“He went to bed in those clothes,” I said.

“Same clothes, same face,” Lionel said without raising his head from where he’d tucked it between his knees. Two days without shaving and he had the makings of a beard. “Those girls last night. They had an interesting comment about the Jeffers site.”

“Don’t you puke in here, soldier.” I might have gunned the engine and peeled rubber with slightly more exuberance than exiting the motel lot warranted. “You were blabbing about the case with a pair of barflies? Go on.”

“Amigo, I was investigating. One of ’em said the collider site gets active after sundown. People see unusual lights and hear odd sounds out there at night.”

“Patrols,” I said. “Night watchmen doing their rounds.”

“The girls said there aren’t any night watchmen.” He breathed heavily. “I think we got ourselves a Hardy Boys mystery on our hands. Curse of the Collider.”

“Lord, he slept in the tub,” Bellow said to me under his breath.

“Lucky you,” I said. “I’ve fished him out of the toilet as the bubbles were getting smaller.”

“Today will be a day of suffering,” Lionel said.

“He happens to himself,” I said to Bellow.

“I could use a drink,” Lionel said, muffled. “Hair of the dog.”

“Lionel, there aren’t any fucking drinks left,” I said.

“Guys. I may have to execute a Technicolor yawn.” He remained in the duck-and-cover position, to my consternation. “Um. What goes down will come up. Curse of the Tequila Shots!”

I urgently pressed the power window controls.

■■■

The fastest route to the colony took me through Morrow Village. The burg was even spookier in broad daylight. Citizens may well have abandoned the area en masse in the ’70s. Then hippies, bikers, and scavengers crept in over the years and occupied the ruins. On the downhill side of town where forest ceded to a stretch of marsh, a crater obliterated the road at an intersection governed by a dead traffic light. Obviously, locals had detoured around the crater since forever—I went jouncing and bouncing over a clearing, at a precarious angle along a deeply rutted hillside, and back onto asphalt. Same as everybody else, apparently.

Lenny Herzog proved a man of his word. He threw open the tall metal gate to Jeffers Colony as I pulled in beside his rattletrap Datsun. I suppose every Datsun in existence was a jalopy by definition.

“Unit 435.” He stuck his face close to mine and pressed a key into my hand. “One hour, as agreed. Don’t get sticky fingers.” He gave everybody in the car the hairy eyeball, as though he’d slept on the deal and jolted awake consumed with buyer’s remorse.

I assured him we were only here to snoop and maybe take pictures. Contrary to popular mythology, a PI license doesn’t indemnify one against trespassing, much less B&E. I wasn’t required to observe cop procedures, but neither was I afforded the privileges or authority of a cop. Herzog’s permission was a murky area, although Bellow’s presence mitigated that particular concern.