He figured Chip and his people would be hard to miss. Depending on how many people he had, at least two cars, maybe three or four. If it was more than four, they might be in trouble.
“No real reason. We’ve met some interesting characters in the last few days. They all seem pretty interested in June.”
She beamed at June. “Well, who wouldn’t be, a beautiful young woman like you?”
June rolled her eyes. “Listen, we should go find my dad.” She gave Sally another hug. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“You might want to find me before. You’ll understand when you see your dad. I’ll call him so he knows you’re coming. You know how he hates surprises.”
The older woman raised her eyes to the sky. Peter followed her gaze and saw the shadow above them, still circling but lower now.
“Of course,” Sally added, “he probably already knows you’re here.”
Peter walked back to the truck, feeling Oliver’s eyes on him the whole way.
He had a feeling he’d just seen the first signs of the valley’s security.
? ? ?
HE PULLED THE TRUCK onto the road again, window down, headed toward the group of buildings at the head of the valley. The road was straight and flat enough to hit the truck’s top speed of eighty, but he kept it in second gear. He didn’t want to run into any goats. “How many farmworkers will the bunkhouse hold?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s changed so much since I left.” She looked at him. “You’re thinking about Oliver, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know?”
“He’s just like you,” she said. “Lewis, too. Self-contained and still. But with this kind of, I don’t know, awareness. Like he’s always ready for anything.”
“Yeah,” said Peter. “He’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. A bunch of farmers with guns? Some ex-Army tough guys flexing their muscles? Not a guy like Oliver.”
They were close enough now to begin picking out the individual structures. A rambling white frame farmhouse stood in a stand of maples off to one side, but the road led directly to a wide cement apron between a pair of matching stone barns.
These were not like the usual broken-down barns Peter had seen every day of his young life in northern Wisconsin, or the long low metal sheds of a pig or chicken farm. They had the traditional gambrel rooflines of a child’s farm drawing, but their walls and gables were built of black granite with black-painted trim and they were three stories tall, bigger than any barn he had ever seen. They looked more like something built to house a hedge fund manager’s collection of antique tractors, thought Peter. Or maybe a herd of vampire cows.
The barns had wide doors in their sides for big equipment, but instead of the usual sliding wood doors that swayed in the breeze and allowed cats to come and go unimpeded, these doors were gleaming stainless roll-ups like delivery doors at the Federal Reserve.
There were also smaller doors for people, each under an overhang for shelter from the weather. Beside the people-doors were little boxes that looked like security keypads. Those weren’t to keep the farm help from looking at the antique tractors.
One door opened, and a man walked out.
It was difficult to tell the scale of him, set against the big barns and the grand landscape. It wasn’t until he got closer that Peter saw again how big he was, six-eight and broad in the shoulders. His hair fell below his shoulders, his beard reached his chest, and both were full and tangled and white as snow.
He was the same man they’d seen on the floatplane pier in Seattle.
June’s dad. The Yeti.
Lewis had said the man was in his late fifties, but he moved like someone ten years younger, like someone who used his body. He wore a shapeless tweed jacket over a denim shirt, green corduroys frayed at the pockets and cuffs, and enormous scuffed leather hiking boots. His shirt pocket was stuffed with pens and a notebook peeked out of his jacket pocket. There were pine needles in his beard and hair.
Peter could understand why his friends had called him Sasquatch, until his hair had turned.
“Hello, Juniper.”
His voice was deep enough to rattle the windows or calm a fussy baby. His face was craggy and creased, and his eyes were a keen, unearthly blue, projecting a wild, implacable intelligence.
The overall effect was somewhere between a youthful grandfather and the face of God from the Old Testament.
It wasn’t hard to imagine him at the forefront of a technological revolution.
Or arranging the death of his wife.
June didn’t move from beside Peter, her whole body thrumming with tension. “Hello, Dad.”
The Yeti’s face crinkled up in a beatific smile. “It’s so good to have you home,” he said. “You know how worried I get when you go away. How was your conference? Get any good ideas?”
June stared at him. “Dad, it’s me. June. Your daughter.”
“Oh,” he said, startled. “Of course.” Then the smile came back, slightly dimmed. “You looked just like your mother for a minute. I got a little confused. How’s your day, honey? Catch any frogs for your terrarium?”