“Um? I think maybe I have our guy? Top of the escalator. Ground floor. Heading toward the west exit?” I braced myself for the worst, expecting laughter and a short transmission: Lina, we caught the guy ten minutes ago.
But that wasn’t what happened. The team leader came on instantly. “Alright Delta Twenty-One.” That was my call sign, junior person on the team. “Move with the target. You have the eye. Everyone reposition to the west exit.” The whole team fell into place, and it was soon confirmed that it was indeed our guy. That was the moment when I began to think of myself as a real agent.
Since then, I’ve discovered that these quick, instinctual IDs are the norm. Even if you’ve never seen the target before, when he or she appears, somehow you just know. Not every time, but most of the time.
“What now?” Rory asks.
“We follow the road and figure out where he was coming from.”
50
In the jungles of Congo, where deforestation has devastated old-growth forests, villagers have seen a population of giraffes with short necks that feed on low-hanging shrubs. Which is more likely: these giraffes come from ancestors that have always been shorter than typical giraffes, or these giraffes have evolved to adapt to the lowering of the food source?
We work our way up the logging road, moving quickly along the rocky, uneven terrain. Despite the cool temperature and the light breeze, sweat trickles down my spine. We’ve climbed about two thousand feet from the trailhead. I’m panting. Rory isn’t. “You need a minute to rest?” I ask.
“No, but you do.”
We step into the cover of bushes and lean against a tree stump. I pull out a bottle of water. It begins to drizzle.
We drink, rest for a couple of minutes, and continue on. After a mile and change, the road dead-ends at a driveway with an imposing iron gate. This must be the place Sunshine was talking about. Rory and I exchange glances. I’m glad we’ve found the compound, nervous about what we might find inside.
The gate is ten feet tall, the wooden fence almost as high. Through the bars, all we can see is the driveway winding up the hill, bordered on both sides by mature redwood trees. The size of the evenly spaced redwoods indicates the place was established decades ago. Once through the gate, it would be easy sailing for a vehicle, but how would a vehicle ever get to this point? Is there another road on the other side, not visible on Google Maps?
My foot lands on something hard, and I look down and notice the hard green spheres littering the ground. I pick one up and show it to Rory.
“What do these look like to you?” I whisper.
“Walnuts?”
I think of the Lamey twins, who came home covered in a rash, and what their mother told the police about their allergy to black walnut trees.
I notice a camera high in a tree just inside the gate. It looks fairly new. I back up, watching the camera to see if it moves. It doesn’t. I tap Rory on the shoulder and point to it. With a boost, I could probably climb over the gate, but it would have to be within the view of the camera. Our only other choice is to follow the fence around the property, look for a better entry point. There is no barbed wire, and I don’t see any more cameras. Nor do I hear the static buzz of an invisible electric fence.
We walk a quarter mile along the fence without seeing anything unusual or finding an opening. The property is massive. I’m hoping for a break or some decorative feature that would allow us to peer through the fence, but there is none. Rory remains alert, his eyes scanning for traps. Finally, I spot our opportunity. A giant old oak stands in front of the fence. One of the branches has grown over the fence, and it hasn’t been trimmed back. There’s an outgrowth about five feet up the trunk. I point toward the limb. Rory nods.
When we get to the base of the tree, Rory interlocks his fingers and leans down to give me a foothold. I place my right foot in the cup of his hands and count off one, two, three. With a smooth, determined push, he hoists me up in a single motion.
I loop my hands around the branch and place my foot on the outgrowth. I step out of Rory’s hands and suddenly I’m hanging upside down, trying to remember how to climb a tree. On my last day at the academy, I did twelve pull-ups. What I’d give for that kind of upper body strength now. I feel Rory’s hands on my back, pushing me upward, and I’m suddenly up and on the branch. I reposition and reach down to grab Rory’s wrists. With our hands interlocked, Rory walks himself up the tree.
One by one, we drop down on the other side. We stand, listening. Has anyone seen us? I scan the area for wires and cameras. Nothing. Slowly, we move along the fence line. There’s a break in the trees up ahead. I scuttle to the opening and crouch down low. I can hear Rory’s feet moving over the soft ground. He crouches beside me, and together we survey the strange view before us.
“What is this place?” he whispers.
51
Between good and evil lies reality. Defend or dispute this statement.
We’re looking out at a wide, green, perfectly manicured field. Just beyond the field is a horse racing track—a genuine dirt track with an infield, a vintage scoreboard, a winner’s circle, and beyond that, a grandstand.
The twin spires overlooking the track resemble those at Churchill Downs. The place seems like a modified replica of the original, from the grandstand and spires to the stadium seats. But something is off—the size. The track itself is only a quarter mile. There are rows of seats along the track, plus two rows of balcony seating. On the mezzanine, there appears to be a small restaurant and, beyond it, three betting windows. The winner’s circle features a tower, a fenced platform painted bright white, and a horseshoe-shaped garden of red geraniums.
“What the hell?” Rory whispers.
We kneel for a few minutes, watching, listening. It is eerily quiet, a breeze moving through the empty grandstand. The track is freshly graded, with no hoofprints in the dirt. Is it some kind of underground dog track? The Russian River hides many bizarre surprises. Greyhounds? But the rail is too high, the starting gate too large. Along the back stretch is a row of several full-size carts, maybe for harness racing.
Rory and I duck into the tree line and follow the fence. At another break in the trees, we kneel down and look out again. We’re on the backside of the grandstand. I see a drinking trough and two practice rings—like everything else here, on a smaller scale. A shuttered clapboard booth bears a sign declaring: tickets here. Downhill from the practice rings is a parking lot, empty except for a dusty red Ford truck.
Beyond the parking lot, a small wooden structure and series of nine miniature stables lead uphill to a big, two-story house. The house is the only thing that hasn’t been scaled down. That, and the bales of hay scattered everywhere, like props. It feels as though we’ve wandered onto a stage set or a Hollywood back lot. Something is off, or maybe it’s the opposite: everything is too perfect.
There are no cars parked beside the house, no lights on. When we were coming up the mountain, the Land Cruiser was going down, but it’s impossible to know how long we have. He could be gone for hours, but he might have just run to town for a quick errand. We walk quickly past the stables. I hear a movement inside the sixth one. “What was that?” Rory whispers. We slip around the backside of the small, wooden structure, out of sight from the house. We stand still, listening, but all is quiet. I keep waiting for the familiar snort of a horse, but it never comes. We continue on. We hunch down behind the ninth stable, watching the house for movement. Rory stays close behind me.
After several tense minutes, I turn to him and whisper, “I’m going to check out the house. Make your cawing sound if you see anything.”
Our first night after moving into my dad’s house, we saw two big hawks circling over the canyon. At dusk sometimes, when we haven’t seen the hawks for a few days, Rory will stand on the deck and make a loud, high-pitched cawing sound, like an injured animal. He only has to do it once or twice bef
ore the hawks appear, circling the sky above the canyon, looking for prey.
Rain begins to fall. I’m relieved. The rain will cover the sound of my footsteps. I move quickly up the hill, past a tractor and a row of hay bales. I notice a business card lying on the ground beside a picnic table. I pick it up, newly damp from the rain, and slide it into my pocket.
I step up onto the wraparound porch. Hunched down, I make my way around the house, peering in all of the windows. The porch is well maintained, the boards solid. Inside, the house is spotless. Farmhouse chic, refined Americana. An oak dining table bears a vase of yellow tulips in full bloom; someone was here within the last couple of days. Above the fireplace, two unfinished slabs of wood are engraved with Winston Churchill quotes:
“No hour of life is lost that is spent in the saddle.”
“There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.”
A cry breaks through the silence—the sound of a dying animal. Rory. Startled, I race around the porch to where I can see him. He waves me over. Hunched down, I dart to his hiding spot. My thighs burn from running in a crouched position.
“I heard something.”
“Where?”
“From one of the stables.”
“A horse?”
“No, it wasn’t an animal.”
“A voice?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t explain it. It sounded human.” He looks scared.
The rain intensifies, the sky grows darker. Rory pulls up his hood.
“Stay behind me,” I command.
The place is so deserted it’s eerie. The yellow tulips on the table and the fact that the entire grounds are so spotlessly clean makes it all the more disconcerting. We stop behind the second stable. The rain is coming down hard now, pouring off my hair and into my eyes. Inching forward, I reach my hand around to the handle of my SIG Sauer. The structure is only about ten feet wide and twelve feet deep. It’s made of timber, with metal joists. The roof, too, is metal. Concealment, not cover.
I go around to the front of the barn. The top half of the split door is open. I step back, moving gradually in a semicircle, slicing the pie.
My first view inside reveals a simple horse stall. But it’s gated on top, with bars and a lock, more like a cell than a stable. Empty. A saddle and reins hang on the wall. The other items, though, stop me cold: inside the cell, a cooking pot, a metal cup, a plate, and silverware are arranged atop a bale of hay, all tidy and untouched. Heavy blankets are folded and stacked in one corner. A branding iron hangs from a peg on the wall outside.
I close my eyes to steady myself before going around to the back of the stable where Rory is waiting for me, watching the hill below. I do not tell him—I cannot tell him—that these aren’t stables but prisons. And they’re not meant for horses.
The rain is forming muddy rivulets, flowing down the hill. Rory’s head is so far back under his hoodie that I can barely see him. We move quickly toward the sixth stable, where we heard a movement as we made our way up to the house. Both portions of the half door are closed and padlocked. A heavy metal ring hangs on a hook beside the door. On the ring, a single key. The rain pounding the metal roof makes it hard to hear. Still, I sense a rumbling from inside, a shuffling. I slip the ring off of the hook, insert the key into the padlock, and pop it open. I slide the padlock out of the latch and place it on the ground.
I pull the top door open just a few inches. In the darkness, I struggle to make out the details. The room is identical to the previous one: straight ahead, a few yards into the structure, the cell. On the wall beside the door, the saddle and reins, the branding iron. The smell is familiar and awful. It’s the smell of damp hay mixed with shit and, I realize with horror, sweat. Human sweat.
I hear a rustling sound. Something on the floor on the other side of the bars. I reach back to the hook, grab the key, and unlock the padlock on the lower door. I open that one too. I glance back at Rory and hold up a hand. Then I slip into the stable. It’s pitch-black. The floor is concrete. With my hand on my gun, I silently inch toward the back of the room. There is something on the ground, curled in a ball, tangled in a mess of hay and blankets. It’s moving around, restless. A pinprick of light shines down on the creature. I think I see skin, impossibly pale white skin. I’m still telling myself it’s an oversized pig or perhaps a small horse, sleeping.
I close my eyes for a moment, willing them to adjust to the darkness.
When I open my eyes, I understand that underneath the mess of hay, I’m looking at the naked, hairless leg of a human. A blanket covers the torso, so I am not sure if it is a man or a woman, but I know this: it is not a child. The leg is too long, the bulk beneath the blanket too substantial. Below the ankle, a clump of black. A boot? No, the shape is wrong. Are my eyes deceiving me? The thing beneath the ankle is shaped like a hoof.
Loud, disturbed breathing comes from beneath the blanket. Restless sleep, perhaps a terrible dream. I hear a metallic clinking. The lump moves, and the blanket slides off to reveal a long, pale arm. My gaze follows the whiteness upward, where the shoulders and head are still obscured by the blanket, and then downward. Where the hand should be, a fist, clad in a black leather glove, is attached to a horseshoe.
As I inch toward the cage, my foot hits something metal on the floor. A tray. The creature beneath the blanket stirs and rolls over. The blanket slides off, revealing a mop of long, dirty-blond hair. The hair is matted and tangled. Two eyes peek out, startlingly white in the darkness.
The eyes meet mine for several long seconds.
A voice, guttural and deep, comes from under the blanket. “What are you doing here?” The words are difficult to make out, as though the person has a severe speech impediment.
“What is your name?” The first question that comes to mind, the essential question. So much can be traced back to a name.
The figure under the blanket shifts. I hear chains rattling. “You. Can’t—” I struggle to make out the words.
“Who are you?”
“You. Can’t. Be. Here.”
I move closer to the stall, the wrecked creature, human but not. “We need to get you out.”
“No! Just. Go.”
“Are you okay?”
No answer.
“I’m looking for a girl. Brown hair, about my height.”
The man rolls around on the ground, struggling to climb out from under the blankets and hay. As he struggles to stand, he falls backward and into the side of the stall. On his knees, he shuffles toward me. He lifts his arms, placing the black gloves on the bars of the cage. I turn on my phone’s flashlight. That’s when I see they’re not gloves, but wooden blocks, hoof-shaped. They make a thudding sound against the bars as he pulls himself up to his full height. He towers over me. On his head, there are leather straps, a harness. I understand why his words are so garbled: his jaw is clamped down around a bit. He wobbles on the strange, tall boots.
“You. Can’t. Be. Here. Go.” His face is right up against the bars. “Please. Go.” His lips are unable to move properly, the sound comes from the bottom of his throat.
“Are you telling me you don’t need help?”
“I. Don’t. Please go.”
“Okay, I’ll go. But first, you have to tell me: Have you seen a girl? Fifteen years old. Please.”
The man teeters, looking down at me, saliva pouring out of the sides of his mouth. His eyes look feral. “Look. In. The.” The next word is unintelligible.
“In the what?” I ask desperately.
He leans his forehead against the bars, gathering his strength. He lifts his head, looks me in the eyes, and manages one word: “Kennel.”
“Where? What kennel?” The man nods to the right, down the hill.
From outside comes the high cawing sound of a dying animal. My heart races. Rory.
&nbs
p; 52
“To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.” Argue for or against the moral imperative of Ursula Le Guin’s city of Omelas.
Rory is crouching around the corner of the stable when I come out. “A truck just pulled up to the house,” he whispers.
I close the stable doors, hoping whoever is in the car didn’t see that they were open. “The Land Cruiser?”
“No. A pickup truck.”
“How many people in it?”
“Two.”
“Let’s get into the tree line. We’re looking for a kennel.”
I think of the smaller structure at the bottom of the hill, beside the first stable. We dart into the trees, making our way down the hill through the brush. I’m grateful for the rain. It will make getting back to the car more difficult, but it deadens sound and makes it harder for anyone to see us from the house.
At the bottom of the hill, about three hundred yards from the first stable, stands a smaller structure, half the size of the stables. The door is padlocked, but there is no key ring. Directly in front of the door, rainwater has gathered in a deep puddle. A metal cafeteria tray pokes out from a slot at the bottom of the door. I drop to the ground, splashing mud all over my jeans, and pull out the empty tray. I get my mouth as close to the slot as possible, drenching my hair and the side of my face in the filthy puddle.
“Caroline?” I say as loud as I dare. “Caroline?”
Something moves inside.
“Mom?” Rory says, his voice shaky. “Is that her?”
The Wonder Test Page 23
