According to the map, the ’62 Chevrolet short bed needed to rattle and gasp just one more mile to reach the monument. At the wheel, Charlie imagined the government vehicle that would meet them and bring them in from the cold. He had no idea whether the Cavalry would send a sleek government car or a helicopter or something clandestine-a VW Love Bus, for instance. Whatever they sent, even another rusted-out ’62 Chevrolet short bed, he was sure he would luxuriate in the ride.
Drummond was smothering his second hot dog with a fourth packet of ketchup.
“Trying to get more condiments into your diet, Dad?”
“An interesting piece of information is that four tablespoons of ketchup have the nutritional value of an entire tomato.”
That actually is sort of interesting, Charlie would have said. But just as the pickup was about to chug past the weed-colored Battle of Staunton Historic Monument sign, which was mostly hidden behind tall weeds on the roadside, he spotted it. He pumped the brake and jerked the steering wheel, heaving the truck onto a long, bumpy dirt road that wound through thick woods. The tires kicked up so much dust, the truck appeared to be chased by a sandstorm.
“So much for stealth,” he said.
“Oh,” said Drummond, squeezing the last molecule of ketchup from the packet.
The driveway terminated at a ramshackle blacktop. Some two hundred parking spots ran along one side of a much longer field of overgrown grass that was golden in the afternoon light.
Drummond’s nostrils flared. “There’s no one here,” he said.
Indeed, the only sign of life was a few ravens perched on a statue of a soldier on horseback, about fifty feet into the field. Charlie pulled into a space close to the statue, at the center of the parking strip. “We’re still five minutes early,” he said.
“Five minutes? That’s all?”
“What were you expecting?”
“An hour at the least.”
Charlie wasn’t sure what to make of this. Drummond’s internal clock had been off by decades lately. But his intuition couldn’t be discounted. “Would you ideally have allowed yourself time to conduct one of those countersurveillance things, or to work up an escape route, something like that?”
“Of course. When is the meeting?”
“Uh, five minutes from now.”
Drummond pushed open the passenger door. The hinges croaked, scaring off some of the ravens. He lowered himself to the asphalt and edged toward the field. His eyes jumped around, as if he were watching the battle that had taken place here.
Trailing him, Charlie saw little and heard only the chatter of the remaining ravens and the rustling of tall blades of grass.
“What am I missing?” Charlie asked.
“There’s no one here.”
“Maybe I screwed up the deciphering. If you were trying to bring us in, what sort of meeting place would you choose?”
“Someplace crowded, like a train station.”
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
With a shrug, Drummond waded into the high grass, running his palms along the tips as if stroking a cat. His interest went to the man on horseback, a soldier from the Civil War era-the tip-off was the visored cap with the distinctive forward-sloping top-who was sculpted at about twice the size of life and cast in bronze. A real, wooden-wheeled cannon from the same period sat on the ground a few feet to his side.
“Any chance this is one of those dead drops?” Charlie asked. “Maybe they hid directions here to the real meeting place?”
“Maybe.” Drummond peered into the mouth of the cannon. It was plugged.
He wandered around the granite pedestal, gazing up at the statue. The soldier would have been unrecognizable even to Civil War buffs because of the raven droppings.
“You know what’s interesting?” Drummond said.
“What?”
“On equestrian statues, if the front hooves are off the ground, it signifies the soldier died in battle. If just one hoof is raised, he died later of wounds related to the battle.”
If they were going to learn anything here, Charlie thought, the soldier would have to tell them himself.
“If all the hooves are on the ground, like this one,” Drummond continued, “it means the man died in his sleep.”
“You think it’s possible they just missed that turnoff?” Charlie asked.
“It’s possible.” With a yawn, Drummond lay down on the granite pedestal, using the horse’s stout left front leg as a headboard.
Hoping Drummond’s nonchalance indicated they were safe, Charlie took a seat beside him.
Ten minutes passed, another raven was the only arrival, and anxiety began clawing at Charlie’s stomach lining. Nudging Drummond from a light slumber, he said, “It’s not like they could have been caught in traffic.”
Drummond shrugged. He still seemed entirely unconcerned.
It no longer offered reassurance. “Maybe we should drive to the next town and call the number in the ad again,” Charlie said.
As the words left his lips, a black Dodge Durango roared down the driveway toward the field. The dust and glare made it impossible to see into the sport utility vehicle. Charlie looked to Drummond.
He was fast asleep.
“Looks like we’re in business,” Charlie said, rousing him.
Opening his eyes, Drummond regarded the Durango with only passing interest, if any-it was hard to tell.
Charlie expected the Durango would park near the pickup truck. But it veered away and drove to the far end of the field, pulling into the farthest possible spot.
“Could it just be someone else?” he asked.
He bet himself Drummond would shrug. He won the bet.
The Durango’s driver’s door eased open. A compact man of perhaps forty edged out. He had a dark brown flattop and wore a mossy-oak camouflage suit. His slow, deliberate movements made his circumspection obvious, even from the monument a hundred yards away. He might just be a hunter. As for his hesitation? He didn’t have a hunting permit? Or maybe he was indeed the Cavalry’s emissary, the camouflage was part of his cover, and his unease was attributable to the fact that he saw no one-the giant statue blocked Charlie and Drummond from his sight, and the lone vehicle in the lot, the rusty pickup, could well have been abandoned here years ago.
Charlie considered leaping up and waving. Intuition held him in place.
The Durango’s passenger and rear driver’s side doors sprung open. Out darted two more men in camouflage. Following Flattop, they dropped onto hands and knees and shot into the high grass.
Through gaps between stalks, Charlie glimpsed the man who’d been in the backseat. He was young, no more than twenty-five, with the slight build and serious look not of a hunter but a scholar. His pistol glinted. Charlie entertained the idea that this was some sort of intelligence analyst, pressed by exigency into field duty.
Then a gust of wind parted the grass, revealing the man who’d been in the passenger seat.
Cadaret.
Shock ran through Charlie like a sword.
“Dad, we’ve been set up,” he exclaimed. “And that’s the best-case scenario.” The worst one he could think of was that Cadaret and his men had intercepted the Cavalry.
Drummond looked up. “That’s a shame,” he said, then tried to get comfortable again against the bronze horse’s shin.
From the Durango’s end of the field came the whipcrack of a gunshot. Its low echo skittered along the top of the grass. The ravens leaped into flight. The bullet stung the bronze soldier’s left elbow, turning the hardened excrement in its crook to a puff of white. The horse’s barrel-thick left front leg shielded Drummond from all but a dusting.
Charlie pressed himself against the inside of the horse’s right front leg, some primitive survival apparatus enabling him to coil himself so he wasn’t exposed to the shooters. A second round splashed dirt onto the pedestal, pelting him like buckshot. Loath to move, he angled his eyes to Drummond.
On three occasions, peril had transformed Drummond into a superhero. He was incited now, but only in the manner of someone whose rest is being disrupted.