VIRGIL AND JOHNSON HAD WALKED up the road to Drake’s cabin, staying to the side, where they could step back into the brush if anyone came along. Nobody did, and when they crept up the road across from the cabin, they couldn’t see the BMW they’d noticed on their first visit, though the Jeep remained in the open garage.
Virgil whispered, “Garage first. See if the other car’s here.”
They made a long circle through the forest around Drake’s cabin, pausing every minute or so for one of them to tell the other to be more quiet. That was almost impossible. The brush was so dense that they were constantly tangled up in it. Virgil finally took out a flashlight and splashed its beam on the ground at his feet, tilted back enough that Johnson could see where to step. They emerged behind the garage, with the secondary cabin to their left. The garage had a back window and, through it, they could see that the second and third stalls were empty. Nothing inside but some lawn-care machinery and the Jeep.
“Now what?” Johnson whispered.
“Let’s take a look at the small cabin.”
“Could be alarmed.”
“If it is, we run.”
Johnson handed Virgil a piece of cloth.
“What’s that?”
“Bandanna. Cover your face. Like a cowboy outlaw. In case there are cameras.”
“Jesus, Johnson. Just because we’re in Montana.”
But Virgil did it anyway.
He was carrying Johnson’s gun, not because he wanted to, but to keep it away from Johnson. A tire iron was Johnson’s weapon because he didn’t want to go unarmed. Virgil also had his Nikon, with the 14–24 zoom lens, in a day pack.
At the corner of the garage, they sat and waited, watching the house. There were two lights on inside, one in back, one in front, but none on the second story. A satellite dish sat on the roof, but there was no visible light from an operating TV. The lights never flickered, as they would if somebody walked between them and a window, and after five minutes, Virgil whispered, “Let’s go.”
They snuck, bent over, to the cabin, and stopped, crouching, by the corner and out of sight from the house, listening again. Nothing but the sounds from crickets and frogs, along with a bit of wind sighing through the trees rimming the property. Not a peep from within the house. After a while, Johnson said, “Weird.”
“What?”
“No windows on this side. I didn’t see any windows or a door on the back, either. Only windows in this place are on the front.”
“Cover me,” Virgil said.
“With what? A tire iron?”
He laughed. “Okay. Keep an eye out.”
Silently, Virgil crawled past the front of the cabin, staying in shadow, to the first window. He sat still for a moment, then rose up to look through the pane.
Couldn’t see anything.
A minute later was back with Johnson.
“What’d you see?”
“Nothing. It’s a fake window. It’s a board with some curtains painted on it.”
Johnson said, “Cover me.”
“What?”
But Johnson was already headed for the front of the cabin. A minute later, Virgil heard a crackling sound, like wood splintering and then Johnson saying, low voiced, “C’mon.”
Through the still damp weeds and grass Virgil crept the length of a cabin, where he found that Johnson had jimmied the door with the tire iron and had gone inside.
Virgil followed. “What the fuck are you doing?”