“A Hershey bar,” said Paz. “Daniel Cross’s apartment was covered in wrappers just like it.”
“They were his favorite when he was a kid, too,” Caitlin said, as she tucked the candy wrapper inside the plastic evidence pouch she carried with her at all times. The partially crumpled foil was smeared with melted chocolate, reminding her of how Cross always needed to wipe his mouth with a towel after eating one, ten years ago. She’d forgotten how much time she’d actually devoted to the effort to redeem him, apparently having accomplished absolutely nothing. “So maybe it was Cross that Dylan saw lurking about the night before last, the night before Hoover’s Cooking.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Cort Wesley said, standing a bit back from her and Guillermo Paz. “You’re thinking whatever links Cross to ISIS is somewhere in this cave?”
“You got a better explanation for how this got here?” Caitlin asked, holding the clear plastic evidence pouch out for him to see.
“That’s assuming it belongs to him. Hershey wouldn’t be doing much business in these parts if Daniel Cross was the only one buying their candy bars.”
“It’s him,” Paz said, staring farther into the cave. Its darkness was broken by splotchy pockets of translucence emanating from the green patches that grew out of the walls. “And there’s something down there. Straight ahead.”
“All I see is a wall, Colonel,” said Caitlin, shining her flashlight straight ahead.
Paz started forward warily, his spine stiff. “Sometimes our eyes deceive us, Ranger.”
65
BALCONES CANYONLANDS, TEXAS
There was no one behind him—at least, no one Dylan could see. He thought maybe just the small bit of peyote he’d ingested had had a more pronounced effect on him than he realized. Had he imagined the sound of something being crunched underfoot? Had his drifting mind led him off his intended route, leaving him lost amid thousands of acres of protected deep woods?
Dylan felt fear and panic reaching for him and barely avoided their grasp. He’d started out charting his direction by the stars, but those had quickly vanished under an onslaught of storm clouds that swallowed their twinkling guidance and drew a curtain before the direction in which he was headed. In that moment, this was the last place in the world he wanted to be. His damn father was right; he should be back at school in Providence, Rhode Island, where spring football practice was in full swing, instead of throwing his whole future into jeopardy.
What the hell was I thinking?
He hadn’t been, that was the problem. Maybe he was never going to learn to stop acting on impulse and feeling he had to adopt every stray who crossed his path—girls now, instead of lost animals. He had a sour taste in his mouth, which felt as if he’d just chewed some tree bark, and he flirted with the idea of turning around.
But just then he heard the soft spray of the waterfall flowing down over White Eagle’s land, and he caught a glimpse of the stream, which glowed emerald green under the moon’s return from behind the clouds. The shedlike structure was closer to White Eagle’s cabin than Dylan had remembered. But there was no firelight to give away his presence, and no sign of stirring through the cabin’s windows.
Dylan emerged from the tree cover, clinging as best he could to the darkest ribbons of the night to help shield his route to the shed. Sure enough, a lock hung from a heavy hasp secured across the shed’s frame. Closer inspection revealed that the logs forming the shed had been reinforced crossways, the way similar structures had been erected in World War II Japanese prison camps. Like those, this structure had been built with no spacing at all, no seams visible, even where the sides met and the peaked roof joined up with the shed’s frame.
Dylan was trying to figure how to get the door open, but then a slight jostling of the old padlock revealed it wasn’t fastened. As quietly as he could manage, Dylan plucked the lock free and eased the door open wide enough to enter, then quickly sealed the door behind him.
He switched on the small flashlight he’d brought along, aware of the rich pine smell, even though the structure was at least decades, if not generations, old. In that moment, Dylan became aware of a second scent, a musty, stale odor, like rancid clothes left sweaty in a gym bag for too long. It was almost enough to make him gag, and he reminded himself to breathe through his mouth. He swept the small flashlight’s thin beam about the shed walls, holding it on something that glinted slightly in the spill.
“Holy shit,” he heard himself mutter, stuff falling into place faster than he could process it.
He needed to get off this reservation now, needed to call Caitlin and his father. He swung around, feeling for the phone tucked into his pocket.
And saw a face, streaked like a checkerboard, even with his own, as a hand that smelled like rancid mud closed over his mouth.
66