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“So I thought. Well, I have something interesting for you. I ran his name and he comes up clean in Army records, nothing unusual, spotless performance records—”
“And that’s interesting?”
“So you don’t want to know?”
“Know what?”
“That he served in Iraq, and his service overlapped with Eardley’s. Both worked in special operations. And what’s more, I also turned up a photo. Dated 2007.”
Marble Spring was a blip on the map in rural Pennsylvania, up in the Allegheny Mountains. I now knew, thanks to Wikipedia, that it’s four miles north of the west branch of the Susquehanna River, and has a population of 112. I practically have more people in my family.
I hooked a right on US 15 into Pennsylvania about an hour and twenty minutes later. Off the interstate, I got on State Route PA 144, then crossed over onto PA 150 and started heading up into the Alleghenies. Stunning ridgeline views opened up as I crossed remote rusting bridges. Down in the distance was a patchwork of farms laid out along zigzagging rivers deep-cut into the heavily forested land.
It had stopped raining when I got out of DC, but around three o’clock it started to rain again. As I came down into a mountain valley alongside a railroad bed, thunder cracked what sounded like a foot from the car. The pelting rain began speed-drumming off the top of the Chrysler.
Five minutes later, I stopped before Marble Spring’s single blinking yellow stoplight. Since there wasn’t another driver to be seen, I paused to look around. Main Street, without even a bank or a post office, redefined the phrase “not much to look at.” By my observation, the town consisted of a dollar store across from a Gothic-looking red brick church, and some sketchy-looking row houses rising up into the woods.
Behind these few structures, in fact all around them, stood the hills, dark and looming, the tops hidden in mist.
Still stopped at the light, I tried my email again. Service was spotty in the hills, but finally the photo from Emily had come through.
It showed our John Doe—Eardley—young and handsome in uniform. And looking very buddy-buddy with the guy next to him, who had an arm slung over Eardley?
??s shoulder. Tall, also handsome, and apparently Paul Haber.
Chapter 18
I found Lincoln Lane about two miles west of the town. It was a narrow, steep strip of crumbling blacktop, more driveway than road. I counted three residences as I came up the long slope of the valley. Each was a trailerlike home set back under the trees, with old cars and jacked-up trucks in the front yards.
200 Lincoln Lane was the end of the road. I stopped the Chrysler and stared at the mailbox, which had the address but no name, and the dirt and gravel drive beside it curving still higher, back into the trees. You couldn’t see any sign of the house.
The driveway was unbelievably long—three miles, if not more. You could hardly call it a driveway, since it wasn’t paved. I thought I had made an idiotic mistake and was now driving on a state park hiking path. The Chrysler almost got stuck around a steep muddy curve but regained traction to make the top of the hill, where the road ended at a gate.
I stopped the car in front of it and saw that the gate was attached to a chain-link fence, with razor wire running along the top. There was a sign attached to the fence:
BLACK HILLS SECURITY INC.
Executive Training—AR-15 Proficiency—Survival Skills
Outdoor and Indoor Facilities
Corporate Weekends and Team Building
SKILLS TO LAST A LIFETIME!
Must be Haber’s business, I thought. Through the wire, I could see the shooting range about half a football field away. It was very professional-looking, with covered shooting booths and macadam strips to shoot from one knee or prone, along with marked-off firing lanes. It seemed built for long-distance shooting, as the space between the booths and the gravel bullet stop—with hanging steel sheet targets—was immense.
Beside the range were wooden supply buildings and a raised range master booth. Off to the right, closer to the locked fence, I saw some small cabins, a storage container, and three new-looking double-wide trailers.
When I got out of the Chrysler I was greeted by a dog barking from inside the closest trailer—a vicious, rarely fed one by the sound of it.
Spotting a radio box next to the fence, I walked over and buzzed. There was no answer, and after a minute, I buzzed again.
Hmmm, I thought. No clients today, but there was the dog. This Haber guy must have gone somewhere but might be back soon. So I decided to wait.
There were no bars on my phone or any WiFi signal. I looked at the GPS on the car. There was no town on the screen where my blip was. Not even the road registered. I was just a blip in the middle of nowhere.
Chapter 19
