The drainage pipe sloped downward beneath the frozen north pasture of the Haven compound, running through the five-foot concrete main bypass to a sixty-inch corrugated repair sleeve.
Mara walked with her spine bent and her chin tucked into her collar, her forehead nearly brushing the rusted rivets along the crown of the pipe. Water dragged at the knees of her rubber waders with every step, black as crankcase oil, thick with limestone silt that smelled of sulfur, iron filings, and dead ditch-grass. In her left hand she carried the waterproof dispatch case, strapped tight across her chest beneath her wool mackinaw; inside it lay Ada Bell’s hospital register, the twelve certified custody cards, and the three witnessed withdrawal instructions signed in red wax.
Dorian Keel walked five paces ahead of her, his shoulders hunched forward to clear the curved metal. He carried a heavy five-foot iron crowbar in his right hand and an unlit inspection lamp in his left. Gideon Pike walked directly behind him, his carbine resting in the crook of his good left arm, the sling loose over his uninjured right shoulder, the muzzle angled toward the black current between Dorian’s boots.
Tessa followed Mara, her tool satchel held high against her ribs to keep the contents dry. Inside the satchel, wrapped in oiled cloth, were the insulated copper shunts she had turned on the Candlewake drill press, a set of brass jumpers, and three spare fuses for the distribution panel. Behind Tessa came Wren and Naomi Chen…
