Chapter 29
“Well, sugar.”
-Cam
I hop out of the SUV like I didn’t pull the pin on a truth grenade and throw it in Aaron’s face. We’re in a clearing about five miles off the road in the state forest, an area I’m sure isn’t zoned for hunting cabins or whatever the fuck this is.
At first glance, it looks like a run-of-the-mill cracker house in Florida. A one-story log cabin with an addition and a dog-trot between the two parts of the house. The front porch sags under rotting wood. And a lone rocking chair lists to the side, one rocker long broken.
I hear the metallicchinkof a cardinal calling out to his mate that danger is nearby. The buzz of cicadas rises and falls in a wave of sound that is only drowned out by the hum of a generator. I shield my eyes with my hands to look at the roof. Solar panels and a satellite dish.
Not precisely representative of the cracker-style.
“You’re here! You’re here,” Virgil Troutwine’s hair is extra troll-dollish today. As he runs closer to us, I see his hair is greasy, like he hasn’t showered in a few days. It doesn’t seem like the cabin has a bathroom or running water, but looks can be deceiving. The man is wearing another shirt that time forgot, a short-sleeved button-up in faded yellow. His brown pants are practically pedal pushers. The hem is so high. And he’s wearing an oversized leather bracelet with a watch face on it.
“Mr. Troutwine, you said you had evidence?” Aaron prompts.
“Yes, yes. Evidence. That I have plenty of,” Virgil points to the left side of the cabin. “Step inside my workshop.”
Casper The Tatted Up Ghost insists on a security sweep of the rundown cabin before we set foot inside. I mean, do we truly believe some terrorist is staking out remote cabins in Florida on theoff chanceI show up to one?
Whatever.
I know he’s doing his job, but it’s still annoying. I don’t need a damn babysitter. And right now, I have two.
When the silent security guard steps out onto the rotted porch, his skin has gone deathly pale. His eyes are wide as he looks between Aaron and me. Then, Casper turns to the other side of the cabin to sweep for threats there.
That side must be okay because his skin color is back to normal.
He says nothing as he returns to the SUV but motions to go ahead. He takes up position outside, scanning for external threats.
I want to warn him about the aggressive squirrels we have in these parts, but I think I’ll let him discover that himself.
“Lead the way, VIRG,” I motion toward the cabin.
We follow him inside. Before my eyes can adjust to the dim lighting, I’m struck by the smell.
It smells like regrets and the ass-end of a thrift store. I blink two or three times, trying to make sense of what’s in front of me.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves surround a central table. The shelves cover the windows and contribute to the claustrophobic feel inside. I squint at the shelf closest to the door. Old-fashioned oil cans, springs, ten mayonnaise jars of various-sized screws, coils of electrical wire in different colors.
My head whips back toward Virgil. “Are you building bombs in here, Virgil?”
“What? Goodness no!” The man slaps his hands on his cheeks, looking every bit like Kevin fromHome Alone. “What on Earth gave you that idea?”
I point to the shelves. “It’s like the Unabomber’s shopping list in here, Virg. What the fuck?”
He shakes his head vehemently. “No. No. No. No. I experiment. But not with bombs. I make things to help people!”
Aaron has moved to the shelf across the room. That one has high-tech silver containers with vacuum-sealed lids that resemble Yeti tumblers. “Are these your experiments, Mr. Troutwine?”
Virgil practically knocks me down to get to Aaron. “Don’t touch those! They’re very delicate!”
I snort. Delicate indeed. They probably contain samples of his urine and fecal matter. Maybe a jar of his fingernail clippings to boot.
Funny thing is, I’m not worried about Virgil at all. He doesn’t give off a serial killer or bomb-maker vibe. He does strike me as someone who has been living out in the middle of the forest, alone, with no air conditioning for too fucking long.
I fan my face. “It’s hot as ovaries in here, Virg. How do you stand it?”
