The bikes on the hill, eight of them, screamed down the slope toward them, swarming both sides of their vehicle. None of them were paying attention to the road. One of the bikers pulled a gun and started peppering them with bullets. He was glad their vehicle was armored.
Val swerved into him, plowing him into two other bikers. Two more moved into position on either side of their SUV. Val swerved slightly, not to give warning so much as just to fuck with them. When they didn’t back down, he bumped into one, then the other.
The remaining bikes followed them for a distance, then backed off, returning to their fallen brothers.
“Max, need another way up to the Friends. Stat,” Val ordered over their comm.
“Roger that…take the next right turn. It’s a rough road, so go slow. Hope’ll have some choice words for you if you bring back her SUV fucked up.”
“Yeah, a little late for that warning,” Angel grumbled from the backseat.
“You guys okay?”
“You’d know it if we weren’t,” Kit snapped.
“Copy that. Follow the dirt road about ten clicks. There will be another dirt road heading west. Take that. It’ll bring you to the dirt road that goes by the Friends. Take a right.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Greer, your tango’s not alone. Proceed with caution,” Max warned via his comm unit.
They were still a hundred yards from the woodcutter. The moon had finally risen, casting a pale light over the WKBer in the narrow dirt road used by the forest service and the residents of the Friendship Community.
“I don’t see anyone else. Where are they? In the woods?” The road was flanked on either side by tall grass and scrub brush, easy cover for an ambush.
“No. Right next to him. I’ve got two heat signatures on the satellite.”
“I’m looking straight at him, Max. You can see what I’m seeing.” The amber glasses he wore not only transmitted back to headquarters, they also optimized ambient lighting, illuminating what Greer saw almost as effectively as night-vision goggles. “There’s no one there but him.”
“I can’t explain it. I’m telling you what I’m seeing.”
“Copy that.”
“What’s happening?” Remi whispered, watching him with tense eyes.
“Max says there’s someone else with the woodcutter. Stay close to me.” He nodded to her purse. “Keep your keys in your hand and get the fuck outta here if this goes south.”
She scanned the area. “I don’t see anyone else.”
“Never mind,” Max said. “Whatever it was is gone now. Maybe he’s got a dog with him.”
They approached the woodcutter, who stood like a tree stump in the middle of the road. Wide. Heavy. Resolute. The temperature was several degrees lower than the woods they’d just come through. Greer’s breath made a thin puff of condensation. The woodcutter’s hands were in his pockets as if he, too, felt the chill. Maybe this area was a low point and collected the cool night air.
Greer nodded at him, but neither man offered to shake. “This is my wife, Dr. Chase. We spoke earlier, but I didn’t get your name.”
“I didn’t give it. You’re going to publish what you see on your visit here, aren’t you?” he asked Remi.
“Yes.”
“When you do, you’ll keep my name and profession out of it?”
“Yes. I’ll keep your identity confidential. I won’t publish anything that could identify you.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough. This was a bad idea. I got nothing to say to you.”
“No one’s real name will be in anything I publish about this community. I promise to protect your identity, which means I won’t use your name, and I won’t describe you in ways that reveal who you are. I would like to be able to quote what you say, but I won’t identify you with the quote. I’ll know who you are, but I’m the only one.”
He watched her for a minute. “Do I have your word?”
“You do. Protecting people’s identity is something we take very seriously. Sociologists have gone to jail in order to protect the identity of the people they research.”
With that assurance, he didn’t waste any time getting to what he’d come to say. “Before we begin, you need to know what I am.” He began unbuttoning his shirt.
Remi sent Greer a sideways glance. Greer didn’t take his eyes from the woodcutter. A pattern of tattoos darkened his chest. Greer shined his phone light on it. Remi gasped when he fully opened his shirt, exposing the swastika and a pair of eagle wings flanking it. Below it, in five columns, were wide dashes…eighteen of them.
“You’re WKB,” she whispered.
“Was. I’m a yeoman in the Friendship Community. Wood’s the only thing I ax now.”
“How did you get from there to here?” Greer asked.
“The WKB retired me.” He looked at Remi again. “I’m a confidential informant, right?”
“Right.”
“I served the WKB for thirty years. I’m one of the few who lived to retirement. Holbrook gave me my cabin, job, and assigned a wife to me.” He looked at Greer. “The girl you’ve been asking about. Sally. She was supposed to be my wife, once her tithe was finished.”
“Fuck. Me,” Max snarled in Greer’s ear. “We should have gotten you in there sooner, Greer.”
“What are these tithes? Payments made to the community?”
He nodded. “Payments in the form of a service. All the kids do a tithe before they can take their place as adults in the community—except artisans or craftsmen. They’re forgiven their tithes. Many who leave to do their service never return. Most, even.”
“So you think Sally just took off?”
“No.” His lips thinned. His jaw bunched. “Normally, an unhitched couple never gets time alone in this fucking nunnery, but I met Sally one day when I was cutting wood. She was alone and crying. The Friends consider their tithes sacred. Their details are never shared. Holbrook—now Pete—and the tithee are the only ones who discuss whatever task has been assigned, but we talked about hers.”