If there’s one person he wishes he had beside him right now, it’s John Sampson. But his friend is a world away, with problems of his own.
Alex is standing alone outside the gate of Colton Brophy’s compound, just waiting to be seen from inside. A guy with this kind of setup definitely has video surveillance.
In the light of day, it was easy to avoid the trip wire he’d almost stumbled over last night. Under the late-afternoon sun, Alex can see the fenced-in pen clearly. He was right, the pen is indeed filledwith pigs—a few big sows and a bunch of snorting piglets rooting around in the straw-covered dirt and dunking their snouts into a long metal water trough.
The front door to the house swings open. Alex tightens his grip on his gun. A huge man steps out onto the porch. Easily three hundred pounds and wearing …what?
Alex blinks and squints to be sure of what he’s seeing.
No question. The man is dressed in the gray uniform of a Confederate soldier, from cap to boots.
Only the gun in his hand is a total anachronism. An AR-15.
“Mr. Brophy?” Alex calls out. “Do not shoot!”
“Who’s there?” Brophy calls back. “This is private property!”
Alex holds his ID over his head. “Alex Cross, FBI! I want to talk to you about a missing person!”
“Who?” Brophy shouts back. “Who’s missing?”
“Open the gate, Mr. Brophy!”
“Hold on,” says Brophy. “I need to cut power to the fence.” He reaches behind the door. Alex hears a loud click.
Colton Brophy shuffles slowly across the farmyard, a ring of keys dangling from one hand. When he gets to the gate, he slips a key into a thick padlock, opens it, and unwinds the chains holding the gate shut.
“Come on in,” he says, swinging it open.
Alex follows him, staying in the big man’s footprints. He can hear the rippling fabric of the Stars and Bars overhead. Brophy goes up the weather-beaten porch steps and waves for Alex to follow him into the farmhouse.
The smell inside smacks him in the face. Mold, body odor, and a haze of stale garlic and onion fumes.
Lola at the records office said the house had been in the familyfor over two centuries. And that’s exactly how it looks. The floor is buckled and uneven. The carpet is mottled and stained. The sunken furniture is covered in flowered fabric, faded and threadbare. Naked light bulbs run in a string across the low plaster ceiling. The walls are cracked and yellowed. A wood-burning stove sits in one corner, blackened from decades of use.
And there are more signs of the past.
All around the room, Alex sees Civil War memorabilia—medals, cavalry sabers, Springfield rifles, and sepia photographs of grim-faced Confederate soldiers.
Brophy eases himself down into a cushioned armchair. The wooden legs splay slightly as his weight settles.
“I can see you’re a history buff,” says Alex. “That explains the flag outside.” He needs to get Brophy talking, find some common ground.
“I’m a reenactor,” says Brophy. He reaches over to a side table and picks up a small tintype showing a young man in a rebel uniform. “That’s my character. My great-great-great-grandfather. Private Calvin Brophy, First Corps, Army of Northern Virginia.”
He puts down the photo. “Never would have fit into that uniform. Had to make my own.”
“Looks accurate to me,” says Alex.
He can see that Brophy appreciates the compliment. “Damn right,” he says. “Down to the last brass button. I just got back from a battle reenactment in Manassas.”
Alex flashes back to his American history. “Bull Run?”
Brophy nods. “Our finest hour.” His automatic rifle is resting against his chair. He stares at Alex, breathing heavily. “So. FBI, you said?”
“That’s right. I’m a contractor with them, and my background is police work. I’m looking for my son.”
“I grew up wanting to be a cop,” says Brophy. “The academy wouldn’t take me. Fat boy. Neither would the Marines.” He grins, showing mottled teeth, and pats the uniform over his bulging belly. “This is the one army that’ll have me.”
