George clipped his badge back onto his belt and slowly stepped forward. “We don’t know what you might be able to tell us about it, which is the reason we’re here. Can we talk?”
It was obvious Timothy was torn. In the end, though, he seemed to come to the conclusion that he might as well talk now and spare all of them the hassle of getting a warrant and pestering him later.
“Fine, come in.” He fished out a key and opened the padlock on the gate.
George locked the car, then stepped through the small gap Timothy had made by opening one half of the gate. “Thank you, Mr. Cervill. We will try to not waste your time.”
“Too late for that.”
Timothy definitely needed to read up on Southern hospitality, Andi decided. Timothy also made no move to invite them deeper onto his land. He remained none too subtly on the path leading between the trees where Andi knew the cabin and the beehives were located.
George, as always, showed no outward signs of annoyance about Timothy’s behavior. To Andi’s advanced sight, he was practically screaming with rage, close to snapping, but to the world and Timothy especially, he was the picture of calmness. A contradiction that never ceased to fascinate Andi.
“When was the last time you were at the bunker, Mr. Cervill?”
“Don’t know how that’s any of your fucking business, but it’s been a long time. I was still in school. Maybe when I was eleven? Or twelve?”
George nodded. It fit with what they knew about the history of the bunker. He then took out his cell with a slow, careful motion as to not spook Timothy into raising his shotgun again, which was at the moment resting with the butt on the ground next to his right boot. He wore military trousers and a black tank top displaying a lot of hair, which explained why he wasn’t freezing, and a growing gut that didn’t fit with the prepper stereotype of the muscular guy who could wrestle a grizzly. At least that was how Andi liked to imagine preppers. George was now showing the blueprint of the bunker to Timothy, sans the description of the bodies.
“Mr. Cervill, is this how you remember the bunker?”
Their suspect stared at the screen for some time. “Not exactly. I mean, it’s been some time, and I was a kid back then, but I’m pretty sure that room wasn’t there.”
Andi didn’t have to lean over to know he was pointing at the burial chamber.
“Are you absolutely sure?” George insisted.
“What the fuck, man? I told you I was just a kid then. I’m as sure as can be. It’s not like we were there that often before the fuckin’ government kicked us out. What do you want with it anyway?”
There was a flare in George’s pheromones, telling Andi how much his partner wished to clock the prepper. His admirable self-control won, as it did almost every time. “Thank you. And I know you said you were just a kid, but did your father ever mention how hard it was to dig the bunker? I mean, we’re talking swamp land here. It couldn’t have been easy.”
“Nah, it wasn’t. Dad had to use special concrete and everything. It helped that the ground there is a little drier than the rest, because of the trees, you know, and because it’s higher than the surrounding area, and there’s some rocks keeping everything relatively stable. It’s the reason he chose that location in the first place.”
“How difficult would it be to dig this additional chamber?”
Like before, the question didn’t provoke a reaction in Timothy, apart from a general annoyance that seemed to be part of his very being. “The digging itself wouldn’t be too hard. The soil is moist, but not packed. Easy to get through as long as you avoid the rocky parts. Securing the chamber would be a lot more difficult for the same reasons.”
“So not something everybody could pull off?”
“No. You need some knowledge about building on wet ground. It’s not rocket science, mind you, but you need to have experience. What’s this about? The government planning some secret underground lab? Using my old man’s hard work for their own gain?”
George ignored Timothy’s questions and glanced at Andi, silently asking if he had anything to add. Andi thought for a moment, weighing the wisdom of his words. “You keep bees?”
Timothy furrowed his brows. “Don’t know how you know or how it’s any of your business, but yes. Bees are a good thing to have.”
Andi felt George leaning toward him, just a bit, in a protective gesture that warmed Andi more than his woolen socks or a hot water bottle could.
“How long have you had them?”
Timothy shrugged. “Always. My ma liked them for her garden. She always said it wasn’t a garden if there wasn’t any buzzing.”
Andi was surprised how friendly Timothy’s voice got when he told them this. He most definitely had good memories of his mother, or he just liked working with bees. Many people did.
“Thank you, Mr. Cervill. That’s it for now.” Andi was barely done talking when Timothy urged them back through the gate, closed it with a lot of rattling, turned on his heel, and stalked back from where he had come, his shotgun slung over his right shoulder without so much as a goodbye.
“What a charming person. I guess we can count ourselves lucky he didn’t kill us and deigned to talk to us instead.” George got back in the car.
“Killing us would have meant more involvement with the government. Talking was the easiest way to get rid of us.”
