LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter

      17

      SAM FOLLOWED XANDER and Fletcher to the entrance of Savage’s cabin. The hand-drawn biohazard signs were still stuck in the windows, but the warning sign had been removed from the front door. She crossed herself as she entered the dimness, in case Timothy Savage was still hanging around. She didn’t want to bring him home with her. It was a habit she had when visiting crime scenes. Both men looked at her queerly, but she smiled and nodded them inside.

      Savage lived small. And off the grid, from the looks of it. Xander walked them through the house—living room, workable kitchen, two small bedrooms and a bathroom with a shower, no tub. The walls were rough-hewn wood, and undecorated, the beds little more than cots. There was a stone fireplace in the living room with three rows of neatly stacked logs running up the wall to the ceiling. The refrigerator was sized for an apartment and held an assortment of glass juice jars, unbound fruits and vegetables, all going rotten. There was a small pantry, with oatmeal, almonds, seeds, dried fruit and three different kinds of beans, and what looked like homemade granola. Sam thought back to the autopsy—the healthy heart and lungs, the muscle tone—she’d bet her life Timothy Savage was a vegan.

      “I wonder if he lived here full-time?” Sam asked.

      Xander nodded. “I think so, though it is rather sparse, even for a mountain man. There’s a garden out back. He grew his own vegetables. Used newspapers as mulch, there’s a tidy little stack on the porch. There’s also a smoking shed, but no sign of any meat. This isn’t the interesting part, though. Follow me.”

      He went back into the living room and walked straight to the wall where, in a normal house, there would be a television set. He waved his hands, said, “Abracadabra,” and pushed on the center of the wall.

      The latch was on a well-oiled spring connected to a damper. It allowed a three-foot-square piece of wall to fall open slowly, giving way to a sturdy and serviceable desk. Inside the cubbyhole, there was a small laptop computer and a wireless router, neither plugged in, and a whole series of pictures, maps, articles and photographs tacked to a corkboard that took up the entire wall inside the small space. When Sam’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized she was looking at herself.

      She gasped. “Oh, my God. What is this?”

      Fletcher spoke through his teeth. “It’s a shrine.”

      She shot him a look, saw he was holding back. Fletcher did not like being in the dark, and Savage’s mystery was getting darker and darker.

      Xander used a pencil to poke through the detritus. “Looks like a log. Of all the cases Sam’s worked, and everything she’s published. Cases from Nashville—you worked a couple of serials down there, and they were big news. The photos are from the internet, none of them were actually taken and developed. Except this one.”