“And you’d like her out of the way,” Shane points out.

“Absolutely. She’s been a disaster. We are a small organization. There are less than ten thousand full-fledged, dues-paying members. We can’t afford to be divided, fighting amongst ourselves.”

Shane nods, studying Weems, whose face always seems to be averted, conveniently shadowed. Partly it’s his simian, jutting brow and his deep-set eyes, but I can’t help thinking that the strange little man reacts to light like a creature who doesn’t want to be seen.

Shane says, “So Evangeline gets arrested and you become the big cheese, the ultimate Ruler.”

“What I will do,” Weems responds, with great dignity, “is see that things continue as Arthur would have wanted. Strengthening the organization. Building connections into the mainstream. Continuing to interpret Arthur’s writing and teach Arthur’s lessons. Spreading the word.”

Shane says, “And you’ll do the interpreting. You’ll decide what words get spread.”

“Who better than me?”

Shane stands up, as best he can. “We’ll need a phone, an Internet connection, or a radio. Some way to make contact with the outside world.”

“Kavashi will have cut off landline and broadband by now,” Weems says. “There’s a satellite phone in the Bunker. You can use that.”

Shane takes a deep breath, touches my shoulder. “You hanging in there?”

“Yup.”

What else can I say? My fate, and my son’s fate, is in Shane’s hands now. His and the FBI, if we can make contact.

“I thought you were delusional,” Shane confesses. “That first day. Bonkers with grief.”

“Why did you stay?”

He shrugs his big shoulders. “Something about you, I guess. You looked so ferocious.”

“Me?”

“Like a little bulldog. I knew you’d never let go, never give up.”

“Bulldog, huh? Is that meant to be a compliment?”

His eyes slide away from mine. “Just an observation. I certainly didn’t mean you look like a bulldog.”

Weary and frightened for my son as I am, I can’t help but grin. “Whatever,” I tell him. “That was a lucky day. The best in a while.”

Weems clears his throat. “We need to keep moving, folks. It’s only a matter of time before Vash figures out the tunnels.”

We trudge along for what seems like a great distance, the tunnel inclining steadily upward, then abruptly switching to double back in the opposite direction. Weems suggests we think of it as an underground switchback road, which doesn’t mean much to me. Every yard is bringing me closer to Noah. That’s what I cling to.

At one point we come to a vertical shaft. It contains an open elevator car that has the size and heft of an oversize toy, but Weems insists that it has been rated for a thousand pounds, considerably more than our combined weight. It is, he assures us, perfectly safe.

“How old are these tunnels?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Twenty years or so. Something like that.”

“So the last time this perfectly safe elevator was inspected was twenty years ago?”

“It’s the only way up,” he says. “I’m afraid there’s no alternative. If you like, we’ll send you up in the car alone. Mr. Shane and I will follow.”

“No way!”

There’s barely room for the three of us in the car, which sways a little as it slowly ascends, bumping the shaft walls. Shane notices my complexion going green and says, “So you’re not fond of elevators.”

“Not little swingy ones, no.”

He takes my hand. “Try closing your eyes.”

That makes it worse. My hand is sweaty, his hand is cool and strong.

“We’re going to be fine,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring. “We’ll make a call to my friend Maggie and she’ll make sure that help is on the way. You’ll be safe in Mr. Weems’s Bunker, won’t she, Mr. Weems?”

“Most certainly,” Weems says. “I’ve taken every precaution. Vash can’t touch us.”

“And where will you be, while I’m being all safe and cozy?”

“I’ll be having a look around the Pinnacle.”

“Searching for Noah.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m coming with you.”

He shakes his head, dismissing the idea. “I’ll bring him to you. That’s a promise.”

“He doesn’t know you. He’ll be scared.”

“We’ll discuss this after we make the call,” Shane says, sounding stubborn.

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

He grunts. We come to the top and the little elevator bumps to a stop, rises an inch, and settles at the correct level. Back in the relative stability of the tunnel, my knees stop trembling and the relief makes me almost giddy.

“Wait here,” says Weems. “I have to disable Vash’s cameras.”

He climbs up a set of rungs protruding from another, much smaller vertical shaft-remarkably agile for a man of his age-and a moment later he’s gone, having sealed the hatch at the top of the shaft.

“I’ll be moving fast,” Shane says, continuing the conversation while we wait for our strange little guide to return. “There’s no telling what I’ll run into.”

“La-la-la-la-la.”

“What?”

“Means I’m not listening.”

“Bulldog,” he mutters.

Above us the hatch opens, and Weems calls down for us to come on up.

To be truthful, I don’t really recall much of that History Channel show about Hitler’s bunker. Jed was the one with an interest in World War II, not me. But I do remember the Spartan interior and, of course, the total lack of windows. My sense is that Hitler and his cronies were living in a concrete hole in the ground, with air supplied by a ventilation tower that looked like a witch’s hat. In the end it was cyanide and pistols, and the bombproof bunker became a gruesome tomb, with death coming not from above, but from the people themselves.

Weems’s bunker isn’t quite that desperate, but he does have the Spartan part down. Actually it’s more like a monastery without windows. Small, sparsely furnished rooms that could be cells. Bare concrete floors with a few thin rugs here and there. The only thing decorating the thick, concrete walls are framed photographs of his hero and mentor, Arthur Conklin. Seeing the famous author in a series of candid pictures-speaking at a podium, working on a manuscript, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake-is for me a very unsettling experience. This is Jed’s father. His dad. The physical resemblance is slight, but it’s there. And it says something that all of the pictures are cropped to leave out whoever else might have been present. As if Arthur Conklin lived in a universe occupied only by himself.

While I look at the photographs-they’re deeply creepy if you know what was left out, namely his wife and son-Shane and Weems discuss the surveillance problem.

“Vash had a crew install new smoke detectors about six months ago, when Eva first made her move. I knew at once they were hidden cameras and began to behave accordingly. Fortunately they neglected to put a camera in the bathroom, so they never spotted the tunnel entrance. I use it sparingly, of course. For the most part it didn’t matter if they monitored my movements-I’m a creature of habit, very predictable. And up until a week or so ago I came and went freely and still had regular access to the Pinnacle.”

“What’s regular access?” Shane wants to know.

“The Pinnacle is built into the steepest part of the mountain about a quarter mile from here,” Weems explains, sounding almost professorial. “An aerial tram covers the last five hundred feet of vertical distance. It’s reliable and efficient, based on a design they used in Portland, Oregon. An identical tram connects the Bunker to the same lower terminus-the original tram, from before the Pinnacle was built. Both cars can carry up to twelve tons of freight and passengers.”

“So you can leave anytime you like.”

Weems gives a wry smile. “Alas, no. Both trams are controlled from the Pinnacle. My tram only works if they say it does, and at the moment they prefer to keep me in the Bunker, ostensibly under their control.”