Spector went over the plans with the crew chief. He had been well paid, had no idea what this ultimately would be used for, and didn’t want to know. As soon as they were finished, he and his men would be on a chartered plane out of here and back to the country from where Buckley had recruited them. This tale, for them, would end with the wheels-up and the beer flowing.
She left the barn and kept walking, turning left and heading down the main street of the place. It really was a wonder that so many people had lived here at one point. And died here. The graveyard held well over a hundred plots simply inscribed with just first names on now-rotted wooden markers. Buckley had told her that these folks had all died of natural causes.
She didn’t believe that and wasn’t sure he did, either. She wasn’t certain how he reconciled that in his own mind. Maybe he never had.
Spector looked up. This was a part of the country where the sky seemed to go on forever. There wasn’t another living soul within at least a hundred miles. When they had been coming in on the jet she had looked out the window. She saw flat, rugged land frequently interrupted by buttes, rocky outcrops, a line of foothills, and finally their bigger, blunt-faced mountain cousins in the distance with snowy caps. She saw birds and animals and patches of water and some vegetation among the mostly stripped red earth.
But not a single human being.
She had come to realize that Buckley much preferred that arrangement. He had told her that he would come here for days at a time and just wander. He said that the power of the isolation astonished him.
“We’re all hamsters on the wheel, Britt. We never stop long enough to try to understand what we really want, what we’re really doing. It’s all a mirage based on speed and lack of personal focus and thought.”
“If you say so, Peter,” she had replied at the time, clearly not pleasing him. Which had been her intent. She was not simply going to agree to agree. That made her trivial and, worst of all, fungible. To matter to the man, you had to be unique. And one way to do that was not to blithely follow his lead.
Spector wondered if Buckley had thought of that during some of his wanderings here.
It was the simplicity of his plan that appealed to her. Yet, for her, a bullet, a garotte, a blow to the base of the skull, a knife, or even a delicious little poison surreptitiously delivered would have served just as well. In the face of that, Buckley might say that she had no style, no burst of imagination. She would have agreed. Spector wasn’t seeking masterpieces. She was no da Vinci. She was more workmanlike. She believed herself more akin to Michelangelo, indisputably a genius, but there was a lunch-pail-and-overalls practicality to his mastery that, in her mind, eclipsed even the dreamy, luminary vision of the Mona Lisa’s creator.
She had made additional discreet inquiries with the Bureau that had yielded a substantial treasure of potentially helpful intelligence. Some of those she had disclosed to Buckley and some she had not.
She walked into the little jail, passed the guard, entered the cell area, and stared through the bars at Carol Blum. She had been the one to abduct the woman back in Asheville, pointing a gun at her through the Porsche’s window. Blum had been astute enough to know that the look on Spector’s face brooked no opposition, and no hesitancy to shoot her in the head. So she had surrendered.
Spector had heard the woman mutter something like “Not again.” This struck her as odd, but she had to admire Blum’s nerves. She was not one to be intimidated. She had to know her fate was sealed, but she didn’t act like it. That in itself was impressive.
Blum looked at her through the bars. “You look familiar somehow. And I don’t mean from Asheville.”
“I doubt it.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Not prudent on my part.”
“Mr. Buckley had no problem telling me his, or the history of this place and his family’s connection.”