Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [53]
Soon the bare but civilized streets of St. Paul gave way to emptier places with shorter buildings and fewer streetlights … and then no buildings, and no streetlights, and after a few turns I was urging the Nissan along a two-lane road in the middle of what could best be described as the geographic center of Godforsaken, Bumblefuck. The roads out there in Bumblefuck weren’t quite as pristine as the ones in town, and the Nissan struggled with the curves. I should’ve put new tires on it before taking it out. I’m sure I had some good reason for not doing so at the time, but I kicked myself about it as the back wheels spun and I clenched my teeth. I wasn’t desperately worried about getting stuck; I’m strong enough to shove my own car out of a mushy ditch. I just didn’t want to do it if I didn’t have to.
At the tail end of my flippant prayer to the gods of winter, the car lurched forward and carried me another mile before any farther distance would be an ill-advised pressing of luck. I pulled the car as far off the road as I dared and backed into an improvised spot between two trees. Then I took all my paperwork pertaining to Holtzer Point and stuck it into my Useful Things Bag, which I slung over my shoulder. There was no sense in leaving a treasure map to my intended location lying out in the open, in case anyone did find the car and deem it suspicious enough to open.
I got out, wished that the car had still been painted white so it’d be harder to see, and made sure my boots were laced tightly. I didn’t want any snow down my ankles and I didn’t want to stop and tie anything at a crucial moment of reconnaissance.
As I stood there, already half frozen solid and breathing pale puffs of air across the hood of my car, I hated myself for thinking of that word again.
Reconnaissance. Then I thought of the major and his audible sneer, and I told myself that turnabout was fair play.
I stomped off alongside the two-lane road, following it rather than walking it because I didn’t know if it was being watched—but I might as well assume the worst. The snow made progress an exhausting sort of slog, and no amount of lacing could keep all the icy slush out of my socks. I wished for rooftops to jump between, but didn’t get anything for my wishing except for a knee-deep drop through a crackling crust. I hoisted my legs up, one after another, and forced myself to remember that I was making noise, and that I was on dangerous ground. But it was a hard job to convince myself, out there in the astonishing no-place-ness of the frigid forest.
Until I hit the fence.
Chain link all around with razor wire at the top, the fence was maybe nine feet high. I didn’t see any signs right away, but as I trudged along its length I eventually encountered an admonition to KEEP OUT. PROPERTY MONITORED AND MAINTAINED BY THE UNITED STATES ARMED FORCES. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.
It might as well have said, WELCOME, RAYLENE. LET YOURSELF INSIDE, BUT KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN, M’KAY?
That’s how I read it anyway, and that’s what I did. I figured if the military really wanted to keep people out, it could spring for something more off-putting than a chain-link fence because, seriously—any idiot with a bolt cutter could slink on through in under a minute. I’m no idiot, and I had a bolt cutter. I made myself a pet door, bent the clipped oval up, and slid underneath. Then I drew it down behind me for appearance’s sake, on the off chance that the property really was being monitored.
Again I found it peculiar how little security had been detailed or visible. I’d made my excuses, but surely following a break-in tighter measures might be instituted? Or was I just overestimating the commitment of the armed forces to keeping its secrets?
I didn’t have a map of Holtzer Point because the place practically doesn’t exist, except in