HE DIDN’T GO UP to the room, choosing instead to bring the camera along with him as they walked across the atrium, Kellen explaining something about the bar’s hours and Eric hardly hearing him.

Don’t overthink it, Eric, the way you did with the Harrelson tape. The way you did in that valley in the Bear Paws. In fact, those aren’t fair comparisons. There might have been some sort of a tug, those times. Some sort of intuition. But this thing? That train was in your imagination, brother. Nothing else.

Eric was actually pleased to have Kellen Cage walking alongside him now. Cage promised something valuable-a distraction. Talk to him, have a few drinks, forget this moment. Forget this trembling in the gut, this foolish, ominous sense.

“What’re you having?” Cage said when they reached the bar.

“Grey Goose on the rocks with a lemon.”

Cage turned and spoke to the bartender and Eric eased onto the stool, turned and looked back at the sprawling atrium and took a deep breath. He just needed to relax. This thing, well, it wasn’t anything, really. Not even worth analyzing. Just forget it.

“So, I’m truly happy to hear you’re interested in Campbell Bradford,” Kellen said, “because he’s one of the biggest question marks I’ve got left. The old boy just disappeared when he left town.”

“Made a pile of money after he went,” Eric said. “His daughter-in-law’s the one who hired me. Said he’s worth two hundred million or somewhere in that neighborhood.”

“You mean he was worth that much,” Kellen said. “Not is. Was. Has to be dead.”

“No, but he’s close.”

Kellen tilted his head back and arched an eyebrow. “The man is alive?”

“He was when I left Chicago, at least.”

Kellen shook his head. “No way. Not the same Campbell.”

Eric frowned. “His daughter-in-law told me he’d grown up here and then ran away as a kid.”

“The Campbell Bradford I know of ran away from town, too. But he was a grown man, left a wife and kid behind. And he was born in eighteen ninety-two, which would put him at, what, one hundred and sixteen now? Your man can’t be that old, right?”

“He’s ninety-five.”

“Then he ain’t the same guy.”

“Well, must be two people with that name. Maybe my guy is your guy’s son?”

“He had a son named William who stayed in town.” Kellen’s face was tinged with disappointment. “Hell, you’re not going to be able to help me. We got two different people.”

“They have to be connected,” Eric said. “Name like that, town like this? Have to be related somehow.”

Kellen took a drink, then said, “The Campbell I know of, he was a dark man.”

“How so?”

“There was a time this area was a gambler’s paradise, back in the twenties. Bunch of money poured in, bunch of debts piled up, and Campbell Bradford was the man who saw to balancing the scales.”

“Some sort of enforcer?” Eric said.

“You got it. He was the muscle, the debt collector. People were terrified of the man. Thought he was evil. The story I’m interested in, the way this guy intersects with my own project, is that there’s a legend he murdered Shadrach Hunter after the stock market collapsed in 1929, just as this town dried up. It’s unreal how fast this place emptied out after Black Tuesday. One day this was among the world’s elite resorts, a year later it’s empty and on its way to being a ruin. Pretty damn fast change, you know?”

“Who was Shadrach Hunter?”

“Ran the black casino,” Kellen said. “And, yes, there was such a thing. Started out as a small poker game in a shitty back room, and grew. There were so many blacks down here working at the hotels, but they couldn’t socialize there, so they threw dice and played cards down at Shadrach’s. Before long, though, the thing grew some legs. Campbell Bradford was helping control all the gaming in the valley for white people-working with Ed Ballard, who owned this hotel, only Campbell was a lot dirtier than Ballard, who was far from clean himself-but he didn’t have anything to do with Shad’s game. According to the legend, Shad was a miser, skimmed money from every game and saved it, just stockpiled. Always wore a gun in his belt and had a couple big guys running with him at all times, bodyguards.

“Well, after the market crashed, this whole town shut down and the cash flow vanished. ’Round that time, Shadrach Hunter was murdered, and Campbell Bradford disappeared, leaving his family penniless.” Kellen spread his hands. “So, you can see where the myth developed. I’ve got some great stories about it but damn few facts. Was hoping you could offer some.”

“All I’ve got is a dying old millionaire in Chicago who goes by the same name.”

“No way it can be the same guy?”

“He’s old, but he’s not a hundred and sixteen.”

“Well, I’ll put you in touch with a man named Edgar Hastings tomorrow,” Kellen said. “I’ll be interested to see what he thinks. He knew the family, is one of the last people alive in this town who has clear memories of Campbell Bradford. Campbell’s got a great-grandson left in the area, too, but I won’t put you in touch with him.”

There was a dry smile on his lips. Eric said, “What’s his deal?”

“Oh, a bit on the surly side. Edgar warned me, said it would be best not to talk to him, but I ignored that advice and went to his house. Took about two minutes for him to run me off the place. Threw a beer bottle at my car as I was leaving.”

“Charming.”

“Hospitable, no question. But assuming he isn’t going to be more helpful with you than he was with me, Edgar’s all I have to offer.”

“Okay.”

“So, how’d you get into this business?” Kellen said. “Want to be a filmmaker all along, or was it a hobby that turned professional, or…?”

He let his voice trail off, waiting, the question asked in absolute innocence, but Eric was feeling anger bleed through him. I was a filmmaker, he wanted to shout, and if a few breaks had gone my way and a few assholes had stayed out of it, you’d be asking me for an autograph right now.

“I went to film school,” he said, trying to keep his voice loose. “And then I worked out in California for a while. I was a director of photography on some stuff.”

“Things I’d know?”

Yes, things he would know. But if he named those, he saw the inevitable follow-up question-What films have you worked on recently? And what would Eric say to that? Why, you mean you haven’t seen the Anderson wedding video? Or the Harrelson funeral piece? What, you live in a cave, man?

“Probably not,” he said. “I couldn’t stick it out there, so I came back to Chicago and started doing my own thing.”

Kellen nodded. “‘Director of photography’-what’s that mean, exactly?”

“You run the cameras and the lighting crew. The director’s in charge of the film as a whole, obviously, but the DP is in charge of the images.”

“Getting the ones the director wants?”

Eric gave a small smile. “Getting the ones he needs. Sometimes those are the same. Sometimes they aren’t.”

Kellen’s face was showing genuine interest, but Eric didn’t want to step any deeper into this conversation. He said, “You know, I’d actually like to get a few shots in here,” basically just to buy some silence.

“You got plenty to work with,” Kellen said. “Check out the fireplace.”

Eric turned to look at the fireplace near the bar. It, like the hotel, was both beautiful and massive. The facade was built out of river stones, with a mural painted across their surfaces. The mural depicted swirling blue waters and lush green fields, a small image of the hotel set back and to the left, behind a buckeye tree. In the upper-right corner, perched above the tumbling water, was Sprudel-the West Baden companion to French Lick’s Pluto, god of the underworld. He looked more like a gnome than a devil, but it was enough to remind Eric of the black train, and that sent a dark flourish through him. He had seen the train. No doubt about it. So what the hell did that mean? Was he losing his damn mind?