Page 108 of Unnatural Death

“I’m not liking this one damn bit.” Benton is wearing his large-caliber pistol with its laser sight and extended magazine. He checks that a round is chambered, taking off the safety.

He grabs a shotgun out of the back of the Tesla. We begin walking through the cornfield, the first to leave footprints in the smooth white frosting that’s wet and deep. It’s now one o’clock exactly, and the sun is high and pale in a washed-out blue sky. I remember how hot and humid it was when I was here last. Sweat was running into my eyes as I knelt in the dirt by the body.

“Do you have a way of contacting Ledger?” Benton says as we reach the narrow clearing at the edge of the field.

“I can try the number he called me from.” I stop walking for a moment to unlock my phone.

We’re at the beginning of a path that cuts through deep woods, dead-ending into what looks like a road from here. Or possibly it’s a creek bed, some sort of opening in the trees. The number I’ve dialed rings and rings, rolling over to voice mail.

“You’ve reached nine-nine-eight …” The canned message likely is from a burner phone, and I look around uneasily.

“I may have led us into something bad …,” I start to say as Benton unholsters his pistol, handing me the shotgun.

He walks ahead as we near the clearing that’s part of a driveway. It leads to a windowless concrete blockhouse about a hundred yards away. In front are three pickup trucks and a white construction van. Benton puts his hand on me, and we stop. I take a photograph before we quietly turn around, the sound of our boots crunching unnervingly loud.

“What the hell did we just see?” I ask as we backtrack to the cornfield.

“Maybe that’s what Ledger wanted us to find. Maybe that’s why he told you to meet him here. He knew we’d notice the path and what it leads to.”

“I hope he’s all right.” I envision the circuitous tracks in the soil and the location of the overturned tractor. It was on the same side of the field as the path leading to the blockhouse.

Back inside the car, Benton gets on the phone as we’re driving off. He tells Lucy what we discovered as I send her the photograph I took.

“It might be a terrorist cell,” she says. “Maybe a recent one that’s popped up since we raided the outpost in Quantico back in July.”

“There’s a van parked in front that looks very much like the one on the roadside near where I was attacked last night,” I explain. “I took a picture and just sent it to you.”

“We’re driving through the dairy farm now,” Benton says. “We need to talk to Ledger Smithson. He was supposed to meet us, as I let you know earlier, and he didn’t show up. I hate to speed on out of here not knowing if he’s safe.”

“He drives a silver Jeep Cherokee. His mother drives a black Land Rover,” Lucy says.

“Neither were parked at the house. We didn’t see a sign of anyone,” I reply. “But as I recall from the transcript and other materials I reviewed, Ledger spends a lot of his time at an animal rescue in Nokesville.”

* * *

Old Comfort Farm isn’t really a farm but a place they keep animals confiscated from illegal owners. It also has a petting zoo. Lucy’s already looked it up, she tells us as Benton drives.

“You’re going to take Carriage Ford Road toward the Cedar Run Brewery,” she’s saying over speakerphone. “And not long after you pass it, you’ll see a driveway off to the left. Follow it for around a mile and you’ll reach a big barn that’s attached to a front office where you buy your tickets, make donations and such. This is what I’m seeing on their website.”

It takes us about five minutes to reach the brewery Lucy’s talking about. The driveway she wants us to follow has multiple sets of tire tracks. It’s barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other.

“The white van you sent the picture of is registered to Mike Abel,” Lucy says as we follow the snowy driveway through empty farmland.

Around a bend is the Old Comfort Farm’s barn and front office, and a black Land Rover is parked in front. Next to it is a black Tahoe with government plates, and bizarrely, several goats and a monkey are picking their way through the snow around the building. My eye is caught by a bright splash of color landing on the edge of the office roof, snow drifting down.

“STUPID BIRD! THAT’S ENOUGH!” The parrot talks to us, cocking its head as I open my window.

“What are you doing up there?” I talk back to it.

“YA UB’YU TEBYA!” it screeches.

“It just threatened to kill us in Russian,” Benton says as we pull up to the glass entrance.

And then I see the snakes inside. Several of them are striking the front door as if trying to get out.

“Oh my God. What the hell is this?” I ask.

“Stay here.” Benton opens his door, and there’s no way I’m sitting out here alone.

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