Ghost Archipelago

It's not like you're going to steal anything! You just need those organizational records. You make a show of inspecting the boxes until the clerk leaves to go to the bathroom, then check out the lock. It's not like this is a high-security facility. You get to work, but the rust is a problem—you have to raise up the entire cage-like door to get a good angle.

Just as you start to feel the cheap lock give way, the clerk reappears.

"Oh my God!" she screams, because it's obvious what you're trying to do. "I'm calling the sheriff!"

Before you can do anything, she barricades herself in the bathroom and calls 9-1-1. You can't stay here. But when you run outside, the freezing rain hits you, instantly soaking your coat, and when you turn to get back inside, the side door is locked. You find a recycling bin and wrench off the top, using the plastic lid for cover as you run through the darkness. Drenched and shivering, you run across the street and hide under an apartment's covered landing. You watch as a police SUV pulls into the parking lot across the street. A man gets out and hurries inside.

Finally, the freezing rain lets up. You drop off the landing, planning to circle around the apartment and make for the church where the shuttle is parked. As you cut through a snowy backyard, you spot a man standing, wreathed in mist, between two pine trees.

Young but with the prematurely lined face of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors, he has a short beard and hard dark eyes. He's too young to be one of the men in the "P. Town" photograph. You can tell from the way he carries himself that he wears a sidearm under his Carhartt coat.

"My name is Hobland Nash," he says. "And I know what you are."

"Then you know I don't have a lot of patience."

"I'm the guy who hasn't had lunch yet. Got five bucks?"

I'm here for a reason. "Did you know J.L. Heaney?"

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