He left his walkie-talkie behind. He’d thought it would be good to have some kind of comms gear, but without earpieces, they’d be too loud. He didn’t want to get caught with it, either, and betray the fact that he might have help. He’d have to find Manny in person and make a plan on the fly. He needed to tell them that the Yeti wasn’t the focus.
He knew where Lewis would be. He could see the little rocky outcrop from where he stood. It was a good choice.
They’d done this kind of thing before, all of them.
He knew Dawes would want to prepare and plan and bring in as many of his remaining people as he could, but he’d also want to move fast and hit hard. It would be today or tomorrow, Peter was pretty sure.
If he had to bet, he’d put his money on today.
He wouldn’t get far walking in the damn medical boot, and he wanted more mobility than he’d get with his old truck in this near-roadless valley, so he limped to a cobbed-together bike rack someone had built with lumber scraps and drywall screws against the side of the barn. It was gray from the weather and had acquired a distinct lean, but still managed to keep an old Trek mountain bike from falling over. He climbed on and set off down a well-traveled trail.
He wanted to talk to the smooth-skinned young man named Oliver.
And Sally. He was pretty sure he needed to talk to Sally Sanchez.
They were meeting for family dinner in the orchard.
The trail was muddy and hollowed out and it rose and fell with the contours of the ground. After only a minute he came to the big farmhouse in its sheltering stand of maples, but there was no sign of life. No lights, no bicycles leaning against the porch. On June’s map, that was the Yeti’s house. Maybe Sally’s, too, from the sound of things.
That whole conversation had been a little odd, he thought. Oliver standing there silently with his pitchfork while Sally chatted away like there was nothing unusual happening. He wondered how much Sally knew.
The trail widened into a two-track with weeds growing in the humped middle, a utility road heading toward the orchards. Peter rode on. His leg was okay, but it wouldn’t be for long. He approached a long single-story building with white siding, a gable roof, and a sheltering porch, surrounded by trees. It wasn’t on June’s map. The windows were open and he could smell the rich flavors of cabrito simmering in sauce.
He thought of Sally, petting the goat like an old friend as she talked about what they’d be eating that afternoon.
A 1970s flatbed Ford sat beside the porch steps, a pair of big coolers resting on the warped wooden planks of the bed. Windows down, key alone in the ignition like it hadn’t been taken from its slot for years. He wondered if June had taught herself to drive in that flatbed truck.
He got off the bike, climbed onto the porch, and knocked on the open door. Nobody answered.
He stepped inside to see a big commercial-style kitchen with a ten-inch chef’s knife laid out on a cutting board heaped with broccoli sectioned for steaming. Nobody there. A dozen tomatoes sat on the counter, maybe next in line for the knife. In the sink, wet salad greens dripped in a stainless-steel colander. Double ovens held deep roasting pans with lumps of goat meat in a thick red sauce.
Family dinner in the orchard.
He pushed through swinging double doors into an empty dining hall, four long plank tables set out dormitory-style with an assortment of unmatched chairs. No sign of life. This was where everyone came together to eat and share the advances they’d made that day.
Or maybe plan to kill people. Who knew?
Although Peter was starting to make some educated guesses.
He got back on the bike and continued down the two-track into the orchard. Goats nibbled at the weeds.
He rode under the partial shelter of just-budding branches for a few minutes before coming to the half-framed house he’d seen from the road. It was tucked into the trees on a slight rise, a pretty spot. It would be beautiful when the apple blossoms came out, which from the looks of things would be any day now.
The second story was framed and mostly sheeted, and someone had set the ridge and the first few rafters for the roof. A covered work trailer stood open, gear neatly arranged inside. Four old-school leather tool belts rested in recumbent circles on a stack of framing lumber. A pair of sawhorses held a rafter with a rechargeable circular saw paused mid-cut. Peter touched the battery. It was still warm.
He got back on the bike and rode on. The two-track took him to a larger clearing in the orchard where a rambling equipment shed held a big modern Case tractor with various attachments and a storage space full of slat-sided apple crates. Three-legged ladders were neatly stacked against one wall. Past the shed on a patch of freshly mown grass, five wooden picnic tables stood end to end in a long row. Another three-wheeled cargo bike, this one blue, held a stack of tablecloths and a plastic bin with plates and silverware and cloth napkins.
Not a soul to be found.
This was where the dinner would be. Preparations had been under way.
Why had they stopped?