It was the middle of the twenty-first century, but she thought Dorothea Lange would recognize this place. The land looked like it had been abandoned since before the Civil War, and a weathered “For Sale” sign hung limply from a stake driven into the ground. The dirt road leading to the boarded-up farmhouse was barred by a rusted gate padlocked with a length of chain. Con told the car to park on the grassy shoulder of State Route 670. It was near noon and a furnace sun rode high and righteous in the cloudless sky. Off to her left, an old grain silo, proud as a sore thumb, stood defiant against the heat, though much of its paint had long since flaked away. Beside the silo stood the skeletal remains of a barn that leaned wearily to the west. Con had seen a hundred farms like it when she was a child. More than a thousand miles separated Virginia and Texas, but loss was loss. Before she’d been old enough to understand the pain behind foreclosures, Con had found the decrepit romance of abandoned buildings beautiful.
Of course, it was easy to find an abandoned farm picturesque at a quarter to twelve on a summer afternoon. Come nightfall, the farm would turn sinister, all runaway shadows and restless dreams, and the tree line that formed a loose semicircle around the property would bloom with specters and myth. Strange how that worked. Buildings didn’t know day from night. They didn’t change, only the light did, and with the light how she would see them. Better to be long gone before then.
On that note, Con killed the engine. She got out, popped the trunk, and opened the storage compartment. Where the spare tire should have been was the go bag that Peter had packed for her. He hadn’t said a word, but she could tell he wasn’t a fan of her decision to go to Virginia. Inside the bag was a first-aid kit, food and water, three hundred dollars in cash, a change of clothes, a flashlight, a paper map of Virginia, a second LFD, a survival knife, and pepper spray. Do you know how to handle firearms? he’d asked. She’d raised one eyebrow and reminded him that she was from Texas. Hunting mule deer with the uncles was an annual Stickling Thanksgiving tradition. That had made Peter chuckle, but he had given her a crash course on the Smith & Wesson Shield 9 mm anyway. At the time, she’d thought it was overkill, but now, looking out at the farmstead, she was grateful that he was a worrier.
She took the water and flashlight, and clipped the gun to her jeans. Then she ducked under the gate and walked up the long, curving dirt road. Was it a good idea coming here alone? Probably not. But simply because a person recognized the law of gravity didn’t mean they could ignore it and fly away. The pull to know everything was simply too strong.
Greer had asked if her original could still be alive. Looking around, Con wanted desperately to imagine a happy reason that she might have come here but couldn’t think of a single one. Where to start looking? She didn’t relish the prospect of bushwhacking across these fields, an overgrown tangle of weeds, thorns, and tall, wild grasses. She could wander around out here for days without stumbling across anything besides wild animals. Did Virginia have poisonous snakes? That would end badly. And then some poor bastard would stumble across two identical dead bodies. Yeah, best if she started indoors.
The silo was a hollow echo chamber. The doors to the barn were padlocked, but she found a gap between two loose boards and squeezed inside. The musty smell of petrified hay greeted her, and the ancient barn groaned like an old man at an unwelcome knock on the door. Slats in the broken roof threw piano keys of light and dark across the floor. Wiping sweat from her brow, she searched upstairs and down for any sign of human activity.
The floorboards above her head creaked. She froze. She’d only just come from up there—she was alone, she told herself—but it was enough to make her break out in a sweat. Shaken, she decided that concluded her search of the barn. She emerged blinking back into the sunshine and stood in the shade against the wall, drinking from a bottle of water until she could hear the hum of the cicadas above the thud of her heartbeat. That was reckless, she told herself—go back to the car and call the police. This was their job, after all.
Her need to know just laughed. You’re not calling the shots here, it mocked. Now finish your water and go check the house.
The farmhouse sat on a low rise with a view of the property. It was a modest two-story Colonial, psychotic in its rigorous symmetry: twin chimneys at either end, four columns supporting a portico shading the front door, five perfectly spaced windows all boarded shut. Ivy had twined around the columns and spread as far as the second-story windows. There was no way to open the front door without disturbing it, but Con reached through the ivy and tried the handle anyway. The door didn’t budge. She couldn’t say if that was a relief or not.