping in the boonies.”

Hanging my shingle in the mid–Hudson Valley didn’t mean simply cruising the hot spots and alleys of Kingston, New Paltz, and Newburgh. Much as I relished nursing drinks in the finer bars, I spent plenty of days in the hills, dales, and byways of the Rondout Valley and environs running to ground deadbeats and low-rent criminals who hoped going off the grid would save their hides. Mosquitos and deer ticks were my mortal enemies. I composed odes to the joys of poison ivy and seasonal allergies. Now at least the bugs were asleep.

The directions led west, then north. We skirted the edge of the Jeffers Project into thickly wooded hills. Our computer navigator uttered a series of increasingly conflicted directions, then fell silent. I’d confirmed our destination with an online satellite image, thus the lack of GPS or reliable cell-phone signal only mildly concerned me. In any event, the excursion was on Adeyemi’s tab and I got paid by the hour.

“The AI knows she’s not wanted in Luddite Ville,” Lionel said.

Bellow wasn’t having it.

“Outsiders paint Appalachia, the Ozarks, the Everglades, and related cultural regions with a broad brush. ‘Hill country’ usually means ‘poor people live here.’ And even that is a suspect conclusion. You can’t nail down the culture to a single tradition or a single influence.” It was apparent from his delivery, he’d rehearsed the monologue.

Lionel lit another cigarette.

“Special Agent Bellow, you ever see a documentary called The Hills Have Eyes, or The Hills Have Eyes Two and Three?”

“I’ve heard the saying, ‘Fields have eyes, woods have ears.’ Wise counsel.”