Chapter Nineteen #2
In the distance, where the ranch compound was located, she could hear cattle mewling in the corrals. A light breeze rattled through the tops of the trees. Otherwise, it was eerily quiet.
Because of the marmot, Sheridan gave the third cabin a wide berth, but she could tell as she walked past it that it was as unoccupied as the first two. It was the fourth cabin, the one closest to the ranch compound, that she was most interested in.
Although it was no larger than the first three, the fourth cabin was subtly different as she approached it. The windows were intact, and the roof appeared solid. There was a small curl of smoke coming from a rusty stovepipe.
As she got closer, she noticed the outline of a perimeter that formed a large square around the structure.
But instead of fencing, the perimeter consisted of a series of electronic sensors mounted on three-foot fiberglass stakes set at a ten-foot distance from each other.
It reminded her of portable dog fences she’d seen before, or remote high-tech corrals used by hunting guides and outfitters to restrain their horses in the mountains.
The hairs on the back of her neck and forearms prickled and her eyes widened. She suddenly wished she’d brought her weapon.
Then the front door of the cabin opened and a figure emerged.
He was a tall, gaunt man with a crown of wispy white hair.
He was wearing a one-piece gray union suit of some kind and his movements were stiff, his gait shuffling.
He apparently hadn’t seen her standing a few feet outside of the perimeter, and his destination was the unpainted outhouse that was situated in the far corner of the square.
He took a few more steps, stopped, and slowly turned her way, as if he’d sensed her presence. When their eyes met, Sheridan felt her insides clench up.
The man looked to be in his late sixties, although it was hard to tell, she thought. His skin was almost translucently pale, and his eyes widened and his mouth gaped at the sight of her. He had small close-set eyes and a lantern jaw.
“Who the hell are you?” he rasped.
“Who the hell are you?” she responded.
That’s when she noticed the thin steel cable wrapped around his waist like a belt.
The cable trailed behind him and extended into the interior of the cabin.
A thick leather collar was buckled around his neck and she could see it was attached with a silver combination lock.
The collar had squarish pockets of some kind on either side beneath his ears.
The realization of what she was witnessing hit Sheridan like a bolt of electricity.
“Why are you chained up? What is going on here?”
The man narrowed his eyes and glared at her. Finally, he sighed apologetically and said, “It’s for my own good, I’m afraid.”
“Who did this to you?”
“My relatives. But it’s okay. It’s not really what it looks like.”
Sheridan said, “It looks like you’re chained up here like a dog so you can’t get out. And what is this?” she asked, gesturing to her own neck.
“A second line of precaution,” he said. Then he gestured toward the sensors around the perimeter. “They call it my ‘safety collar.’ If I go outside the zone…”
“What happens if you go outside the zone?”
He pointed at the objects on the side of his collar, then flashed both of his palms with his fingers extended and said, “Boom.”
“Are you saying there are explosives in that collar?”
He repeated, “Boom.”
“My God,” Sheridan said, reaching for her phone. “I’m going to call the sheriff.”
“Please don’t,” the man said. His tone was desperate, and there was a sudden moistness in his eyes.
Sheridan was disgusted. But she also had no cell service where she stood at the mouth of the canyon. She’d need to find open terrain or climb into the mountains above the compound to get some reception.
“Will anything happen if I come inside?” she asked.
“Naw. People can come in. I just can’t go out.”
“I’m Sheridan Pickett,” she said. “I think I saw you last summer.”
“I remember you now,” he said. “You’re the falcon lady.”
“I’m the falcon lady. Do you mind if I come inside?”
He hesitated for nearly a minute. It looked to Sheridan that he was having a long conversation with himself. Then he looked up and said, “I’m Uncle Hank. Uncle Hank Bucholz. This is where I live now for my own good.”
“Are you saying you’re dangerous?” she asked.
“Yeah. But not in the way you might think.” Then he pointed to his temple. “It’s my ideas that are dangerous. Do you want to see proof?”
Now it was Sheridan’s turn to hesitate. What did he want to show her?
“I’ll come inside,” Sheridan said. “But only a few feet.” She meant, but didn’t say, that she’d stay just outside the length of the cable if he lunged at her.
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “But by not seeing my project, you’d really be missing out. It would be like going to Paris, but refusing to look up at the Eiffel Tower, or something like that.
“I’ll tell you everything about this,” he said as he shook the cable leash. “And then I’ll let you see my masterpiece.”
Now he was pleading with her. He seemed so lonely, she thought. Did he ever get visitors? How long had he been confined there?
Despite her feelings, she knew there was something seriously wrong about the whole situation. And maybe something seriously wrong with Uncle Hank himself.
Sheridan considered turning around and running back to her SUV. She’d seen enough to blow the whistle on John and Shelby Bucholz. But if his imprisonment was wholly voluntary, as he suggested…
She stepped forward and walked through the sensors.
“Come inside, Sheridan. I promise you I don’t bite.”
As she considered it, he said, “First, I gotta do this.” Without a qualm, Uncle Hank unzipped his union suit and urinated on the grass in front of him.
“That’s what I was headed out to do when you showed up,” he said while he finished and zipped back up with a flourish. The odor was pungent. Sheridan waited for the smell to disperse before advancing. She tried not to act as alarmed as she was.
Then he turned and strode into the cabin. As he did, he yanked at the length of cable until it, too, was through the doorway.
Sheridan took a moment to look all around her. There was no one present to witness what was happening, or to intervene if necessary. She asked herself, “What would Joe Pickett do?”
She knew the answer.
Sheridan activated the recording app on her phone and slid it into her shirt pocket. Then she followed him inside.
—
A bare bulb hung from a cord over a rough-hewn table with a single chair. Uncle Hank turned it on with a pull chain and it illuminated the interior of the cabin, which was dark except for the single window cut into the logs on the west wall.
Sheridan stayed close to the open door and took it all in.
Two of the walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with hundreds of hardcover books with their dust jackets removed, so it was hard to read the titles in the gloom.
The books looked old, and a few appeared ancient.
There was a single bed with a metal frame, a stand with a porcelain basin on it for washing, an aged woodstove, cast-iron skillets hanging from nails by their handles, a large gravity-fed cistern, and a freestanding heater and coil fueled by a propane cylinder.
There were no photos, art, or posters on the walls.
The place was as neat and uncluttered as it could possibly be given its small footprint, she thought.
The cable around Uncle Hank’s waist led to a heavy U-bolt that was secured to the rough-cut wooden floor. There looked to be enough cable to allow the man to access the entire perimeter inside, but no farther.
Again, the sorrow she’d felt when she first met Uncle Hank washed over her. How was it possible to live like this?
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
He poised one long finger to his chin, then said, “Three years, two months, and five days.”
“My God.”
He slowly shook his head, as if to disabuse her of her immediate reaction.
“No, it’s not so bad. They bring me supplies once a week and they pump out the outhouse every month.
The electricity works and they make sure I’ve got fresh water and propane.
I eat quite well, actually, and I sleep the sleep of the dead. It’s all for my own good.”
“How can that be possible?” she asked. “You’re a prisoner here.”
“But I’m a happy one,” he said, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Do you want to know why?”
She nodded.
“I’ve got my books, and I’ve got my privacy.
I’ve been able to work nonstop on my masterpiece,” he said as he gestured to a large leather-bound volume on the tabletop.
It was at least three inches thick. “Believe me, if I was out there in the world, I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what I’ve accomplished.
I started my masterpiece back in Scranton a decade ago, but I was never able to work on it until now. ”
“So you’re writing a book?” she asked.
“It’s more than a book,” he said, opening his eyes wide for emphasis.
“It’s an entire philosophy of spiritual life.
It’s a concept that could quite literally change the world for the better.
If the great powers knew what I’ve been doing here, the great religious leaders, no doubt they would try to stop me.
But here I’ve got complete autonomy and privacy to think freely.
There are no monks or professors to steer my thinking.
That’s what I mean when I say my ideas are dangerous—to some. ”
Sheridan didn’t know how to respond to that.