Zandra keeps the debit card on the promise she'll hand it over once they arrive to wherever it is that "everyone wins." That buys her time to wait at the courthouse until Darryl can complete his shift without suspicion. She sharpens the lawnmower knife on a stray brick she finds outside. She tames the burrs on the edge with a few strops on a length of cardboard. Then she's off to find a cushion or two.

Might as well take a nap and indulge in the best snacks the Portage County taxpayers can provide while I'm at it.

Darryl tells the other attorneys he'll be working late, something that happens all the time as the junior in the office. A couple give a knowing look when Darryl tells them he'll, "see you later."

Zandra and Darryl leave only after the sun sets and the light of the day is finished. Other than the cover of night, that's when the deputies change shifts. They go unnoticed to Darryl's two-door commuter. The car only offers enough room to stretch one arm at a time, and the engine whines like a toddler.

"So where is this place in the woods?" Zandra says after they leave downtown in the car.

"The Mead, just west of Ashley and Dancy. There's a path off one of the public entries. We follow it until we know we're there," Darryl says.

The Mead refers to the George W. Mead State Wildlife Area, comprised of 33,000 acres of forests, swamps and grassland. It's popular with hikers, since it contains nearly 100 miles of trails. It's also popular with those preferring to stay out of sight of the rest of society.

I might catch a contact high from the illegal marijuana grows out there.

"There is no 'we' about this," Zandra says. "You go win with everyone else, but drop me off on the other end of this path. I'm not going to borrow trouble with you. There a map?"

Darryl points to the small glove compartment by Zandra's knees. She opens it and pulls out a folded, laminated map of the Mead.

"I'm surprised anyone knows what a map is anymore. Everything's digital now," Zandra says. She flicks on the overhead light by the rearview mirror.

"The map came with the invite. Check out the circle," Darryl says.

Zandra unfolds the map. A red circle marks the intersection of two trails deep inside the Mead. It's as far in the woods as a person could go.

It's going to take me a while to get there. Good thing we left early enough.

It's clear the shortest route to the circle is where everyone in attendance will park and walk in. It's also paved most of the way. Three longer, dirt trails exist, too. Zandra hovers her finger over each one.

I'll bet a psychic could tell me which one I should pick. Maybe I'll let Herman.

Zandra pulls out Herman's 3x5 recipe card for blueberry muffins.

Blueberry starts with B. B is the second letter in the alphabet. I'll go with the second trail then.

"Drop me off here," Zandra says and points at the map.

Darryl glances at the map. "I can do that. Did your psychic intuition tell you to pick that one?"

"Yes. Very technical," Zandra says.

Zandra staggers out of the car after they arrive at her chosen spot on the map. She checks her pockets and the lawnmower knife up her sleeve. For a moment, she debates whether to conveniently forget to give Darryl the pre-paid debit card. She tumbles the rectangle inside her pocket, thinking over how final and lonely the night seems. The breeze against her skin feels like a last sigh.

She pulls the card out.

He might take that money and fuck me over anyway. So what? He changed. People deserve a chance to do the right thing. Not everything needs to be a grift.

"Don't forget this," Zandra says and drops the card on the passenger seat through the open door.

"Thanks for keeping your word," Darryl says.

"You, too," Zandra says.

The car drives away, and Zandra is alone. Despite the tall pines in every direction, light from the full moon washes over pieces of a trail that lead deeper into the woods. Zandra puts the pieces together like a puzzle, dragging her bad ankle quickly over the illuminated parts and slower in the shadowy patches. She finds if she grinds her foot with the bad ankle deeper into the dirt of the trail, the less noise she makes.

The fabric of the purple gown whispers through the night until the trail cuts through a thick patch of bramble. The gown catches on the bramble, broadcasting her presence into the woods. The bramble is so thick it snuffs out the moonlight. Zandra can't see where to break free. She uses the lawnmower knife to cut herself loose, leaving swatches of purple hanging in her wake. Onward she goes.

I've been at this for what? Thirty minutes? How much longer could it be?

The inviting smell of woodsmoke lets her know she's close. Her lungs demand a hard cough, and she pauses to silence them with a cigarette. She also fights the urge to look back into the darkness at the trail she's already covered.

That way lies madness. Once you start looking over your shoulder in the dark, you never stop.

A few more twists and turns through the dark woods, and the smoke is joined by music. The notes are too watery to make out, but Zandra can hear and feel the thump of low-frequency sound.

Almost like a big drum.

A little further down the trail, Zandra hears more music. And something else.

People.

Slow, prodding music chops a sheet of voices into blurts that rise and fall with the breeze through the trees. Zandra slows to a glacial pace. At any moment, the next turn in the trail could place her inside the red circle.

A dance of oranges and yellows along the canopy of the pines lets Zandra know she's almost there. The extra light shows the trail in front of her leading up a hill. The music and the voices are loud now, so she allows herself to heave instead of hold her breath up the hill.

A fallen tree provides the perfect cover for Zandra to look down at a clearing at the bottom of the hill. Expecting to see something out of a horror movie, Zandra braces herself for the worst.

That's not what she sees, though.

Were the scene before her somewhere other than the middle of woods at midnight, it might resemble a social gathering or a work retreat. A giant fire sits at the center of the clearing. A couple dozen people, lawn chairs, coolers and a table with food scatter within the light of the fire. Two speakers play classical music with deep bass.

Are they all here to roast hotdogs and make s'mores?

Dropping to her belly, Zandra crawls forward a few inches to get a better look. That's when the scene takes on a different character.

Everyone here is a man. Most are older, most white. They're all familiar. I could name at least half of them. They're the elite of the elite of Wisconsin. Big businessmen. Lawyers. Elected officials. Religious leaders. Celebrities. Most of them shuffle around stiff and uncertain like they're trying to find a partner at a high school dance. But not those three near the speakers. They're solid and confident. Who are they?

Zandra waits until one of the three turns her direction. She shouldn't be surprised, but her heart still races.

Gene. I'd recognize that bald head and those hollowed out cheekbones anywhere.

What's that he's standing next to? It's too far away to make out.

Zandra figures it's a duffel bag or a backpack. Someone throws more wood onto the fire, and the flames swell. The extra light shows it's not a pack at all.

Oh my.

Oh.

My.

God.

Zandra covers her mouth with her hand.

That's Elle, Gene's daughter. Just a child. Pigtails and overalls.

Elle sits frozen in place on the dirt facing the fire, her knees wrapped in her arms and pulled to her chest.

Before Zandra can process what that means, the music stops. Gene, dressed in a long white robe, holds a microphone connected to the speakers.

"It is time to begin. Your robes, gentlemen," Gene says. He's unbothered by the volume of his amplified voice rocketing into the woods.

Anyone who would do anything is already here.

Someone passes out similar white robes to the attendees, except for Elle. Zandra watches for Darryl, but she doesn't spot him.

Gene resumes in his weathered voice after the robes slip on. "Everyone wins. Gentlemen, I've been telling you that since this all started. When we work together, everyone wins."

Not one of them works on anything. Corruption, fraud and cronyism work together, and everyone else loses.

"We've collaborated on a great many projects. There is more yet to come. The governorship will be ours, and, with time, even greater positions. These are the fruits of your hard work, and I am more than happy to keep those fruits sweet and plentiful. Everyone wins," Gene says. Not once does he look at Elle.

The same man who passed out the robes now holds a video camera. He receives a wave from Gene.

"Form a circle around the fire, please. It will be easier to take attendance," Gene says.

The attendees oblige, and the man with the camera walks from face to face. He holds the camera on each face for a few seconds before moving on.

Zandra does her best not to make a sound from behind the fallen tree. With the music off, there's little to mask any noise.

With "attendance" complete, the man with the camera turns the lens to Gene.

Why is Gene allowing this to be recorded?

Zandra puts some pieces together in her mind.

Please let me be wrong about this.

"However, alliances such as ours, no matter how successful, are fragile," Gene says, his audience transfixed on every syllable out of his mouth. "They are prone to splinters, to those who lose sight of the greater purpose. Our strength is in our unity. There can be no wanderers.

"For inspiration, we look to the past. If the Inca can maintain a vast empire, one of the most magnificent ever, then surely we can cement our place in history in a similar way. Nothing is more important on the eve of our greatest journey together, friends. Nothing. For if we are successful in our goals, of achieving the highest power, then we'll have an empire not even the Inca could imagine. We'll have the world."

Gene waves his hand toward Elle. A man throws yet more wood onto the fire before grabbing a burlap sack.

There's no place good enough in hell for you, Gene.

The sack slips over Elle's little body. She resists only with a whimper. She keeps her knees tight to her chin and steals a glance back at her father. He keeps his focus on his guests.

With Elle inside, the burlap sack gets cinched at the top with twine. The sack bubbles with the movement of her hands and feet inside.

"Gentlemen, you must understand this is necessary to maintain order, to keep us bound with the tightest loyalty possible. I need all of you, gentlemen. Your material and immaterial selves, your hands and your minds. I do not take what happens tonight lightly. She was born with a purpose, and she is fulfilling that purpose today. A modern day aclla. We will revere her through the achievements that follow this night," Gene says. He's handed a pistol.

Sick fuck.

Zandra draws the lawnmower knife and starts to rise. Something holds her down. A hand on her shoulder.

"I thought you were in jail," Glenn says.