He could experiment. It wouldn’t be that difficult, he didn’t think.
Pete was elated by his own genius. He smiled so high the corners of his lips almost greeted his eyebrows.
Back at home, he began making phone calls. The army surplus store didn’t have anything he could use; and the people at Sears could hook him up, but the price was well beyond his reach. There was an industrial supply rental place out in Henegar, though. The kid on the phone didn’t know if they had anything or not, but they were open and Rudy wasn’t yet home or in need of the car.
Pete sped into town and pulled up at Marty’s Industrial Supply. Inside, the store was a dirty tangle of specialty saws, drilling equipment, plumbing peripherals, and more.
An older man with a tall shock of gray hair offered his assistance.
“I spoke to someone on the phone about finding a metal detector,” Pete explained.
The old man wheezed and nodded. “A metal detector? We may have one in the back. You looking to rent, or buy?”
“Just rent.”
“Okay, then. Come on back. Let’s see what we have.”
Together they climbed through the metalwork jungle and fought their way into a room even more dense than the storefront. Tile and concrete dust filled the air, and the old man gave another little wheeze.
“Sorry ’bout the mess. We don’t get a lot of call for these things, not too often. You going looking for bullets?”
“Bullets?” Pete thought fast. He hadn’t realized he might need a story.
“Bullets, you know. From the war. That’s what people usually want these for, though you know you can’t take ’em into the state parks. They’ll arrest you, and throw you to the Feds.”
Yes, Pete had known—but in his excitement he’d forgotten that one niggling fact. “Sure, that’s what I need it for, but this is a private property thing. A friend of mine down in the valley, he’s thinking about putting in a pool.”
“Started digging and turned up some goodies?”
Pete nodded vigorously, even though the storekeeper was facing away from him, picking through a pile of miscellaneous hardware. “Sure enough. Some lead ball shot, and the like. Probably nothing too wild, but he thought he’d take a look to be sure.”
“You never know. Where’s your friend live?”
“Um, on the ridge. Up on the ridge there, over the East Ridge Tunnel.” He fervently hoped the location sounded reasonable, or that the shop guy didn’t know enough to realize that it wasn’t.
“Near the Georgia line. I see. You’re right, I bet, and it’s nothing too wild. Sure might be interesting to look, though. Your friend, he may want to keep an eye out for other things, too—Indian things. Artifacts and the like. Stuff this baby won’t register.”
He lifted a long-handled machine with a dinner-plate-sized head out from behind a lawn mower cart. Using the end of his shirt, he wiped off some of the dust and gave the thing a good shake.
“You’ll need to charge the batteries on it, or put in some new ones; but she’ll still run for you, I bet. Watch out like I said for those Indian things.” Then he lowered his voice, despite the fact that they were alone. “And if you find some, don’t say anything to anybody. Boy, if the state gets wind that you’ve got Indian doodads on your land, you’ll be in some real trouble. They’ll dig up your house if they feel like it, just to get at the useless history that might be hidden underneath it. You mark my words. If you find them, you keep it to yourself. Don’t even dig ’em up. Leave ’em in the dirt where they are. If they turn up on one of those Internet sites, people will want to know how you got them. And you can’t sell those things for shit, anyway.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
The price on the detector wasn’t as bad as Pete had feared. He had enough left over from the fifty Rudy had given him for gas and lunch to cover the rental, so he stashed the thing in the trunk and took it home.
Something told him that Rudy wouldn’t approve too heartily of Pete’s exciting new plan—and that was fair enough, because Pete had to admit that his batting average hadn’t always been so close to a thousand.
But there wasn’t much to lose, and there was so much to gain.
Having visited the battlefield, Pete was more confident than ever that a secret excursion wouldn’t be tough. The place was huge—bigger than he’d imagined by far—and the few rangers on duty seemed to congregate in the museum. He hadn’t seen anyone driving around scoping the grounds, or any guided tours going on anyplace.
Pete thought back to the news story from a couple of nights before. Hell, if a band of jackass kids with paint could storm the place, one lone man shouldn’t have any trouble at all.
That night while Rudy watched TV, Pete scared up an oversized knapsack that a cousin of his had gotten from the army. The thing was a monster, about four feet long and designed like a duffel bag in hideous pond-scum green. It easily held the metal detector when the handle was collapsed, and it also had plenty of room for a small shovel and a flashlight.
“I’ll need the car again tomorrow if I can take it,” Pete broached, with as much nonchalance as he could muster.
Rudy looked up from his fast-food takeout. “What for? And how’d things go at the foundry? Did you have any luck?”
“Yes and no. The guy I needed to talk at wasn’t there today. They told me to come back.” Pete made a mental note to visit the foundry as well. He’d have to do it eventually, and if he didn’t do it before long, Rudy was going to get suspicious.
“All right, then. I can ride with Albert.” He pointed at the keys, sitting on top of the television.
“Thanks, Uncle Rudy. I appreciate it.”
The next day Pete went to the city and stopped by the foundry like he’d told Rudy he intended. He filled out an application and talked to the guy in charge, who struck him as being neither committal nor hostile. By the end of the week, Pete would hear something, one way or another.
He stopped for a snack-food lunch at a gas station. There he used the remainder of his money to put more gas in the car, and killed some time checking the air in the tires, making sure the oil wasn’t low, cleaning the windshield, and throwing away some of the trash that had accumulated on the floorboards.
The battlefield park closed at sunset.
If he timed things right, Pete would arrive within an hour of that deadline, and by his calculations, the place ought to be fairly empty by then. The day-trippers and bicyclers would have packed things up; and if he was extra lucky, the rangers would all be busy closing down the visitors’ center.
Pete knew about the suburbs on the other side of the train tracks. On the map he’d gotten from the blond ranger, it looked like the distance between homestead and federal preserve was thinnest by the Wilder Monument.
He checked the round number by the train tracks and read the blurb on the back. The Wilder Monument—that was the tall white tower. He remembered seeing it in pictures or in the past.
Assuming the map was right, there was a set of train tracks directly in front of the Wilder Tower, and on the other side of those tracks lay private property. It might be a good place to park.
Of course, it might also be a long way to run back to the vehicle in case of trouble, but if he gauged the distance directly, it wasn’t more than three-quarters of a mile. Pete could run that far carrying a whole lot more than a metal detector and a shovel, and he could run it fast if someone was chasing him.
He chuckled to himself, thinking he could make the dash even faster if something were chasing him; but it was funny how little he believed in Old Green Eyes anymore.
Maybe he’d never believed in the ghoul to begin with. It was just an old bedtime story, anyway.
Even so, once the thought had sprung up, it was hard to kick it back down. He wished he’d thought to bring one of Rudy’s guns with him. Oh well. It was too far to drive back up Sand Mountain this close to dusk.
Instead, he heaved the oversized satchel carefully out of the trunk and put it on the passenger’s seat. Within twenty minutes he’d backtracked his way through the bordering neighborhood, and within five more he found a run-down little house with an abandoned look and a Crye-Leike Realtors FOR SALE sign in the front yard.
He parked on the street in front of that house, retrieved his satchel, and slung it onto his back.
Wax paper, potato chip bags, and the occasional coiled mound of dog shit suggested that the Wilder Tower had hosted visitors earlier in the day; but by the time he crossed the train tracks and walked up the gray sidewalks, it was deserted. He wandered past it, sticking to the main paths, since—at least for the moment—he wasn’t doing anything wrong. The park wasn’t yet closed, and Pete wasn’t yet digging on federally protected land. No sense in sneaking until it was absolutely necessary.
Through the thick fields of thigh-high grass he walked, sticking to the concrete and seeing absolutely no one. When he reached the main road, two cars crawled by, one in each direction.
When both cars had passed out of sight, he crossed the street and approached the Dyer cabin. He tossed a furtive glance in all four directions and, seeing not a soul, ducked back into the trees.
The monuments were far enough back that they’d be nearly invisible from the road and very difficult to see from the cabin. The sky was dimming into dark, but he had another half hour of light left at least, and the flashlight to hold him over after that.
He felt safe there beneath the canopy—but not quite safe enough to use the metal detector’s headphones.
With a swift twist of the dial, the detector came to life.
Another swift twist brought the volume down to an acceptable level, and a series of bleeps, pings, and pops whined forth from the black box on the handle.
Although Pete had thought about experimenting with the detector, learning how to use it and how to judge the noises, he hadn’t gotten around to it. For one thing, Rudy had been home; and for another, he didn’t know how much battery life was left in the old nine-volt and he didn’t want to waste it. For thing number three, he’d completely forgotten.