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Theo holds out the page. Ross frowns at it.
“That looks like an anechoic chamber. They use them to test jet engines to make them less noisy.”
“An annie-what?”
“Anechoic. Without echo. The ultimate sensory deprivation.” He pulls his laptop over, starts typing. “There aren’t a ton of them, they’re very expensive to build. There’s one at Orfield Laboratories in Minneapolis rated as the world’s quietest room. Reporters go to do stories, and there are YouTube videos of them hallucinating in the absence of sound and sensory details. Around here, the music studios all have variations of this. They have to buy specialized foam to line the walls to help absorb sound for recordings. Kade said there was a purchase order?”
Theo flips the page. The paper is soft and old. It is a bill from a place called Newson’s Electronics in Waverley, Tennessee, for a load of ferrite tiles to be delivered to Brockville. It is dated November 1980.
Ross reads it and whistles. “Those tiles are military grade. And the company that sold them ... We had a case recently down in that area, woman who went missing. There’s a military supplier down there, and if I remember correctly, Newson’s is one of the fronts. Those tiles aren’t something you can just waltz into a store and buy.”
“What the hell? What would someone in Brockville be doing getting military-grade matériel delivered?”
“Well, it could be they’re a private facility and off the radar. Happens a lot, there are places all over the country that are quietly government run, or at least contractors. Could be Brockville is one. It’s not terribly far from Oak Ridge, Tennessee, which is a black site.”
“I mean, I know that. But a bill of lading from 1980 hardly proves there’s some sort of sex trafficking now.”
“I agree. She was crazier than a bedbug.”
“Look up Brockville and see if they have this anechoic chamber she claims they have.”
Ross taps away, his eyes skimming the screen. “Not exactly. Let me just run a quick search ...” His fingers fly over the keyboard. “Okay, this could be something. Bjorn Lingham, who is tied to Harvard’s electroacoustic lab, is on the board of Brockville Township. He has a vacation home there.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“He’s a scientist. Specializes in cutting-edge acoustics. He worked on the anechoic chamber at Harvard. Then he moved to grid management for Con Ed, working on ways to make the audible electronic exhaust less impactful to the flora and fauna around the plants. Now he’s big into clean energy, all that. I can buy him being on the Brockville Township board. According to their website, Brockville is one of the highest-rated biophilic communities in the world.”
Theo shakes his head. “Dude, that’s not a lot to go on. Nor does it explain Halley’s Jeep being dropped here in Nashville, and her text to me with the photo, nor her running and going missing for a week. And Kade is following me around now, wanting me to investigate a cult. I don’t get it.”
Ross throws Theo a gap-toothed grin. “I agree, it doesn’t make a lotta sense. But I can keep digging. There’s something here. Kade might be nuts, but she also might be onto something.” He taps his lips thoughtfully. “Using sensory deprivation is a pretty effective deterrent. White-room torture, all that.”
Lemke comes back into the office, blowing out a breath. “Sorry about that. She left of her own accord. I thought I was going to have to get someone to take her to Vanderbilt’s psych unit.”
Ross looks up from his screen. “She might not be totally loopy. We did find some sketchy evidence that there might be an anechoic chamber at Brockville. And there are a few influential people on the board.”
“I still don’t know what that means,” Theo says. “Do you actually think Miles Brockton has some sort of weird nonsensory cult hidden away in Brockville?”
“Who knows?” Ross says. “Rich, famous, insular people can get into all sorts of bizarre things. Ask me how I know. You’re right, though. It’s a rabbit hole. I’ll play with it later.”
There’s a ding from his computer. He taps for a few seconds. “Well, that’s interesting. Got a hit on the driver of the Camry.”
“Who is it?”
“Name is Heather O’Connor. Five-seven, Caucasian female, brown on brown. Went missing three years ago from San Diego. Shop owner, owned a bookstore and café. Twenty-eight years old. Left a kid and a husband. Well, they’re going to be happy to hear she’s alive. How the hell did she get from San Diego to Tennessee?”
“Trafficking?” Lemke suggests.
“Maybe. A little old for it, but anything’s possible.”
“If Kade’s right and he’s running a cult, maybe she left willingly. Maybe she was following him online and finally decided to join up in person. Who the hell is this Miles Brockton guy anyway?”
Ross reads Brockton’s bio from the Brockville website. “So this guy marched off into the wilderness twice? And learned so much about living off the land he made a town that was self-sustaining?”
“And named it after himself,” Lemke points out. “Raging ego, if you ask me.”
“I admit it’s the right sort of mentality for a cult leader, but if this place is so world renowned, why hasn’t it come across our radar before now?”
“Darkness hides in unlikely places,” Theo says.
