Homicide detectives stumped by difficult cases will often go see victims’ families, picking at the scab of human misery and grief in order to work up the righteous rage, the sense of vengeance. Grove required no such visit now. He felt the loss of all the souls he had avenged over the years smoldering in his gut, all those ragged poor bodies he had measured and catalogued and averaged, seared into his memory, mingling with a sense of guilt so powerful it took his breath away: he was responsible, somehow, for all this suffering.
With his calculations, extrapolations, and prognostications, Grove had unleashed this evil, and now his world had narrowed into a dark tunnel into which he traveled alone and through which he could only see a single egress flickering at the end: find the man called John Q Public and remove him, as if he were a tumor, from the world.
At a few minutes after 7:00 A.M., the Piper Cub touched down at a small airstrip about three and half miles southeast of Valesburg, Kentucky.
By that point, the morning sun had crested the mountains to the east and now shone harsh and brilliant off the treetops, warming up the morning with the cloying smells of wet black earth and pine sap. The plane came to a shuddery stop on a rough-hewn dirt landing strip flanked by rusted unmarked Quonset huts—typical military Spartan—while the prop wound down, raising a thunderhead of dust.
“I’m gonna need y’all to stay put for a second!” Commander Barkham ordered at the top of his voice, unsnapping his belts, removing his headset.
The pilot climbed out of the cockpit and strode low and fast across the hard-pack to the largest steel building. He vanished inside it for a moment. Grove watched from inside the greasy glass fuselage. The prop died and the sudden silence inside the plane’s cabin made Grove’s jaw ache. He felt Drinkwater’s presence behind him, fidgeting nervously in her seat, but not saying anything.
At last the pilot emerged from the Quonset and hurried over to the plane. “Get your things and get outta here,” he said after climbing back behind the stick. “And remember: I did not bring you here, and y’all most certainly did not pay me for my services today.”
“Got it,” Grove said and pulled the fat envelope of twenties out of the inner pocket of his duster. He gave the man the money, then nodded at Drinkwater. “Let’s go.”
They climbed out of the plane one at a time—Grove first, then Drinkwater—then reached back inside the hatch and grabbed their belongings from under their seats: Drinkwater’s big vinyl purse, Grove’s immense duffel bag. Drinkwater started toward the access road in the distance, but Grove lingered by the plane as the prop kicked back to noisy life.
“One more thing!” he hollered over the noise of the engine, knocking on the pilot’s window.
Barkham stuck his head out the open vent. “If the DIA guys find out I gave y’all this—!”
“We had an agreement.” Grove kept his gaze leveled at the pilot.
Barkham let out an angry sigh. He leaned down to a road case on the floor, thumbed a combination lock, and opened it. He found a small plastic case the size of a deck of playing cards, rooted it out, and held it up. Grove reached for it, but Barkham did not let go of it, not yet. “I don’t think you fully understand what I’m giving you here—”
Grove snatched it out of the man’s hand. “Thank you for your concern.”
Grove slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, turned away, then hurried across the tarmac in the noisy slipstream toward the access road, where Drinkwater waited with an odd expression on her sweat-shimmering brown face—a mixture of concern and outright fear. “What was that about?” she asked as they crossed the road.
Grove was digging in his duster pocket for the topographical map he had downloaded. “You don’t want to know,” he said, unfolding the map, looking at it. “We want to go this way.”
He started off to the north, when all at once she grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“Yes I do! I want to know!” Anger flared in her eyes. “What the hell did he give you back there?”
Grove stood there, looking at her for a moment, the roar of the plane kicking up behind them. “It’s from an old Agency field kit. A vial of potassium cyanate.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
Grove did not look away. “It’s fast-acting poison for black-op guys—you bite down on it and you check out in like a minute.”
He turned then and hurried toward the intersection of access roads to the north.
It took Drinkwater a moment to recover her bearings and hurry after him.
THIRTY-FIVE
The hike took its toll on both of them. By the time they found their way across the Avery Mountain switchbacks and reached the little Farmers’ Market shack on the east side of town—essentially a glorified lean-to of canvas and old pine timbers shielding a dozen or so bushel baskets of local produce—Drinkwater had blisters on both heels, Grove’s trick knee was heating up on him, and they were both damp with sweat. The sun had risen high and harsh that morning, and Grove had removed his duster along the way, tying it around his waist. By noon, the backs of their necks were burned and creased with grime, and Drinkwater had a bad feeling they were going to stumble upon another murder scene—but Grove sensed he was walking to his own doom, not someone else’s.
They entered Valesburg from the east and proceeded directly to the Quik-Stop Service Center, where they gobbled a couple of cheese sandwiches and bandaged their sores. Grove knew they had to stay under the radar of Sheriff DeQueen or they would risk tipping the Bureau, so they concocted a cover story for themselves—nothing too outlandish, just a subtle nod to allay suspicion for as long as possible. Grove bought a sheaf of maps at the front counter and told the gum-snapping girl behind the cash register that he was from the University of Kentucky College of Agriculture, taking soil samples.
Word travels in a small town like influenza germs in a kindergarten.
By mid-afternoon, Grove learned just how quickly the cashier had circulated news of these two strangers from “up to the college” when he and Drinkwater stopped at Bud and Hank’s Tavern on the west edge of town to see if they could discreetly glean any information about the discovery of John Q’s van, or Sheriff DeQueen’s investigation, or any suspicious characters loitering around the mine. The bartender didn’t know much—he was a former biker who had never even laid eyes on Wormwood—but there was a gangly underage girl with tattoos and a nose ring drowning her sorrows, at the end of the bar who knew plenty.
“You them two eggheads from the U of K?” the girl asked after the bartender had gone back to his game of solitaire. The young lady seemed to be in a sort of boozy fugue state.
“That’s right.” Grove wheeled toward the girl. “Ulysses Grove is the name, and this is my fellow egghead, Edith Drinkwater.”
Drinkwater’s gaze seemed to gravitate immediately to the fresh bruise under the girl’s eye. “You okay, honey?”
“Fine and dandy, and I’ll be even finer and dandier when I get another one of these—Earl!”
The bartender grunted and went about the business of making another pink frothy drink for the young lady. He seem unconcerned that she was still three years shy of legal.
“I’m Jamie, by the way,” she said with a forlorn smile, shaking Drinkwater’s hand. Something raw and unspoken passed between the two women—Grove noticed it, even in the tense zone he was in. The girl looked over her shoulder, then back at Grove. “Did I hear you askin’ Earl about Wormwood? The old mine?”
Grove stared at her. “That’s right.”
The girl licked her lips. “What is it y’all want to know about it exactly?”
Grove spoke softly. “You haven’t seen anything suspicious around there in the last few days, have you? Strangers? Anything of that nature?”
The girl’s eyes changed slightly, sobered up a bit. “Maybe…I don’t know.”
Grove spoke even softer, his voice intensifying into a sort of taut hiss: “Think hard. It’s very important—did you see anyone around
the old mine? You could say this is a life-or-death situation.”
The girl’s expression filled with a terrible sort of awe right then, her chin beginning to tremble. “You two ain’t from no college, are ya?”
Grove looked at Drinkwater.
They could smell fear wafting off the girl like musk.
THIRTY-SIX
Night rolled in with the subtle menace of a plague. The chatter of crickets and katydids filled the dusky air, and darkness crept down into the village from the hilltops. A thin wisp of methane glowed faintly in the distant trees like dull purple neon.
“This here’s as far as we go.” The old man paused on the weed-whiskered shoulder of the dirt road, the legs of his walker crunching in the gravel. “Folks around here are awful superstitious—guess I ain’t no different.”
Grove set down his duffel bag and surveyed the deepening shadows off to his right.
It was half past six and already the dense hardwood forest to the north—that raw stretch of wilderness the locals called the barrens—was immersed in shadows. As far as the eye could see, a dark ocean of treetops rolled up the front range of the Green Ridge reservation. The air had turned gelid and fragrant with pine.
It braced Grove like a blast of smelling salts. “How about GPS?” he asked the old man.
“Ain’t no good.” The old retired miner, Jamie Lou Clinger’s grandfather, slowly shook his head, his deeply lined face creasing with a frown. His name was Ryland Clinger, and in the twilight his leathery skin looked almost blue, as though six decades underground had permanently stained his skin. “Once ya get below a hundred feet, the mineral layer throws off the satellite. Let me see your piece.”
“My what?” Grove looked at the old man.
“Your piece, your iron—whatever you’re planning on carrying in there.”
“Um, I don’t—”
“I assume you’re plannin’ on bringin this shitheel down with something a little harsher than strong language?”
Grove knelt down and unzipped the duffel. He had not yet loaded the Bulldog. He pulled it out and handed it to the old miner.
The old man flung the pistol across the shoulder and into the shadows. It landed in the weeds with a thud. “Won’t be needin’ that,” he muttered.
“What the hell—?!” Grove stared, aghast. “What are you doing?”
Clinger looked up at Grove with saggy, red-rimmed eyes flashing with anger. “I already told y’all, she’s like an unlit fuse down there.”
“Okay, but—”
“What’s left of the air’s got more damp-black gas in it than a dadburned Molotov cocktail. You start a shootin’ match, you’re gonna end up on the moon.”
“All right!” Grove angrily zipped the duffel shut. “I get it.”
“You’re not still going down.” Drinkwater stood behind the old man, next to Jamie Lou, wringing her hands. “This is fucking crazy.”
Grove rose to his feet, slung the duffel’s strap over his shoulder. “You’re probably right.”
Drinkwater pushed her way past the girl, around the old man’s walker, and up into Grove’s face. “What do you really want here?” She spoke softly, intensely, drilling her gaze into his eyes.
“Drinkwater—”
“Answer the question. You want to take this cocksucker out?”
Grove nodded in the darkness. “That would be good.”
“Then call in the goddamn cavalry.” She grabbed his arm, squeezing. “It’s your best shot. Listen to me. Get the TAC guys in there. They have remotes they can send down, cameras, you can flush the guy out.”
“Getting him’s only part of it,” Grove said after looking into her eyes for a moment.
“Don’t do this.”
“I have to, I’m supposed to.”
“That’s just mumbo jumbo.” She said this last phrase in a broken voice, her eyes welling. Grove had not realized until this very moment how far Drinkwater had fallen for him. “At least take your .44 and a speed-loader,” she pleaded.
Grove gave her a squeeze. “I appreciate the thought, I really do.”
“Ulysses—”
“I’ll see ya soon, Drinkwater. And don’t worry so much, it’s bad for your health.” Grove turned and started across the weed-clogged ditch toward the trail.
“Young fella!”
The old man’s voice made Grove pause and glance back at the threesome standing in the deeper shadows of the roadway. “Yes, sir?”
“I ain’t sure you fully understand what it is yer about to do.”
“Again, you’re probably right…but if it’s all the same to you I’m gonna go ahead and do it anyway.”
The old man leaned forward on his walker, making it creak, as though punctuating the seriousness of his point. “This here is the U. S. of A., and the last time I checked, American citizens were free to go and get theirselves killed any old time they wanted to.”
Grove looked at Drinkwater. “I’m not going to get myself killed.”
Ryland Clinger let out a grunt, then trundled closer to where Grove was standing, across the ditch, in the shadows, near the trailhead. The old man was shaking with rage now. “Young fella. You listen to me. What yer about to do, you might as well count on gettin’ yourself killed.”
“Duly noted,” Grove replied with a nod. “Now if you’ll excuse me I gotta—”
“That mine is special in a lotta ways,” the old man said, fire in his eyes. “Ways that ain’t necessarily on no map. It’s more than just bad luck. It’s sour. The part of the earth, it’s cursed.”
“I understand—”
“No, I don’t think ya do, I don’t think ya got no idea what I’m talking about. But you will. When you go down there where it’s permanent midnight, you will.”
Grove looked at the old man. “I don’t have any choice in the matter.” Then he looked at Drinkwater. “Maybe I never did.”
And with that, Grove turned and plunged into the darkness of the woods.
THIRTY-SEVEN
In the hours after Grove entered the mine, Drinkwater went through a sort of modified five stages of grief back at the old man’s battered RV.
The camper was parked less than a mile from the Wormwood trailhead, in a little scenic cul-de-sac along Rural Route 24, featuring a blacktop turn-off and a single picnic table overlooking a wooded gorge to the west of Valesburg. But that night, in the impermeable darkness that seemed to draw down on the valley like a great shroud, the primeval beauty of eastern Kentucky turned inside out with the grotesque grandeur of bat wings, unfurling in the silence, feeding Drinkwater’s dread and guilt and remorse.
Would she ever see Grove again? Would they find him dead at the bottom of a coal mine? Would Drinkwater be blamed by the Bureau for Grove’s erratic behavior after it all hit the fan? The questions plagued her throughout most of that night, despite the old man’s and his granddaughter’s best efforts to distract her. They played gin rummy on a little fold-down table in the reeking camper, they finished the old man’s bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and they studied old blueprints and maps of the Wormwood mine as it had been in its last year of operation—1972—discussing escape routes and possible exit points up north in the Green Ridge preserve through which Grove might emerge.
Grove’s two handguns sat on the table next to a bowl of pork rinds like dead soldiers.
Drinkwater spent a lot of time staring at those two handguns, and the ammo magazines lying next to them—bad-luck charms taunting her. The longer she stared at them, the more sick to her stomach she felt. How could he leave his guns? She wanted to scream. She was getting drunk. She didn’t want to play cards anymore. She felt as though fire ants were crawling all over her body.
At last, at around 2:05 A.M. that morning—and seismic readings across the eastern United States would later verify the exact time—Drinkwater rose from her seat to go to the bathroom when an enormous boom rang out from the east.
It was so sudden, so deep and immense—almost like an e
normous depth charge rattling the sky—that Drinkwater was thrown right back onto the tattered bench seat next to a yelping Jamie Lou Clinger, who slammed against the window at the shock wave, banging the side of her head and cracking the glass. The entire six-ton camper shuddered sideways onto two wheels, nearly toppling over, throwing the old man—along with his walker—out of his chair and onto the corrugated floor. Cabinet doors flapped on their hinges. Glassware toppled, fell to the floor, shattered, and the entire chassis groaned before slamming down onto four wheels again with a massive bone-rattling thud.
For one horrible instant, the threesome lay there, paralyzed in the silence, gaping at one another, not a single word being exchanged, while puffs of insulation floated down from the cracked ceiling. They all knew where the explosion had originated.
Drinkwater’s ears were ringing unmercifully and she felt her entire midsection seizing up with icy panic as she did the awful math in her head. Grove had been in the mine for almost seven hours. Nobody could have survived an explosion of that magnitude—not even the mysterious, resourceful, mystical Ulysses Grove. The RV was parked more than a mile from the mine, and it had felt as though someone had just set off a million sticks of dynamite right outside its door.
“Oh Lordy, no,” the old man uttered in a toneless voice then, as he rose on trembling legs, using the bent walker to prop himself up. He was looking around the trailer as though it were filling with demons. “No, no, no, no—”
“You gotta be shittin’ me.” Jamie Lou struggled to her feet next to the table, her voice breathless with awe. “Holy fucking shit.”
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