Eastern United States – 00:41 Local Time; 04:41 UTC
It was only three days from a full moon, Anderson able to work his way without difficulty to the tree line just short of the site’s southern edge. Wooden fence, then three buildings not two, consisting of what looked to be a farmhouse and two ageing wood-built barns. Three of the four vehicles were still there but none of the buildings showed any lights – it certainly looked to be safe enough for a quick check. There were no guards, no insomniac Doberman; he couldn’t even see any cameras, just security lights above the farmhouse and barn doors, presumably activated by movement.
Anderson’s relief at it being so easy was almost overtaken by a sense of disappointment, and he was now starting to doubt the site had anything at all to do with McDowell. He had assumed the facility might well be on stand-by overnight but this was just too quiet, the total lack of security a concern.
Yet he persevered, not too sure whether deep down he wanted to be proved right or wrong. Anderson’s main interest lay in the smaller of the two barns, it seeming a better fit to the dimensions of 1440 square feet given in the building permit, with $80,000 estimated for the intriguingly vague ‘internal remodelling’. He could work out a safe route to the barn but it was just unsettling for the site to be so tranquil,
Anderson clambered over the fence. Gun in hand, he crept towards the rear of the smaller barn: standing some fifty yards from the farmhouse, each of its fixed windows consisted of four small panes, the view inside shielded by vertical blinds; no glimmer of light, no sounds. There seemed only one way to find out what lay beyond and he smashed one of the top panes, the crash of glass far louder than he’d hoped.
If there was an alarm, then it was silent. Using his gun hand, Anderson pushed the blind to one side, torchlight probing the darkness beyond.
The expected computer consoles and massive monitor were nowhere to be seen. Instead there was a modern open-plan artist’s studio: display area plus easels, several paintings half-complete, sculptures; even a large tapestry hanging down from a metal trellis and paint-spattered in some modernist style.
Anderson switched off the torch and leant back against the barn wall, annoyed that he had been so smug as to his own judgement. He had pinned his hopes on the Aldie site and he was now pretty much out of ideas; even the thought of returning empty-handed to the mobile home was fairly depressing in itself.
Abruptly, a blaze of light shone out from the farmhouse as the front door opened, a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“I’m armed and I’ll use it if I have to!” shouted an elderly male voice. “We want no trouble.”
Anderson edged slowly away from the barn, not quite sure where to aim his gun. “Me neither; sorry about the window. I’ll just leave you in peace.” It was a rather pathetic attempt at an apology but Anderson was struggling to know how exactly to react.
“He’s got a gun, Joe!” screamed a woman from inside the farmhouse. “Shoot him!”
Anderson made a run for it, managing to vault the fence without getting shot or shooting himself, but losing his torch in the process. Two minutes later, he was in the Toyota, heading south, his early morning jaunt not quite the success he had hoped for.