A man would only stash his wedding ring on the way to a rendezvous with fate if he didn’t expect to return. That’s a man who anticipated doom; either by his own hand or a helpful push from another. I wasn’t sure how to feel. Dread was in the lead by a nose.

Sadly, this meant the drive home to the Hudson Valley was on hold for a few hours.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I don’t travel without tools of the trade: duffel bag containing outdoor clothes (ninja gear, Lionel called this ensemble), dehydrated fruit, canteen, flashlight, matches, first aid kit, two-way radios, et cetera. More pertinently, I’d concealed extracurricular devices in a hollow panel where the rental agency stored the spare tire: Mossberg shotgun, entrenching tool, bolt cutters, hacksaw, plastic ties, coil of rope, duct tape, and so on. I was ready for trouble when I made the command decision to break into the Jeffers Project and have a firsthand look at where Sean Pruitt died.

Bellow watched Lionel and me plastering mud on the SUV’s plates. He forestalled my explanation with a curt gesture.

“The less I know, the less I know. Catch you later.” He paid Herzog fifty bucks to give him a lift into town. Herzog was raking it in, thanks to us tourists. I hoped the old woodsman bargained for an immunity deal. Off they putted in that wired-together pickup. Convenient. To my way of thinking, it was best that Herzog not have any notion as to my plans either.

Lionel and I zipped over to the north side of the Jeffers Project site, which lay a quarter mile south of the colony. We parked at the north gate, which had once served as a main entry point for the construction teams. An access road ran between the inner and outer fences, circumnavigating the entire track. Lionel didn’t find any evidence of an active camera or alarm. The powers that be probably figured threats of massive fines and imprisonment would deter most trespassers. He cautioned that I should accept his estimation with a grain of salt. It was well within the realm of possibility that a private security company sent random patrols to discourage professional thieves on the prowl for loose equipment, copper wire, and the like. I’d already gotten busy. I snipped the lock with the bolt cutters, shoved aside the gate, and headed the SUV onto the path.

We endeavored the relatively lengthy drive. At roughly half-mile intervals, dinky modular shacks served as access nodes to the subterranean superstructure. Riding from south to north through tall timber, the numbers painted on the sides of the modulars counted down. Soon, as we crossed into the unfinished sector, the shacks disappeared, replaced by scaffolds and placards in bulldozed lots. Forty-two, forty-one, and forty. Berms of rocks, gravel, and black earth formed a semicircle around a ten-foot-by-ten-foot hole sealed by a sheet of pig iron. Orange ticker tape and VERTICAL DROP signs did their duty. They’d installed a panel hatch in the iron sheet. We cut the locks, and grunting and groaning, lifted it on corroded hinges. Damp odors of spoiled earth and rusting metal wafted from the hole.