Chapter XLI

A series of trails cut through the woods from both sides of Private Road 7, like branches growing from a tree trunk, narrowing the farther they extended from the parent limb. A few had become desire paths for deer, and Ellar Michaud could smell their spoor as he walked. The animals roamed unhindered on Michaud territory. Ellar did not hunt on this land, and no others were permitted to hunt there either. This was, in its way, sacred ground, although the Michaud prohibition on hunting had not prevented Ellar from arming himself, before leaving home, with a Tikka T3x Superlite bolt-action rifle loaded with a ten-round magazine.

He carried a flashlight, but had not turned it on. The moon was full and bright, illuminating the way, yet even without it he would not have struggled. These were his woods and he knew them well. He had walked them with his father and mother as they tested him on the names and properties of trees, bushes, leaves, and berries until there was none he could not identify. He had no respect for those unable to do likewise, even if all they owned was a single small garden. If a man was not intimately familiar with his environment and respectful of it, how could he position himself securely in the world? The answer was that he could not, and so nature would not help him when he needed help, and in time would rid itself of him. This Ellar firmly believed. One just had to look at the fires that raged each summer, the flooded subways, the proliferating viruses, to see the truth of it.

Only when he left the trail did he use the flashlight. Any paths that had once existed here had since been reclaimed by low foliage, while the tree canopy shadowed the ground by day and left it fully dark at night. After five minutes of walking, the lineaments of Kit No. 174 were revealed to him, its angles blocking out the stars in the night sky. He paused before the steel door at the front. He had always been aware of the building's power, but sensed it more profoundly in the dark. What lay within grew sensate and active only once dusk fell.

Even after all this time, Ellar still marveled at its existence, although it had, until recently, been dormant—dead, he might have hoped, if not aloud. Its cycles were irregular: at least one whole generation of Michauds had been born, lived out their lives, and died without ever being called upon to witness its reemergence. But they had remained cognizant of its presence, as one might of a bear in hibernation on one's land. To stand before Kit No. 174 was to be aware that this was no empty house, and once inside, the basement floor seemed always about to rise and fall with the inhalations and exhalations of its secret occupant.

Ellar carried a spade over his shoulder and a sack tucked into his belt. He unlocked the door, entered the house, and went straight to the basement. With his knowledge of the occupant, he would have preferred to have completed his task in daylight, but any activities concerning Kit No. 174 were better carried out under cover of night, particularly ones as delicate as this.

He took the stairs carefully. While they were well maintained, he had suffered a misstep halfway down only a few weeks earlier and wrenched his ankle. Had he broken it, he would have been forced to hobble all the way home with a branch for support, because no cell phone worked out here. It was a dead zone, in every sense.

Finally, he reached the bottom step and stared at the empty dirt floor. He should have been looking at a small set of human remains, but something had gone wrong. He ran the flashlight a second time, as though expecting limbs to reveal themselves in a corner, extruded from the earth like pale fungi sprouting in the gloom.

Ellar sat on the step to wait. Minutes went by. He tapped the blade rhythmically against the dirt, as though that might help, with no result. After fifteen minutes he stood. It was clear: he would not be getting anything of the child back, not tonight. The occupant was not done with it, and like a dog gnawing on a rotten bone, it could not be made to understand the necessity of surrendering its prize.

For the first time in many years, Ellar Michaud was worried.