Instinct, p.15
Instinct, page 15
The way she says “signs” bring sudden goose bumps to my arms, because it sounds like she means mystical signs from above rather than the “keep out” variety. I’m about to ask her to clarify when she stops me.
“May I get back to bed?” the woman asks.
I nod, thank her for her time, and cross to the dirt field clogged with lifted pickups. They’re all Fords with Idaho plates, I note. Even from a distance I can see bumper stickers proclaiming the virtues of gun ownership and hunting. Not usually the weed-smoking types, but these days who knows? It’s no different from drinking Coors, now. Maybe not in Idaho, but here certainly.
A single old streetlamp casts stark yellow light that swims from the moths circling the bulb. Everything else is lost in shadow. I stop for a moment to let my eyes adjust.
Most of the trucks are old and beat-up, but one is brand spanking new. A huge F-250 with all the frills, not a scratch on it despite the small fortune that’s clearly been spent on upgrading its off-road capabilities. On the back window is a modified Starbucks logo, with the iconic mermaid woman wielding two pistols, and the words “guns & coffee” around the outer circle. On the tailgate is a Jesus fish mowing down a Darwin fish with an assault rifle.
“Nice,” I mutter, and press into the space between the two rows of vehicles. There’s no one around, just as the old lady said. Footprints in the soil imply a large group, mostly wearing hiking boots I think, though I’m no expert. Greg would rattle off the makes and tread patterns, I expect. I check the time, and in doing so spot the words written on my hand.
YOU NEED HELP
“Fuck! Forgot already.” I slip my phone from my pocket and try Clara’s number first. Still no answer. Then I call Kyle. He picks up on ring number one.
“Find her?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
Kyle waits expectantly.
Uttering my next sentence feels like pushing open an ancient rusted gate. My brain does not want to go here, but focusing on the words written on my hand pushes me through the mental barrier. “Could use some… help, I think.”
“Name it. Anything.”
I explain about her empty house and the trucks, and what the old woman said. Kyle’s concern matches my own.
“Can you give me fifteen minutes to close the bar? I can meet you there. I know the lot you’re talking about.”
“Thanks, Kyle.”
“No worries, babe. See you in a few.”
He disconnects and I’m left turning over the word “babe” in my mind a few times. Deciding that while I don’t love it, I also don’t mind it as much as I thought I might. I turn to take in the scene once again. The tiny dirt parking lot suddenly feels very quiet. Across the street, the old woman’s house is now dark, though there is a sudden movement of the curtains at the front window when I glance that way.
A chill is in the air. Light breeze blowing up the mountain. Stars fill the clear sky, making the towering trees feel that much more oppressive. A silent, black wall that feels utterly impenetrable.
I flick my flashlight on and walk to the line where the lot ends and the greenbelt begins, scanning the edge of the wilderness. All the footprints indicate the group moved east from here, straight into the trees along a… well, not really a path, but more of a trampled stretch of dirt and ferns, winding off into the darkness.
An owl hoots nearby. Then another one, farther away. I swallow. There’s a third noise, deeper in the woods. Not an owl, but a braying laugh that carries on the evening wind. A dog of some kind? Coyote?
No, idiot, that was a drunk.
As my ears adjust I also make out the rhythmic pulse of a bass drum. Heavy guitar. More laughter.
And just beneath all that, something like a scream. Of delight or terror, I honestly can’t tell. I’m moving through trees now, pistol drawn, my arms crossed at the wrists to keep weapon and flashlight aimed as one.
A dull metallic creak suddenly erupts from under my foot. I step back, sweeping my beam downward, then let out a slow nervous breath. Half buried by leaves is a chain-link fence that’s been pushed over. Dense growth has all but consumed it, and the rest is covered in rust. On my left there’s a solid flat object attached to the fence. I sweep my boot over it, revealing a sign that looks at least forty years old, probably more. It had been white, once upon a time. Now it’s practically turned to dust. Even so, the words are still legible:
NO TRESPASSING
U.S. GOVT. PROPERTY
“Pay attention to the signs,” I mutter, understanding now what the old woman meant.
The sign in question, and the fence it’s affixed to, are half consumed by the forest. Which means there’s no expectation whoever is out here would know about the warning. I file that.
I crest a small rise. The path becomes twisty, vegetation closing in around me the deeper into the woods I go.
After a minute I catch a glimpse of flickering light through the dark trees. A bonfire, and a big one at that. The sounds of partying fill my ears, blotting out all else. Nearing the edge of the clearing I slow my pace, every sense on full alert. My eyes scan the fire-lit faces, looking for Clara, but from here I don’t see her. Just strangers. Mostly men with beards and ball caps and plaid shirts. A tribe if there ever was one.
More details begin to register. They sit on camping chairs and coolers. Beer bottles are everywhere, as are red plastic cups and cigarettes. The smell of pot hangs in the air, too, though faint. Not really the heavy drug crowd, after all. On that my instinct was right. Which is a shame. Potheads are mellow in my experience. Drunken gun freaks? Not so much.
Speaking of guns…
In my limited view I already count four. Rifles of various size and make, leaning against trees or slung over shoulders, as if another civil war might break out any second.
I keep back in the trees, flashlight off, making a slow circle of the gathering. There’s no sign of Clara, so I shift focus to looking for the ringleader. No one stands out, but my gut tells me there has to be someone here in charge of this. Such events don’t happen spontaneously.
Off to one side they’ve erected a tent, and it’s a big one. Fancy, I’d call it. Perhaps that’s where the tribe leader holds court. There’s a row of kegs in front of it, and several more weapons lean against them. Three shotguns and—of all things—a motherfucking crossbow.
A sudden rush of anger brings bile to my throat. Silvertown is no paradise, but I’ve no doubt these people will leave a gigantic mess out here tonight, rolling out tomorrow morning with no more thought than they’d have exiting a Porta Potti. Someone else’s problem. It’s a mentality I can’t stand, but I have to tamp down my bubbling rage because, far as I know, they’ve yet to actually break any laws. Can’t fault them for trespassing given the state of the sign. But, on the other hand, there is technically a sign. Probably several. Which means I can be a hard-ass stickler if I need to. What’s more, there had better be enough open carry permits for everyone toting right now. Whatever it takes, I just want to find Clara and make sure she’s okay. At the very least I need to know if she’s here, or if they’ve seen her. Armed with the eyewitness statement from the old woman, it will be interesting to hear what these people have to say.
I flex my fingers on both pistol and flashlight, plotting my move.
Go in mean? Pointing my gun in people’s faces, shouting for Clara?
Or go in friendly? The smiling local law enforcement just making sure everyone’s having a good, if safe, time. Oh, and by the way have you seen…?
Then there’s a wait-and-see approach. Stick to the shadows. Spot Clara first, maybe learn all I need to without ever making my presence known. Perhaps she’s friends with these people. Old college chums. Nah, I think. That’s fear talking. Clara’s all Alternative Press, not Guns & Ammo.
I settle for friendly, striding in from the trees into full view with a grin on my face and my weapon holstered. “Evening, friends.”
The effect borders so closely on the comedic that it’s all I can do not to laugh. Everyone turns to me. The music stops within seconds, needing only that classic vinyl needle scratch to be any more perfect. Spliffs disappear, as do the beer cans held by the younger-looking participants. I file that, too.
The whole party just shuts down at the sight of me, like I’ve pressed a pause button.
Except, that is, for a few precious seconds of extra merriment by those in the tent, who of course have not seen me yet. There’s some laughs and chatter that dries up when they realize everyone outside has gone quiet.
“Something wrong, Officer?” one of them asks. A guy near me, a beer bottle in each hand. He has a buzz cut, freckles across his nose, and a sort of captain-of-the-team swagger.
“Maybe,” I say, forcing my voice to be calm but loud enough to carry. “Maybe not. Had a report of excessive noise, so I came to check it out.”
“Excessive noise. That a crime?” He puts a little chortle into this, raising his voice to show off for his audience.
“Yes, it is,” I say. That shuts him up. I can already guess the next question, so I cut it off. “But that’s not why I’m really here. We’ve had a missing persons report in the area.”
Several of the men in the crowd cast spooked glances at one another. One of them, a heavyset youngster with shaggy hair, looks sidelong toward the tent before catching himself. He swallows.
Casually as I can, I move my hand to the butt of my pistol. There’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there a second ago. “A woman,” I say, raising my voice a bit more. “Brightly colored hair, nose ring. A local who lives nearby. Goes by Clara. Anyone here by that description? Any of you seen her?”
Nobody says a word.
“In fact,” I add, “I have an eyewitness who says she saw you talking to her in the parking lot. Ring any bells?”
No one moves.
Except for one. The big guy who glanced at the tent. He does so again, or starts to. Before his gaze swivels too far he catches himself and tries to turn the motion into a kind of “let me ponder the mysteries of the universe” glance, turning his chin up toward the stars and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. His eyes, I can see now, are bloodshot and watery. He’s seated in a portable folding chair.
“You,” I say, getting his attention. “What’s in the tent?”
All eyes turn to him now. The youngster swallows once more, then manages to look surprised. “Nothing,” he says. “Beer. Chips.”
“It’s the snack tent,” someone off to my left adds.
“The snack tent,” I repeat.
The young man in the chair nods, emphatically.
“A tent designated for snacks. Show me?”
Now a hesitation. Again he swallows. Then, with great reluctance, he pushes himself out of the chair and starts to walk to the tent, glancing back at me several times as we go. When he reaches the tent he steps to one side, as if to say his job here is done, only then noticing I’ve stopped about ten feet from the structure. I nod at the flaps.
The youngster shrugs and pulls one side back, then gestures for me to enter, like a footman motioning his queen to enter the carriage. Several of the onlookers chuckle at this.
I shake my head. “You first.”
Once more his Adam’s apple bobs. But he turns and goes in. I don’t think he’s scared, at least not of anything immediate. More likely they’ve got a shitload of drugs stashed in here and he’s not keen on being the one to get all his friends arrested for possession.
I follow him, and as I step under the flap of the tent it’s like I’ve stepped on a switch. Behind and all around me there’s a flurry of activity. I turn in time to see the backs of every other member of this gathering as they run for the trees. They leave their chairs, their drinks, everything but what they can haul under one arm, behind. Some of them are laughing as they flee. I’ve no doubt that in another thirty seconds I’ll be hearing the sounds of all those Ford trucks firing up their engines.
Frowning at the thought of all those inebriated drivers heading down Slippery Slope, I turn back to the heavyset man, half expecting to find him gone, too. And he is, at least partially. He’s literally on hands and knees, crawling under the staked-down side of the tent off to my left.
I let him go. I’m here for Clara and don’t really relish the idea of trying to make a few dozen drug arrests while she’s still missing.
It’s clear right away that she’s not here, though. The tent is empty of people. True to the dude’s word, the place is indeed a makeshift pantry for snacks and alcohol. There’s huge cases of beer, several bottles of harder stuff, and box after box of bulk-packaged chips, hot dog buns, and so on. Enough for a whole weekend, I estimate, even with the size of the group.
Yet they’ve just up and left it here, along with the expensive tent. Why?
“Drugs,” I voice. Has to be. But there are none visible. Of course only true idiots would leave their stash in plain sight, but then again they doubtless chose this location so they could party without prying eyes, so why hide them?
Then there was the way the dude glanced at the tent when I mentioned Clara. Why would he have done that, if the tent was empty?
I take a second to look at the improvised room again. There’s the crates and cartons of food and drink. Several untapped kegs in one corner. Boxes of paper plates and plastic cutlery. Boxes of ammo, too. All this sits around the edges of a square Persian rug, ten-foot on a side, that’s been laid on the ground, presumably to keep the dust or mud to a minimum.
I step onto the carpet and reach for the nearest stack of beer cases. Then I freeze, and look down at my feet.
There should be dirt and leaves beneath this carpet, but I’ve stepped on something hard and… not flat, not exactly, but flat-ish. I retreat and kneel down, drawing my gun. With my free hand I grasp the edge of the rug between thumb and forefinger, and lift it up.
Concrete.
“The hell?” I whisper, peering farther under the rug. As I lift the carpet higher, I realize this is big. Much too big for a random pad of concrete in the woods.
Throwing caution to the wind I heave the carpet aside.
In front of me, on the ground in the middle of this nondescript forest on a mountain in the Cascades, is a ten-foot-by-ten-foot concrete slab with a hatch in the center. A round, steel hatch, painted dull blue. It has two handles on one side and a large hinge connecting it to the concrete on the other.
Across the center, faded stenciled letters read:
U. S. AIR FORCE
A few seconds pass wherein I simply stare in completely stunned silence. “What the actual fuck?”
Metal groans as I twist the two handles to the left. They’re ancient and haven’t seen oil in years, certainly. But to my surprise the hatch itself swings upward quite smoothly.
Flashlight between my teeth, I shove the big metal door all the way open. Beneath it is exactly what I expected to find: a hole, leading down into darkness, with a metal ladder embedded into one side.
“Clara?” I call out. “It’s Mary Whittaker. You down there?”
The words echo back up through the concrete tube. It’s the only response I get.
“This is Silvertown Police,” I shout, louder. “We’re coming down.”
The “we’re” bit is a nice touch, I think. Holstering my gun, I begin to climb. It’s hard to see with the flashlight held in my mouth, but the ladder seems to descend about twenty feet, and in no time my foot finds another concrete floor. I step off the ladder and go back to the classic tactical stance: gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, wrists crossed for support and stability.
The space around me is not a room, but a tunnel. It has a flat floor and a curved ceiling that forms a half-circle about ten feet high. Pipes and bundles of wire run along the length, secured every fifteen feet or so by thick metal braces.
“Hello?” I call, fruitlessly. The place is clearly deserted, and has been for decades. Probably since the end of the Cold War. A memory comes to me, then. A passing comment made by Greg during my first day on the job, when he’d rattled off all the places in the area that contributed to the “conspiracy theory charm” Silvertown enjoys. It had been a long list. The Masonic campground, the closed pharmaceutical factories, the old army base, and “even a few mothballed Minuteman silos.” He’d said they were locked up tight. I wonder if he knows about the fallen fence, the rusted signage, and most of all the entrance I just used. Maybe this last has only recently been discovered and subsequently cracked open.
From somewhere farther down this passage someone suddenly laughs. A bright, friendly, mirthful laugh. Distant but distinct.
That’s Clara’s laugh.
I open my mouth to call to her, then decide against it, because I can hear music now, and other voices. Slowly, quietly, I make my way along the corridor, gun and flashlight pointed at the ground ahead of me. On a whim I click the light off and wait a bit for my eyes to adjust. The place is absolutely pitch-dark, or seems that way at first. But after about thirty seconds I realize there’s a thin line of light coming from under a door at the far end, maybe forty feet ahead.
I continue on and find my assessment to be exactly right. There’s a metal door. In its center is a faded square where some signage used to be, long since removed. Hopefully not a warning of radiation risk. Above the door is a light bulb behind a wire-mesh bracket, turned off. In my mind’s eye I can picture it strobing red, warning of imminent attack or launch, or the need to evacuate.
These thoughts I banish with a shake of my head, because Clara’s laugh has just reached my ears again, much more clearly now. Just on the other side of this door, in fact.
I grasp the handle and yank it open, releasing warmth and light and music. A smell hits me hard. The fog of weed being smoked, of sweat, of sex, and other things I’m loath to discover the source of.
Music blares from a small speaker. A band I don’t know, something heavy and bleak, which mingles ominously with the voices of the six or seven people in the room.
