She got no response. She waited, then tried the intercom again. Nothing. She couldn’t see anything through the gate; there were metal plates bolted to the bars. Just when she was beginning to think Baker had no intention of letting her in, his authoritative voice came over the intercom again. “Get back in your vehicle. Wait there. I’m coming down. It will be a few minutes.”
What have I gotten myself into? she wondered as she returned to her Jeep and closed the door. She waited.
And waited.
And then, just when she was seriously considering giving up, at least for the day, she heard the dogs. But these weren’t recordings of dogs barking; they were live dogs, a pack of them. And they didn’t sound particularly friendly.
A few moments later, a small panel slid open on the gate. “Stay in your vehicle,” came Charles’s voice. “The dogs aren’t used to strangers and they will bite.”
Lovely, she thought. I’m going to be dog lunch.
Soundlessly, the gate slid open, and she got her first glimpse of Charles Baker. What she saw was a big, stocky man in a military-style olive-drab field coat. He had long hair worn in a single graying braid, a thick beard, and yellow-lens sunglasses. It was impossible to guess his age behind the beard and the glasses, but his olive skin was tanned, his cheekbones as chiseled as skate blades, and his big hands were covered with black leather gloves. Over one shoulder hung what appeared to be some sort of semiautomatic assault rifle, and around his waist was a leather belt that held an assortment of weapons, including a holstered handgun and a bone-handled bowie knife with at least a fourteen-inch blade.
She rolled down the window. “Expecting a war?” she asked. She knew that it wasn’t a professional way to begin her interview, but she couldn’t help herself. “I can assure you, I’m not armed.”
Charles Baker surveyed the lane behind her and then scanned the woods and field in all directions. Satisfied, he tugged off his fur hat and motioned to her. “You’d better come in. I don’t like to leave the gate open for long.”
“Do you want me to leave my vehicle here?” she asked, stalling for time. All of a sudden, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through that gate. Charles Baker looked as though he’d stepped out of some end-of-the-world movie. And then there were the dogs.
He shook his head. “No, best drive up to the house. It’s not safe for you to walk. Snakes.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “And the dogs.” He motioned her through.
“Into the valley,” she murmured under her breath as a tingling sensation crept up the back of her neck. And for the first time she began to seriously doubt the sanity of what she was doing. This man could truly be unhinged. She was glad she’d told Mary Aaron she was coming.
As Rachel eased her vehicle through the opening, she saw the dogs that had been doing all the barking. But they weren’t barking now. They were as still as statues, crouched in the pine needles, watching her. Pit bulls. More than a half dozen. There was an assortment of other dogs as well, but it was the scarred pit bulls that caught her attention. They were definitely not used to strangers, and they looked hungry. She wished she had waited for Mary Aaron.
She stopped the Jeep and rolled down the window. “Mr. Baker, there’s no need for me to drive to your home. We could talk here. I came because I have a few questions about the death of your neighbor Daniel Fisher.”
“You want to talk to me, you come up to the house, sit down, and we talk proper. Otherwise, turn your little vehicle around and go home. Choice is yours.”
She nodded and forced a smile. “I’ll come, of course. I just don’t want to take up too much of your time. I don’t want to be a bother.”
He came close to the window. “You’re already taking up my time,” he said. “And it is a bother. I have chores that need tending. But Rupert likes you. And he said he owes you big-time.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “So I’ll see if I can answer your questions. Out of respect for him.”
“Rupert is your friend?” she asked.
“He’s a boy who’s seen too much. He needs all the friends he can get.”
A dog growled, deep in his throat, and started to get up. Baker fixed the animal with a gaze. “Enough,” he said. The dog immediately dropped back onto his stomach. “Don’t mind him,” Baker said. “He’s young. Not the best mannered yet.” He turned and strode to the gate, pushed a button, and the big door slid shut behind her.
“You’re welcome to ride with me, Mr. Baker,” she suggested, leaning out the window.
“I’ll walk. Need the exercise. And you can call me Chuck. If I invite you to my home, we’re on a first-name basis. All right with you?”
“Perfect,” she agreed. He nodded and waved her to move on up the road.
It veered left and climbed a steep incline that required her to downshift her Jeep. She crossed a small bridge that led, not over a stream as she guessed, but over a rocky ravine. Snaking back and forth, the lane climbed the mountain. Sometimes the way led through an overgrown tunnel of trees and other times along an outcrop of crumbly shale that made her wish for a guardrail along the exposed side. She wondered how long Chuck Baker had lived up here, and how long it had taken him to construct his fortress retreat. Most of all, she wondered what she thought she was doing here and why she thought that she might discover something that the police detectives hadn’t.
The lane finally ended at a smaller gate in a palisade wall of logs
