Music drifted through the walls, a slow guitar line from a song his uncle sometimes played while repairing old equipment. Through the window, Eli could see people sitting at tables and carrying plates of food from the kitchen. A man with a long white beard was laughing hard enough to grip the edge of a chair. Another was lifting a toddler's photograph on his phone to show two friends, his expression proud and foolish in the way people become when talking about children they love. The ordinary warmth of it frightened Eli more than the leather jackets did. These were people who had no idea what was under their feet.
He lifted his hand and knocked.
The door opened a few inches. A broad man with a dark beard and a weathered face looked down at him, then past him toward the parking lot. He wore a leather vest over a gray sweatshirt, and there was a small crescent-shaped scar above one eyebrow. Eli would later learn his name was Boone. Right now, Boone seemed interested in only one thing: explaining that the clubhouse was not a place where children could appear uninvited.
"You lost, kid?" he asked.
"I need Ronan Vale."
"You need to go home."
"I found something underneath your building." Eli forced himself not to hurry. "There is a room under the rear platform. It has equipment in it that looks new, and there's a diagram with names on it. I think somebody has changed the building systems."
Boone stared at him. "What did you just say?"
"I know I wasn't supposed to be on the property. I was looking for my dog. I found the room by accident, but I need to talk to Mr. Vale before everybody stays inside tonight."
The older man's expression did not soften. It changed in a different way, becoming more concentrated. He looked at Eli's muddy clothes, his small flashlight, and the way he was holding his shoulders very still. Then he glanced back into the building.
"Don't move," he said.
Eli stood under the porch roof, rain dripping from his jacket onto the boards. Warm air came through the opening, carrying the smell of coffee, roasted meat, and damp leather. It had been a long time since his last meal, and he suddenly realized how hungry he was. The realization seemed absurd. He was standing outside a motorcycle clubhouse with a secret beneath it and sixty-three names on a list, and his stomach had the nerve to complain about missing dinner.
Half a minute later, a man stepped out of the crowded room and came toward him.
Ronan Vale was forty-six, leaner than Eli expected, with short dark hair threaded with gray and the steady expression of someone who had learned that people often revealed themselves if you gave them enough silence. His vest was old but clean, and the patch on its back looked faded by years of road dust and weather. He did not approach with the theatrical menace Eli had imagined from stories in town. He simply stopped a few feet away and waited.
"Boone says you have something to tell me."
"Yes, sir."
"Your name?"
"Eli Mercer."
Ronan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Megan Mercer's boy? Jonah Price's nephew?"