descent into the earth. His first thought was that this was an old mine shaft. If so, Headcase had obviously refurbished it. Even in the darkness,he could tell that the sides were aluminum, the rungs fashioned from steel rebar. As he clanked along, vibram soles gripping the rebar, the moist air of the greenhouse was replaced by a fresh, almost antiseptic smell. Odd. Mines were usually musty and damp. Thirty seconds into the climb, his eyes made a pronouncement: light! The change was barely perceptible, just a dull sense that the blackness was gradually dissipating.
Staring down between his feet, Ray noticed a dull glow: the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. After another minute, the glow swelling to a brilliant white radiance, Ray discovered a solid platform beneath his feet. Releasing his grip on the ladder, he turned around and found himself in a space the size of a studio apartment. The walls were cinder block, the floor steel-reinforced concrete, like that of a military bunker, or a bomb shelter. The room had been cordoned off into three distinct sections. The one closest to Ray contained a six-foot block of monitors, black-and-white screens linked to a control board. To one side was an elaborate stereo system. Behind it a huge Confederate flag had been nailed to the wall.
The second area contained two long chrome tables and a pair of deep, freestanding industrial sinks. The tables bore a Bunsen burner, several pair of scissors, pruning sheers, a spread of knives, a dozen clear plastic bags … Beneath one table was a stack of flat cardboard boxes, ready to be assembled. Under the other was a large crate marked HEFTY.
The far corner of the room was consumed by a wide-mouthed oven worthy of a professional bakery. It was boxed in by a set of cabinets. An appliance—a grinder?—was plugged into the wall. An aluminum shoot jutted from the wall, emptying into an oversize garbage bag. Closer to Ray two flush-mounted steel panels betrayed the presence of a mini-elevator or dumbwaiter. Two buttons, an arrow up, an arrow down, confirmed this.
It was an impressive setup. Bathed in the light of three overhead fluorescent banks it looked clean, sterile, efficient. Aside from the tables and the flag, nearly everything was white: the oven, the cabinets, the monitor console, the walls, the floor … And the surfaces were spotless.
Behind him, Billy Bob slipped and dropped the last four feet.
“Watch yer step,” Headcase encouraged. He completed the descent, rifle aimed directly at their chests.
Headcase reached to flick a switch and the music that had pummeled them up in the greenhouse instantly erupted from a pair of four-inch Bose speakers. Adjusting the volume to an acceptable level, he gestured at the monitors. “Nice, huh?”
“Great,” Ray grunted, unsure what it was Headcase was so proud of. He was ready to leave. Being underground with a gun-wielding psycho wasn’t his idea of a good time. “Thanks for showing us around.” He turned and reached for the ladder.
The rifle tapped him on the shoulder, demanding his full attention. “This here is how I knew you was comin’.” He fell into a chair and pointed at the screens. “Got cameras all over the woods. A fella cain’t get within a half mile a here without me knowin’ about it.” His hand patted a unit that looked like a VCR. “Got me some motion sensors too. If you was to somehow beat my cameras, ya couldn’t beat the sensors, no way, no how.” He rose and led them to the tables. “This is where we prepare the crop.”
Ray stared vacantly at the workspace. Nothing like a guided tour of a drug complex. Old Headcase was probably one of the biggest suppliers north of Bogotá. He was reflecting on this, ignoring the man’s glowing description of the packaging process, when it struck him:
we?
This is where
we
prepare the crop? So it wasn’t just a one-man business. That made sense. Something this big would require a support crew.
What
Staring down between his feet, Ray noticed a dull glow: the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. After another minute, the glow swelling to a brilliant white radiance, Ray discovered a solid platform beneath his feet. Releasing his grip on the ladder, he turned around and found himself in a space the size of a studio apartment. The walls were cinder block, the floor steel-reinforced concrete, like that of a military bunker, or a bomb shelter. The room had been cordoned off into three distinct sections. The one closest to Ray contained a six-foot block of monitors, black-and-white screens linked to a control board. To one side was an elaborate stereo system. Behind it a huge Confederate flag had been nailed to the wall.
The second area contained two long chrome tables and a pair of deep, freestanding industrial sinks. The tables bore a Bunsen burner, several pair of scissors, pruning sheers, a spread of knives, a dozen clear plastic bags … Beneath one table was a stack of flat cardboard boxes, ready to be assembled. Under the other was a large crate marked HEFTY.
The far corner of the room was consumed by a wide-mouthed oven worthy of a professional bakery. It was boxed in by a set of cabinets. An appliance—a grinder?—was plugged into the wall. An aluminum shoot jutted from the wall, emptying into an oversize garbage bag. Closer to Ray two flush-mounted steel panels betrayed the presence of a mini-elevator or dumbwaiter. Two buttons, an arrow up, an arrow down, confirmed this.
It was an impressive setup. Bathed in the light of three overhead fluorescent banks it looked clean, sterile, efficient. Aside from the tables and the flag, nearly everything was white: the oven, the cabinets, the monitor console, the walls, the floor … And the surfaces were spotless.
Behind him, Billy Bob slipped and dropped the last four feet.
“Watch yer step,” Headcase encouraged. He completed the descent, rifle aimed directly at their chests.
Headcase reached to flick a switch and the music that had pummeled them up in the greenhouse instantly erupted from a pair of four-inch Bose speakers. Adjusting the volume to an acceptable level, he gestured at the monitors. “Nice, huh?”
“Great,” Ray grunted, unsure what it was Headcase was so proud of. He was ready to leave. Being underground with a gun-wielding psycho wasn’t his idea of a good time. “Thanks for showing us around.” He turned and reached for the ladder.
The rifle tapped him on the shoulder, demanding his full attention. “This here is how I knew you was comin’.” He fell into a chair and pointed at the screens. “Got cameras all over the woods. A fella cain’t get within a half mile a here without me knowin’ about it.” His hand patted a unit that looked like a VCR. “Got me some motion sensors too. If you was to somehow beat my cameras, ya couldn’t beat the sensors, no way, no how.” He rose and led them to the tables. “This is where we prepare the crop.”
Ray stared vacantly at the workspace. Nothing like a guided tour of a drug complex. Old Headcase was probably one of the biggest suppliers north of Bogotá. He was reflecting on this, ignoring the man’s glowing description of the packaging process, when it struck him:
we?
This is where
we
prepare the crop? So it wasn’t just a one-man business. That made sense. Something this big would require a support crew.
What
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