Bernie flicked on the flame.
• • •
Taylor’s MMDSC vibrated and he looked at the message from Logan, who was searching to the west.
Taylor frowned. They’d been stomping through the woods for half an hour and hadn’t found anything. Had that sewer jockey taken them for a ride? No. He’d been broken. So where was—
Taylor froze. He’d been about to take a step forward, but his augmented vision caught a shadow on the ground that shouldn’t have been there. He crouched and got a closer look.
A bear trap hidden in the leaves. Three feet long, rusty from years of exposure to the elements. The old chain attached to a concrete plug buried in the ground.
Taylor knelt down, touching the end of the trap.
He stood, casting his eyes upward. In the V of a birch tree, under a bird’s nest, he found the video camera. The lens automatically focused on him as he got closer. Taylor used his Ka-Bar to pry the camera from its camouflaged housing. It was wireless. That meant batteries, which would have to be regularly replaced.
Warren was close. Very close.
Taylor resumed the hunt, paying extra attention to where he stepped.
• • •
Streng didn’t drop the gun, and he didn’t put his hands above his head. As much bad blood as there was between him and Wiley, he didn’t believe his brother would slit his throat.
“Scare you?” Wiley asked.
Streng turned around, letting the rage build. Wiley wore a ghillie suit, a uniform made of netting with various pieces of real and artificial foliage woven to it. Leaves were stitched across his chest and fake vines hung from his arms. Twigs jutted from the side of his headgear, altering his profile.
“People are looking for you,” Streng said in even tones.
“Two so far. Trained. Recon, searching for my house. Determined types.”
“They killed Olen Porrell.”
Wiley cleared his throat. “I know. Never should have used someone local for the septic service. Should have hired out of town. After hiding out for so long, I got lazy.”
Streng kept his voice even. “Other people have died, too.”
“Like I said. Determined types.”
Streng clenched a fist and leaned slightly forward. Wiley didn’t back away.
“Steady, Ace. I know we got unfinished business. But let’s get out of the line of fire first.”
Streng did a slow burn, then nodded.
“Step where I step,” Wiley said. “I’ve rigged the property.”
Streng followed Wiley through the woods, watching his foot placement. After twenty or so yards, his brother stopped at the carcass of a deer. Wiley twisted a hoof and a hatch in the ground opened up.
“It’s steep. Wait five seconds for me to get down.”
Wiley scooted onto his buttocks and slid down a dark ramp. Streng counted to five and did the same. He’d been down here once before and braced his legs for the abrupt stop. He didn’t brace hard enough, and when he reached bottom his knees hit him in the chest, his shin splints flaming.
A mechanical sound from above, then the metallic click of the hatch closing. Black lights came on overhead, illuminating a garage-sized room with a concrete floor. Two motorbikes and a snowmobile were parked along the far wall, in front of a pegboard that held hundreds of hand tools. A fuel pump occupied the far corner. Against the opposite wall sat an electric generator, its exhaust attached to a pipe that snaked into the ceiling. Wiley approached the generator and flipped a switch. It came on, surprisingly quiet.
“The deer is new,” Streng said.
“About ten years old. I kept having trouble finding the entrance, so I needed to mark it.”
Wiley unsnapped his ghillie suit and hung it on a peg. Underneath he wore jeans and a black flannel shirt.
“What if someone passes through, sees it twice, wonders why it hasn’t rotted?”
“I change it every month. Bear. Badger. Dog. Coyote. There’s a taxidermist in Montreal, made a mint on me.”
Wiley walked to the only door in the room, opened it, and went through. Streng followed. No black lights here. This hallway was lined with fluorescents, so bright they stung Streng’s eyes. The walls were matte white, and the floor was a white laminate that didn’t quite match. Four doors lined the hall, and Streng remembered them to be the kitchen, the pantry, the washroom, and a storage area. The final door, where the hallway ended, opened up into what Wiley called the great room.
The room was appropriately named. Perfectly round, and large enough to park three buses side by side. Track lighting lined the fifteen-foot ceiling, an overstuffed leather couch and two loungers faced a large plasma TV, wraparound shelves held thousands of books, records, cassettes, CDs, VHS and Beta tapes, and DVDs, and a big wooden desk with a flat-screen monitor on top sat dead center.
Wiley had gotten many new toys since Streng had last visited, more than twenty years ago. He had come after hearing that his brother had moved back into town from one of the contractors hired to build this place. Wiley’d let him in. Streng could recall their short conversation verbatim.
A fight ensued. Streng left with a broken nose, vowing never to return.
“I started stealing the Internet back in ’96.” Wiley saw Streng staring at the TV. “Not too long after I started stealing cable.”
Streng fixed his attention on his brother, shocked by how he looked. The last time Streng saw him Wiley had wide brown sideburns, a ponytail, and shoulders like a linebacker. Now his head was mostly bald, a few gray wisps clinging to the sides. A wrinkled forehead, saggy cheeks, and a drooping neck. His broad shoulders had become slumped, his posture stooped.
Wiley had gotten old. Only his eyes—ice blue and alert—were an indicator of the man he used to be.
“Once a thief, always a thief,” Streng said.
Wiley shrugged. “It’s not the money. Utilities mean a paper trail, which can be traced. I don’t want to be found.”
“But you were found,” Streng said. “And people have died because of it. Because of what you did.”
Wiley cleared his throat again and then sighed. “It’s been a long time, Ace. Mom and Dad are long gone. You still want to hold grudges?”
Streng moved closer to Wiley. “You put our parents in jeopardy, the same way you put this town in jeopardy. You’re selfish, Wiley. You only care about yourself.”
Wiley folded his arms.
“Do you remember why I enlisted, Ace?”
“To make money selling black-market goods?”
Wiley’s eyes went mean. “It was to watch over your sorry butt.”
