Chapter LX

Mattia Reggio had printed off images of the Michaud land from Google Maps, and checked them one last time before heading out to the property while the light was still good. The first of the PRIVATE signs was posted by the main road, where a trail wide enough for a small truck led into heavy evergreens. A mailbox stood to the right of an open five-bar field gate, but Reggio saw no cameras or other security measures. He supposed that, if the server at the coffee shop was correct, the Michauds' reputation for unsociability was enough to discourage locals from intruding, while the sign, and the general gloominess of the route through the trees, would have put off any desperate salesman who might have been tempted to make a cold call.

Reggio followed the trail, noting how well-maintained it was, even for a surface that was barely a step above dirt. He could see the places where depressions had been filled in with stones, and the foliage, although thick above, was cut back at the verge so as not to impede passage. But the trail took a couple of sharp turns along the way, and Reggio wouldn't have liked to be negotiating it at night. He passed two more signs advising against trespass before the house came in sight. It was wood-framed and painted a dull green, blending into its surroundings. A truck stood in the drive next to a garage with an open door, the interior well-ordered and filled with pegged tools, as well as what looked like boiler parts laid out on the cement floor. Male and female clothing hung from a line, stirring listlessly in the breeze. Reggio wondered if whoever was responsible for putting it out had bothered taking it in during the recent shower. At the first sign of a cloud, Amara was always fussing with a basket, even if the clothes were fresh out of the wash and so damp that Noah's own flood couldn't have made them any wetter.

Reggio pulled up behind the truck and got out. His gun was already safely tucked into the waistband of his pants, hidden by his jacket. He'd never owned a holster in his life, and if needed, the pistol could be in his right hand in seconds. Reggio was very much hoping he wouldn't have to use it, because he was out of practice, having fallen from the habit of traveling with a firearm now that he rarely did anything more exciting than drink an extra beer on Fridays or throw a ball too hard with his grandchildren. When he'd asked Moxie Castin if he might be required to carry a weapon as part of his duties, the lawyer told him that Parker took care of the rough stuff. Moxie said that he didn't want to have to lie awake nights worrying about the possibility of being forced to defend in court a second person who was on the payroll.

To Reggio's left was an extensive vegetable patch, with sticks set at regular intervals in the dirt. Amara grew some vegetables of her own, so Reggio knew that at this stage of the year the patch should be planted with broccoli and cabbage, some cauliflower too, and seeded with carrot and onion, along with peas, radishes, turnip, and spinach. The breeze caught coils of what might have been brown wire attached to each of the sticks. When Reggio squatted to take a closer look, he saw they were garlands of human hair.

The door of the house opened wide to reveal a man standing in the gap. He would easily have been six-one or six-two in his stocking feet, but the work boots he wore added extra inches. His shoulders were massive, but so too were his waist and gut, and Reggio thought that here was a guy not destined to be troubling Medicare for long. The weight he was carrying made it hard to tell his age, but if he was the man Reggio believed him to be, he was fifty-six. He wore coveralls over a half-buttoned collarless shirt, a mass of graying hair sprouting from the gap like a small mammal trying to make a break for freedom. He didn't appear armed, which was something. Reggio's nightmare was to have arrived at the Michaud place only to be confronted by some yokel with a shotgun.

"Can I help you?" asked the man, in a tone of unanticipated civility.

"I'm looking for Ellar Michaud," said Reggio.

"Not any longer, although if you'd paid attention to all those signs you passed, you might still be. Must be a terrible burden, going through life not being able to read."

"I saw them, but they all started to blur into one after a while." Reggio gestured at the vegetable patch. "What's with the hair?"

"Rabbits don't like the smell of it. They hate it more than they love what's buried beneath."

Reggio felt the next question bubbling up, but forced it back unasked.

Yeah, but whose hair is it?

"My name's Mattia Reggio," he said instead. "I work for a lawyer down in Portland named Moxie Castin. I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes."

Michaud folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. Reggio was surprised that the whole house didn't immediately tilt to the right.

"Speak away," said Michaud, "now you're here."

Reggio might not have been experienced in matters of investigation, not like Parker, but he knew better than to go tackling a subject like a missing child head-on. He'd watched Michaud's face for a flicker of recognition at the mention of Castin's name, but spotted none. Nevertheless, everything about the Michaud property was making him wary, just as it had been since he'd first looked at those satellite images.

"I thought we might talk about those people holed up next door," said Reggio.

This time Michaud's expression did change, and Reggio caught something that might have been relief.

"What are they to you?"

"To me? Nothing. I'm a live-and-let-live guy. Mr. Castin, though, doesn't have any love for men of their stripe."

"Their 'stripe'?"

"He looks unfavorably on those who adorn their flesh with relics of the Third Reich." Reggio tapped the corner of his left eye, roughly where Lars Ungar had his swastika tattoo. "He views it as a weakness of character. I'm hoping you do, too."

"We can take care of our own disputes," said Michaud. "We don't have to resort to lawyers."

"I don't doubt it if Lars Ungar was the sum of them. But it's not just him and one or two of his buddies setting up camp on Hickman land. They're the advance guard, with more to follow—and they've got money behind them."

Reggio didn't know if this was true, but he considered it an educated guess. Lars Ungar equaled Antoine Pinette, who equaled Bobby Ocean, and Bobby was throwing cash at anyone with hatred to spare. All of which intelligence might just be sufficient to string the conversation with Michaud along for a while, assuming he was willing to countenance some extended parley. Reggio watched while Michaud did the math: a little of his time in return for what might be useful intelligence on the interlopers.

But the hair. What about the hair?

"Then you'd better come inside," said Michaud, "and we can find out what you know."