“Mr. Herzog. Thank you for the story. My blood ran cold. Could you, would you, find that piece of paper we need?”

The old man flapped his hands dismissively. He resumed digging into the cartons. Soon, we had our prize. Herzog scribbled on a notepad and handed it to me. I didn’t recognize the names.

“Sean Pruitt is who you want, yeah?” he said.

“Yes.”

“He didn’t have an apartment. Quarters were reserved for out-of-towners and supervisors. Pruitt shacked with his buddies when he stayed at the camp. I wrote it there. Robert Thorpe and Daniel Buckhalter.”

“You recall anything about them?” I said.

“No, sir. Faces in a crowd.”

I checked the names against my phone database. Thorpe’s name was on the lengthy list of known associates I’d acquired. An electrician by trade. Late thirties, married with children. Danny Buckhalter, fifty, was born and raised in Horseheads; Valley High graduate. Thorpe lived in Pittsburgh. Buckhalter was currently in the wind—last known address was the Jeffers Colony. He’d gotten in on the ground floor when the project started. After the implosion, he vanished into the ether.

Herzog wrote directions to the Jeffers Colony and said he’d meet us midmorning to unlock the gate and the apartment. We’d have an hour to snoop around.

“Shucks,” Lionel said to me as an aside. “This setup takes me home. Almost sorry we aren’t crashing for a sleepover.”

“I could leave you and nobody around here would notice,” I said.

“Something, something about a dog returning to his vomit.”

As we made to leave, Lionel huddled with our gnomish host. He shook some of Herzog’s tobacco into a baggie and stuck it into his pocket.

Guided by a pale, sickly beam from Bellow’s keychain penlight, the three of us walked in the dark along the rugged path to the SUV. Nobody spoke. Though we were packing heat, Herzog had spooked me and maybe Bellow. Lionel not so much. He was the type to challenge ghosts and goblins to a fight.

I took the wheel and headed the rig toward the highway. I’d had my fill of country for one day.

■■■

Bellow nodded off in the back.

“I think the old guy dragged his feet so we’d hang around and tip some brews,” Lionel said. “He misses the missus.”

Our headlights didn’t shine far. The road and the trees were a throat.

“What did you think of him?” he said.

“He’s a coot who’ll be fortunate not to get raided by the FBI once Bellow makes it back to HQ,” I said.

“Yeah. Crazy ghost story, huh?”

“Considering where we are, could have been crazier. The world is swimming in small, dark miracles. We’re jaded; we hardly notice unless one jumps out of a bush at us.”

Lionel lit a cigarette and lowered his window a notch.

“Do you believe it?”

“Do I believe Herzog’s encounter with the numinous?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I generally believe people when they say they’ve seen something. Not my job to assess their veracity. Herzog claims he saw a pasty white boy grinning in a tree. Why not?”