Vaughn frowned.
“See if you can trace those signals.”
He took a few gulps of fresh air before heading back inside.
Dr.Button and Landon had moved all of the bodies into the center room, lining them up like they were corpses from some sort of mass casualty circa World War II.
Vaughn supposed they were. The first part, anyway.
“As soon you can, I’m going to need the victims fingerprinted. Check their shoes, too,” Vaughn said.
“Shoes?” Landon asked.
“I want to know how they got here. Check for wear, I don’t know, grass, dirt. What kind of farms are around here again?”
“Fruit,” Darnell answered over the whir of his saw.
“Fruit, right. If they walked here, they might have fruit in their treads.”
“On it,” Landon said.
Darnell used the saw again, and a large section of drywall fell inward. Bits of plaster covered his face and clung to his sweaty skin.
“I think you’re supposed to wear safety glasses while using that.”
“That’s a Gen Z thing.” Darnell set down the saw, used his phone flashlight to illuminate the space beyond the poorly constructed wall. Then he gestured toward the opening with his free hand. “Hey, isn’t parkour a Gen Z thing, too?”
Vaughn grimaced.
More like you can’t fit.
The hole that Darnell had made between two studs—definitely not to code, not thirty-six inches on center—was about three feet wide. Four feet tall.
“I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, boss.”
Brandishing his cell phone, the flashlight on, Vaughn turned sideways and slipped one foot through the drywall. Felt soft ground beneath his shoe.
Put his other leg through.
This was the barn that he’d expected to find when Landon had initially led them inside. High, peaked roof. Square beams covered in cobwebs. Undertones of long-buried manure, less so of rotten eggs.
“What do you see?” Darnell asked from the other side. He peered through like Jack Nicholson inThe Shining.
Vaughn didn’t answer.
He swung his phone around. Saw where the cable from the camera and speaker went. A small, router-looking thing sitting on a table that was a carbon copy of the boxes containing the numbers.
He noticed the tank next.
About the size of a piece of scuba equipment. Silver, polished.
The top had been modified. A thick rubber nozzle bifurcated three ways, each prong heading into a separate duct that looked like the hot air exhaust from a dryer. Secured with silver tape to prevent leaks where the two different materials met.
The three ducts spiraled upward. One to each of the interior rooms.
“Vaughn?”
