Charlie pulled off Loblolly Boulevard about a mile short of the club gate, then let the car roll into the woods.
“We’re not going to be able to go far with all these trees,” Drummond said.
“I was thinking we’d park here.”
“It would have been legal to park on the roadside.”
“I don’t want anyone to be able to see the car from the road. We’re trying to sneak onto the club grounds.”
“I see. Good thinking.”
They’d had the identical conversation a minute ago.
Having found a place to leave the car, they headed into the woods, batting aside boughs and crunching through mounds of crisp leaves and pine needles. A woodland novice, Charlie slipped and fell several times.
Drummond was as nimble as a stag, despite the comically oversized lime green down coat lent to him in Brooklyn. He also wore turquoise slacks and turquoise and glittery gold shoes, the outfit they’d found in the bowling bag in the backseat of Brody’s Toyota. Charlie now considered that the pajamas Drummond changed out of might have been less conspicuous.
A quarter of a mile brought only more trees. Charlie had expected a No Trespassing sign at least. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we are?” he asked Drummond.
“In the woods in Monroeville, Virginia,” Drummond said in earnest.
“I know that. I guess I was hoping you’d blurt out something like, ‘the forest surrounding the Monroeville Secret Agent Encampment,’ or ‘uninteresting frontage to convince interlopers there’s no point in continuing.’ But I’m afraid you’re right.”
The surroundings seemed to concur. There was the swish of trees in the light breeze and the trill of a few birds who’d either stayed here for winter or thought it far enough south. But there were no sounds of civilization, even at its most secretive.
Deciding to try a different approach to the club, maybe closer to the main gate, Charlie said, “I hope we can find the way back to where we parked the-”
He caught sight of a stone, at eye level, glistening in one of the few bits of sunlight able to breach the ceiling of branches. He flew toward it, until, thinking better, he slowed and approached with caution.
The stone was one in a wall of unmortared fieldstones, the type of wall the colonists built and identical to the one at the club’s main gate. Logistics suggested that the two were connected. This section extended through the woods for another half mile or so, then took a ninety-degree turn and went on at least that far.
“Building an enclosure this size in Colonial times would have required the participation of everyone within a hundred miles for years,” he said, abuzz at having been right. “But I’ll bet this was put up much more recently, like when someone decided that an old-looking stone wall would draw less attention than electrified high-tensile wire.”
“Should we see what’s on the other side?” Drummond asked.
“As long as we’re here, why not?”
Charlie struggled to find handholds and footholds. Gasping, he reached the top of the wall. Drummond was already there, breathing no harder than usual.
“You’re getting your money’s worth out of your Y membership,” Charlie said.
Drummond stared past him and said nothing. His reserve was not due to his condition but, Charlie realized with a start, the huntsman standing on the other side of the wall. The man’s camouflage field coat was classic deer hunting attire, but he looked like he made a living blocking linebackers rather than fitting pipes. Also the shiny black semiautomatic rifle he pointed at Drummond would tear apart a deer. Or a rhinoceros.
Really he was a guard, Charlie suspected. And hoped.
“Both of you, slide down real slow, then stand with your backs against the wall,” the man said.