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CHAPTER
79
Etna, New Hampshire
Now I know why the name Etna rings a bell—it’s where two Dartmouth professors were murdered in their home. Two teenage boys came looking for money, stole about three hundred dollars, then stabbed the professors to death. The Dartmouth Murders, they called them.
That was years ago, before my and Garrett’s time at school here, and although Etna—POPULATION870, according to the sign at the town limits—is just a few miles from campus, neither of us ever visited. Not much here to visit.
Etna Drags wasn’t coming up on my GPS, so I had to stop at the post office and ask for directions, and that led me here, to the end of a narrow dirt road. I get out of the car and look through a chain-link fence. TwoNO TRESPASSINGsigns are shot through with rusted bullet holes. Birds cry in the distance.
From where I’m standing, I can see a long strip. The paved surface looks pretty sound even though grass is growing through the cracks. Set back from the strip are two structures, an open-airQuonset-type hangar and a two-story brick building with broken windows that might once have been a control tower.
Is it possible that this is the place Garrett met the First Gentleman?
I squeeze my way through the sagging gate and past a clump of crushed and rusted car bodies. Drag-strip casualties, I suppose.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
I turn and see a man with a chest-length black beard coming from the hangar. He’s in a grease-stained denim jumpsuit, and he’s holding a pistol in his right hand, though his arm is at his side.
By instinct, I turn my palms forward and open my arms wide. I try my smile. “Hi! Are you the manager?”
The smile doesn’t work this time. “Manager of what?” he asks. “I sort through the junk, if that’s what you mean.” He wiggles the gun but doesn’t lift it. Not yet. “You here from the government again?” he asks.
Again? I feel a flutter in my gut. “No. I’m an attorney looking for information. Somebody told me there was an airfield here, not used much anymore.”
“That’s true. Technically decommissioned in 1945. Haven’t had anybody come through recently—until a week or so ago.”
“What happened then?”
“Lots of shit. Late one afternoon, a big black SUV pulls up. Two big dudes in suits get out. They tell me there’s an emergency government drill. Ask me the length of the runway. Walk around on it a little.”
“And then what happened?”
“Then they take my gun and my phone, put me in one of their SUVs, and lock me in.” Just remembering the events makes him outraged. “Half hour later, out of nowhere, this black military passenger jet comes in for a landing, low and smooth. Five minutes after that, three more cars pull up, two SUVs and abrand-new Corolla. Guy and a gal get out of the Corolla and walk up the steps into the plane.”
“What did they look like?”
“The lady was in a suit. All business. The guy was dressed casual with messy hair, like he was goin’ out for pizza or something. Looked a little spooked, though.”
“Who was on the plane?”
“No idea. After about two hours, the guy comes back out and drives away in the Corolla. In no time, the plane taxis around and takes off. Right after that, they give me back my stuff and let me loose. Then all the SUVs head off toward the highway.”
“The guy, the one with the messy hair. You get a good look at him?”
“Yeah. He walked right past me. Right where you’re standing.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can hardly breathe.
I pull out my phone. I scroll to a picture of Garrett, one of my favorite close-ups. I hold it up in front of the man.
“Yeah. That’s him,” he says. “You know him?”
“I do.” I can feel myself crumbling inside. “I did.”
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