Deadline(20)

            While Johnson was managing the watch, Virgil was heading north. The morning was cool, but promising more hotness. He turned off 26 onto NN. A black Suburban, the kind that members of the Ruffed Grouse Society tended to drive, was parked near the bridge; Virgil pulled up behind it, got out, and met two cowboy-looking guys with guns.

            “Virgil,” said Gomez, touching the brim of his ball cap.

            “I thought you were too high up to do this yourself,” Virgil said.

            “I am, but I like to spend some time with my underlings, to demonstrate that I’m just like one of them, the salt of the earth, though far more important,” Gomez said. He bent a thumb at his underling. “George Blume.”

            Blume said, “His salt-in-the-wound thing don’t always work,” as they shook hands. He looked up at the ridge: “We’d be heading for that notch up there? About . . .” He read a bunch of numbers off a piece of paper.

            “I can show you, but I’m no damn good with a GPS,” Virgil said.

            “Anybody see you going in yesterday?” Gomez asked.

            “No, but I’m sure quite a few people saw my truck,” Virgil said.

            “I don’t think this’ll work, but we paid money for them, might as well use them,” Gomez said. He popped the back of the Suburban and took out two magnetic door signs that said: “U.S. Geological Survey.” He stuck them to the doors of the Suburban.

            “Probably cause more trouble than if you just had a sign that said ‘Feds,’” Virgil said. “Anyway, I got a rope and some water. . . . You gonna stay up there awhile, or just look?”

            “Today, just look,” Gomez said. “Be back in an hour, if we don’t get shot.”

            —

            THEY DIDN’T GET SHOT. They went in the same way that Virgil and Johnson had, taking care not to leave tracks or disturb foliage. When they got to the sheds, Gomez put his nose in the air and sniffed and said, “Yeah . . . this is the real thing.”

            Blume put his pack down, took out a set of lock picks, and picked the lock on the first shed in about nine seconds. They went in and looked around, found three two-head gas burners and a lot of glassware, along with five large polypropylene carboys full of purified water. The second shed held raw materials, mostly in gallon jugs, while the third shed held some basic tools—a chain saw, axes, a couple of cans of gasoline—along with a table, a radio, two decks of cards (one pornographic), and three plastic chairs.

            When they’d locked the sheds back up, they looked at the rubbish dump, and Gomez took some more photographs.

            “All right,” he said. “A nice little commercial lab. And you could manufacture other shit in here, if you wanted, and knew how. They got all the glass they’d need to make acid.”

            They left the same way that Johnson and Virgil had, after making a long detour along the game trail at the crest of the hill toward the mouth of the valley, checking out whatever houses were visible. Virgil pointed out Zorn’s place, which they marked with their GPS.

            They continued down the trail, to the mouth of the valley. “Looks like that ATV track goes right down the hill to the highway,” Blume said, looking down the hill through a pair of compact binoculars.

            As they were making their way back, a dog started to bark, and then several more. Virgil couldn’t make out exactly where they were, but they seemed to be across the valley from the hill they were on.

            “Sound mournful, more than excited,” Gomez said.

            “If they’re gonna be taken out to medical laboratories, they’ve got good reason,” Virgil said.