Town at the Edge of Darkness

by Brett Battles

  He turned onto it, but kept his speed down so that the engine was only a low rumble. The route curled through the woods, right and left and right again. He came around this last bend, and let the bike roll to a stop.

  A guard shack with an attached gate blocked the road thirty feet ahead. Standing just outside the shack was a man in a security uniform, his hand dangling very close to the pistol on his belt.

  Ricky smiled broadly and said, “Howdy!”

  Not moving, and definitely not smiling, the guard shouted back, “Sir, you’re going to have to turn around and go back the other way. This is private property.”

  “What?”

  “You need to turn—”

  “Hold on, hold on. I can’t hear you.” Ricky revved the bike and glided it forward.

  The guard tensed, his hand touching his weapon now.

  Ricky stopped several feet away. “Sorry about that.” He gestured toward his ears. “Too many rock concerts, know what I mean?” He let out a laugh. “Now, what did you say?”

  “This is private property. You need to turn around and leave.”

  “Really? Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? I was wondering where the hell I was. My buddy Zander, he’s terrible at giving directions. You wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find the backroad to Harmony Creek, would you?”

  “No idea. You need to leave now, sir.”

  “Bummer. Well, it was worth the ask.” Ricky craned his neck and looked past the guard, as if there was something to see. There wasn’t. “Some rich guy live back there?”

  “Sir, I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “All right. I’m out of here. No need to go all gestapo on me.” Ricky wheeled his bike around. Before taking off, he looked back and said, “For someone who gets to sit in a beautiful place like this, you’re awfully uptight.”

  He hit the gas and headed back the other way.

  When he reached the main dirt road, he took it until he was sure he’d gone far enough for the guard not to hear his bike anymore. He made a U-turn, and drove back toward the turnoff as far as he thought he could without being detected. He turned off the engine and maneuvered the bike back into the trees, where it wouldn’t be seen by anyone driving by.

  He left his helmet on the seat and set off through the woods toward the guarded property.

  In addition to the guard’s aggression, Ricky had noticed something else that was odd.

  The guardhouse hadn’t been built on a permanent foundation, but sat on a leveled pad of dirt. Fresh dirt, that is. As a hunter, Ricky was trained to pick out those kinds of details, and the dirt hadn’t looked weathered enough to have been exposed to open air for more than a week or two. Which meant the guardhouse had likely been erected after Patterson disappeared. This led to Ricky wondering if the two events were connected, which in turn led to a desire for a covert look around.

  Once he caught sight of the guardhouse, he used his phone’s camera to zoom past the trees and see through the side window. Mr. Aggressive was sitting in a chair, watching television. There were at least two monitors. The angle allowed Ricky to see only the screen of one and a sliver of a second. On the monitor he could see was a view of the intersection where the guarded road met the main dirt road. No wonder the asshole had been waiting outside his hut when Ricky turned the corner.

  Ricky moved through the woods, passed the guard shack, all the way to where the trees stopped. Using a trunk as cover, he peered into the meadow beyond. About five yards away stood a fence that encircled the entire clearing. The cordoned-off area enclosed a construction site. Ricky could see the topsoil had been removed, and the exposed dirt had been leveled off. The cleared area was easily three football fields wide. Dotting this field in parallel lines were round, concrete pillars sticking maybe a foot and a half out of the ground. Each pillar had a metal bracket secured to the top.

  Ricky had no idea what kind of building was being constructed. It certainly didn’t look like the start of any he’d ever seen before. Call him crazy, but it appeared the structure would be supported on the pillars, like in a flood zone. Only this couldn’t be a flood plain. If the Columbia ever rose this high, the whole planet would be screwed.

  A rectangular building sat on the other side of the fence, about two dozen yards to Ricky’s right. It was one of those mobile home-type offices used on construction sites. Like the rest of the site, it appeared to be deserted. Not surprising, given it was a Saturday.

  Check that. Almost deserted.

  A golf cart moved from behind a stack of building materials at the far side of the meadow, and continued slowly along the interior of the fence.

  Ricky used his phone’s camera again to get a better look. Even with the zoom, the cart was too far away for him to make out much, but Ricky had no doubt the driver was wearing a uniform identical to that of the guard at the gate.

  Ricky conducted a more thorough camera scan of the site, checking for other guards, but it appeared there were only the two men. He lowered his phone. So, was this where Patterson had stopped?

  Though whatever was being built here looked unusual, the construction site didn’t seem particularly nefarious. He crept as close as he dared to the fence, and looked for anything that might indicate who owned the site, but there wasn’t even a NO TRESSPASSING sign hanging on the chain link.

  Stymied, he turned back to the woods, but went only a few steps before an idea hit him. He looked back and swore under his breath.

  Jesus, Ricky. You’re losing your touch.

  What would one do with a large open field filled with rows and rows of stubby pillars topped with brackets?

  Mount something on them.

  What company did Patterson work for?

  Scolareon.

  And what business was Scolareon in?

  Solar power.

  What Ricky was looking at had to be the beginnings of a solar energy collection farm. He should have realized that right off. And if this was Scolareon’s property, then the chances Patterson had come there just skyrocketed to ninety-nine percent.

  Okay, but why?

  Patterson was the company’s CFO, so it seemed unlikely she was inspecting the construction. The site’s plans and papers and that kind of stuff, though? That might fall under her responsibility. And where would that stuff be kept?

  Inside the trailer.

  Or she could have come here to meet someone, Ananke’s voice said in his head. Why was it always her voice that came up with the good ideas?

  Okay, either meet someone, or check something in the trailer.

  What if it was both? Perhaps she met someone and together they did something in the trailer. Maybe she was having an affair, and it had been discovered, and—

  “Slow down there, champ,” he whispered. His imagination was getting a little too wild.

  The trailer was the important thing. Something inside might help them find Patterson. As much as he wanted to hop the fence and break in, there was way too much daylight. Better if done under the cover of dark. And with someone watching his back.

  He returned to his bike and phoned Ananke. When she didn’t answer, he called Rosario.

  “Where’s the boss?” he asked.

  “Busy. Did you find anything?”

  “Ricky always finds something.”

  Liesel and Dylan arrived at Scolareon fifteen minutes prior to the advertised tour start time. The receptionist directed them to a corner of the large lobby where three others—a man and two women, all over seventy—waited.

  “Taking the tour, too?” the man asked.

  “That, we are,” Dylan said.

  The man’s eyes lit up. “Irish?”

  “I am.”

  “Me, too. My grandfather came over from Dublin around the turn of the century.”

  “Is that so?” Dylan said. This was by no means his first trip to the States, and he’d come to realize almost everyone here believed they were Irish to some extent.

  “I love Ireland,�
� one of the women said. “Spent a wonderful three days in Cork.” She turned to the other lady. “When was that?”

  After a short pause, the other woman said, “Ninety-five. No, ninety-four.”

  “Right, ninety-four. Just lovely.”

  “I’m partial to it myself,” Dylan said.

  “Are you here on vacation?”

  Dylan was saved from reciting his made-up backstory by the arrival of a smiling man in his early twenties, clad in khakis and a tucked-in, light-green polo shirt with SCOLAREON embroidered over his right breast.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Casey, and I’ll be your tour guide today. How is everyone doing?”

  Not surprisingly, everyone was doing fine.

  “A couple of business items and then we’ll get started. The tour will last approximately forty-five minutes, and will take in our production, testing, and distribution facilities. Depending on what’s being worked on when we go through, there may be some areas that we will not be able to enter. If you have questions as we go along, please don’t hesitate to ask. And one final note, please, no photography.”

  “Well, that sucks,” one of the women grumbled.

  The guide pretended not to hear, said, “Follow me, please,” then led them across the lobby and through a set of double doors at the far end.

  As Dylan held one of the doors open for the others to pass through, he tapped a finger against the pocket of his pants, depressing the remote switch that activated a micro camera concealed in the messenger bag he carried. Now everywhere they went would be recorded on high-definition video.

  Their first stop was a conference room, where the walls were decorated with pictures of Kyle Scudder shaking hands with or standing next to celebrities and politicians. Prominent among the latter group were pictures of him with each of the last three US presidents, two UK prime ministers, a long-serving prime minister of Germany, and the Chinese premier. There were also certificates and proclamations that had been bestowed either on Scudder or the company.

  “Scolareon was founded twenty-three years ago, right after Kyle Scudder graduated from MIT,” Casey informed them. “What began as a consulting firm focused on alternative energy eventually evolved into one of the prime players in the solar energy field.” Casey went into a detailed history of how Scudder’s firm grew and moved west, first to Seattle, and then here to Bradbury. “Scolareon has been at the forefront of advances in solar technology over the past decade, and with the introduction last year of the Scolareon roof tiles, we continue to lead the way into the future.”

  Dylan couldn’t help himself. He raised a hand and said, “Didn’t Elon Musk’s people come up with that idea?”

  Casey’s smile tightened. “A common misperception. It was actually Kyle Scudder, long before Mr. Musk mentioned the subject.”

  “Is that so? Didn’t know that.”

  “Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll visit the production facility.”

  Casey seemed eager to get moving again, which made Dylan think there was more than a smidgen of bullshit to the guide’s answer.

  Not being allowed within the production facility itself, the tour group observed the hangar-sized room from an elevated, glassed-in walkway.

  Below, a combination of machines and humans worked to create the roof tiles that would both collect the sun’s energy and act as a barrier against the weather. The human workers all wore white jumpsuits and matching hoods that covered their hair. The getups reminded Dylan of pictures he’d seen of computer-chip manufacturing facilities. Or of Breaking Bad.

  He stifled a laugh at the idea of the space below being one giant meth lab.

  Liesel elbowed him.

  “Sorry,” he whispered.

  As Casey droned on, describing what was happening on the production floor, Liesel jabbed Dylan again.

  “What?” he said under his breath.

  This time when he looked at her, she glanced toward the ceiling of the hangar. He followed her gaze.

  Crisscrossing just below the ceiling was a series of catwalks. Above these, spread across the roof itself, were four man-sized hatches. Dylan casually adjusted the strap of his bag so that the camera could record it all.

  A few minutes later, Casey escorted the tour group down a set of stairs into the testing area, a space about a quarter the size of the production room. It had been divvied up into several work areas, some of which were blocked off by large, portable dividers, keeping whatever was being worked on out of sight.

  “This is where we create the future,” Casey explained. “Our research scientists are tasked with thinking about what alternative energy will look like in twenty years, and thirty, and even fifty. In this way Scolareon will secure its place as a continuing leader in the industry.” He went on to spin more corporate PR without really saying anything specific about the latest products.

  When Casey finished his look-how-great-we-are speech, he led everyone outside to a couple of waiting golf carts. Behind the wheel of each was a driver dressed in khakis and a company shirt that matched the guide’s.

  “Please, everyone, hop on one of the vehicles and we’ll head over to our east building,” Casey said.

  The older folks filled one, and Dylan, Liesel and Casey hopped on the other.

  As the carts circled around the back of the manufacturing building, they passed through a small parking area filled with high-end cars in spots that had placards identifying who parked where. Dylan turned the camera and recorded the license plates and placards.

  The real payoff came as they went by the spot nearest the door into the building. The sign in front of it read:

  KYLE SCUDDER

  Parked in his spot was a silky black Lexus GS Hybrid. Sixty-five grand just for the base model. Nice to be the boss.

  The carts wove through the main parking area and across the highway into the lot in front of the Scolareon building on the east side. It was a mirror image of the building they’d just toured. The inside, however, had been designed to serve as the company’s product storage, packing, and shipping center. Nothing much of interest, as far as Dylan could see. Though there was one little nugget that came to light as they were leaving, when the old man said, “You make the shingles over there,” and pointed across the highway.

  “We refer to them as tiles,” Casey corrected him with a smile.

  “Tiles, sorry. You make them there, and you haul them across the highway over here to ship? Why didn’t you just build a bigger building over there? Or at least put the two buildings next to each other?”

  “I see you’re bucking for a position on our board of directors,” Casey said, reciting what sounded like a line he’d used a lot. “In truth, that was the plan, but we were unable to secure enough property on either side of the road. But let me correct one misperception. We don’t haul the tiles across the highway. There’s a tunnel that links the two buildings, and an automated conveyor system that moves them from one building to the other.”

  That bit of knowledge was worth the previous fifteen minutes of tedium.

  At the end of the tour, Casey gave each of them a two-inch-square piece of roof tile, a refrigerator magnet that said SCOLAREON • STAR POWERED, and a brochure for the company that included a coupon for ten percent off solar installation. He then guided them into a small but well stocked gift shop. While the older crowd perused the wares, Dylan and Liesel made their way back to their car.

  After the planning meeting at Casa de Artisa, Ananke transferred into her backpack several items from one of the bag of tricks that had been in Liesel and Dylan’s car, then drove Rosario to the hotel.

  “I should be back in an hour or so,” she said before her friend climbed out of the Mustang. “Text me if anything important comes up.”

  “Of course.”

  Once Rosario was gone, Ananke headed into the center of town and parked a block from the police station. Before starting in on the task that had brought her there, she called the Administrator.

/>   “Any progress?” he asked.

  “We haven’t found her yet, if that’s what you’re hoping. But it does look like you were right to be concerned. I don’t think Patterson’s off on some kind of self-discovery vacation.” She briefed him on their investigation so far.

  “Do you think this cop is involved?”

  “Unsure, but we’re looking into her.”

  “What about Scudder?”

  “I’m hoping to meet him tonight. The Bradbury Business Association is throwing a mixer this evening for me. He and a lot of other local bigwigs are supposed to be there.”

  “I know. Who do you think put that idea into their head?”

  “Good, then you can definitely help me out.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Rosario’s coming to the party with me, but it would be great if you could pull a few strings and get Liesel and Dylan invited, too. The more eyes and ears, the better.”

  “Easily done. I’ll text you with confirmation as soon as I have it. Anything else?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  After hanging up, Ananke grabbed her backpack off the rear seat and set it on her lap. Inside were the rectangular plastic cases she’d taken from the gear bag. They were nearly identical, about an inch high by an inch wide by four long. Each contained a different type of bug—tracking, listening, combo. There were also variations on adhesion—sticky back, magnetic, none. A two-letter code etched into the lid on each box indicated which kind was inside.

  Ananke removed several Easy-Follow tracking bugs with sticky backs from their container and climbed out of her car.

  The city of Bradbury had obviously been undergoing rapid expansion due to the tech-industry invasion. Some parts had been handled more successfully than others. An example of the latter was the police station.

  The building that served as the department’s headquarters might have been fine back when Bradbury had been a sleepy river town, but it was clearly too small for the city’s current needs. Three temporary buildings that looked not so temporary anymore had been erected in the parking lot, leaving only a handful of spaces, all of which were filled with squad cars. Several more police vehicles were parked along the street, and the nearby spaces they weren’t using were filled with other vehicles that Ananke guessed belonged to departmental employees.