Uttleman tiptoed to the fridge and retrieved a Coke. He would have liked something stronger, but with the low-level park employees in and out all the time, soft drinks were the choice. Some idiot kept making pitchers of Kool-Aid, the most noxious concoction Uttleman had ever tasted. He sat back down as Johnson continued to schmooze the cop.

“No, sir … she wasn’t with us very long, not unusual, many employees are here as a summer job. No, I never met her personally, or if I did I don’t recall. We’ve had hundreds of employees over the years. Her position?” Johnson shot a look at Uttleman. “Let me see … um, she was a character actor. That means dressing up as various women from the Holy Book: one day she might be Mary, the next she might be Eve, or Ruth, or Miriam. Or perhaps not a character, per se, but color, as in wearing period garb and populating our biblical settings. It’s an easy task, walking around and interacting with our guests. You get your photograph taken a hundred times a day.”

Johnson winked at Uttleman, secure in his salesmanship, his schmoozing, his polished sincerity.

“No, no … not a problem, Detective. We’re always happy to do anything we can for our fine friends in law enforcement. I hope I’ve been able to … pardon me? Who?”

Uttleman saw Johnson’s face go from pink to ashen in the span of a heartbeat. “Uh … I don’t have that information. I only requested records on Darlene Hammond. I can certainly do that. Um, let’s see … it’s past five now and the office staff have left. I’ll call in the morning and let you know as soon as possible. Certainly, sir, no trouble. Goodbye.”

When Johnson’s hand hung up the phone it was shaking.

“What it is, Hayes?” Uttleman said.

“The cop wanted to know if two other women had been employed at the park.”

“Who?”

“Kylie Sandoval and Teresa Mailey.”

“Jesus,” Uttleman whispered. “Why?”

“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask,” Johnson said.

“What are you going to do?”

Johnson looked at his watch. “Fly to HJ as soon as I can. I’ve got to get rid of a few files.”

“Will it be hard to make them, uh, disappear?”

“They were cash employees, remember? No official records, no tax forms or anything like that. I’m not even sure their names are anywhere, I just have to make certain.”

Harry Nautilus stood on his balcony, beer in hand. Celeste Owsley had returned an hour back with enough packages to fill Santa’s sleigh. He’d picked her up at the airport, relating that the day at Hallelujah Jubilee had been a delight.

“Becca wasn’t snarky?” Owsley had said as Nautilus unloaded packages from the Hummer. “I swear … some days that girl goes outta her way to jump on my last nerve. I love her dearly, and thank Jesus every day for sending her, but can’t wait for this phase to get past.”

Shop less, communicate more, Nautilus thought, the Owsleys seeming like three disparate worlds jammed under one roof, each spinning in its own orbit.

The sun was fading fast, the luminous western sun turning a cirrus-rumpled horizon into a bouquet of orange and purple. The park would be shutting down, animals turned out to pasture before tomorrow’s performance. Nautilus turned to the strange building at the far south edge of the park, the lone and slender tower strident against the pastel sky. What did the pastor from Mobile do every day in a tall and rickety-looking structure on the scruffy edge of a Christian theme park?

Maybe a little ride was in order. Some air to clear his head.

Nautilus drove past a small motel down the road, nondescript, two wings of rooms with scarred doors facing toward the road, one wing obviously closed, the windows boarded. The other – a half-dozen rooms – seemed open. A station wagon sat outside one room. There were trash cans in the lot, refuse piled to the top. The small swimming pools still held water. Someone was still making money from the place. The sign, unlit, said River’s Bend Lodge, though whatever river once there had probably been diverted to make way for the park.

Nautilus continued until seeing the turnoff to the structure, unmarked save for a Private Property sign. He pulled down the road a quarter-mile, past a bend that would hide him from the highway. A tingling crawled across the pit of his belly.

Just a quick look. Was it possible?

Probably. With a proper subterfuge.

Nautilus drove another quarter-mile past another lane branching to the south. He followed it to a dead end of sand and scrub brush and an old dumping ground, rusting appliances, old tires, molding cardboard. The fast-food bags and scattered beer cans suggested the locale was a party spot, local teens, probably. He climbed atop the Hummer and got his bearings. He couldn’t see the structure for the trees, but the thrusting cross of the park gave him an orientation.

He paused and thought, then nodded at a decision made.

Daylight fading fast, Nautilus upended an old washing machine, finding a rubber input hose inside. He pulled his pocketknife and cut it off inside the metal connectors, almost a meter of hose. His next step was piling together some small lengths of lumber, dried and brittle cardboard, and tossing a tire atop it.

He opened the fuel cap on the Hummer and dipped the tube inside, putting his thumb over the end before retracting it. It gave him a few ounces of gasoline, all he needed. He held the tube over his pile of refuse and lifted his thumb. Finally, he pulled out his lighter and touched the edge of the assemblage, a soft whump as the gasoline turned into bright flames.

He resumed driving and headed toward the structure, pulling to the guardhouse as a lone security guy exited, hand up in halt. It was the same guy Nautilus had seen when dropping Owsley off.

“This is a private road, you can’t … oh, it’s you. Harry, is it? Whaddaya want?”

“I was driving back to the motel and saw smoke from the woods. Far side of the enclosure. Don’t know if it’s park property over there.”

“It is. Restricted.”

Nautilus did nonchalant. “Yeah, well, I thought you should know, we both being in the protection biz and all.”

In the distance a trickle of black smoke climbed into the windless sky.

The guard scowled. “What you think’s causing it?”

Nautilus shrugged. “I’m just a driver.”

“Shit. I should probably check it out. But I’m not supposed to leave here.”

Nautilus nodded. “I hope it’s not some kind of forest fire starting up. Do you think the wind’s blowing this way?”

The guard looked between Nautilus and the smoke, now almost lost against the darkened sky.

“Be right back.”

The guy jumped in the security van and roared down the road. Nautilus gave it a five count, then slipped into the guardhouse, one door outside the gate, the other inside. He saw the lock control pad, pressed Open. Nautilus entered the inner compound, moving quickly over the fifty feet to the door of the towering metal structure. The entry door beside the huge equipment door wasn’t locked, the guardhouse the main protection. The door opened to darkness and Nautilus pulled an LED penlight from his pocket, scanning the area inside the door and finding a bank of switches.

He pushed the door shut and flicked the first two. The nearest half of the room illuminated, the lighting dim, most of the space in shadow. Nautilus started to flick on the other switches but caught himself … what if one turned on outside lights?

And whatever was in here, he just needed to know why everything seemed as hush-hush as Oak Ridge in 1943. He glanced at his watch: Ninety seconds elapsed. As his eyes adjusted to the low illumination, shapes emerged from the dark: Heavy-duty welding equipment, a forklift, a stack of heavy stud-link chain, the kind used in ship anchors. A track ran the length of the floor. At the far end of the building, deep in shadow, stood a heavy-duty crane body. Beside it, in section, the boom waited, not yet assembled.