Earth 1, Central City/Dead End
Nate Heywood was on the trail of something. He just didn't know what it was yet.
Officially, he was enjoying a few days of R&R, which was usual after he'd finished a major investigation, signed, sealed and delivered. His editor was hoping for another award - of course there were already hints of libel actions but they weren't likely to come to anything. Nate always double checked the facts.
His first day off had started in a pretty typical fashion. He'd gone drinking with a few journalist friends the night before, got a taxi home, slept late and got up late. Then he lounged around the apartment. Sometime in the early afternoon, he decided to go through his piled up 'fan mail'. A lot of it came from conspiracy theorists, outlining the latest dastardly deeds of those in power. Since he became well-known as an investigative journalist, he'd been on the radar for people like that. He was not infrequently invited to join their groups. He did read through them, before consigning them to the recycling. A few years ago, one had led him into a minor investigation. The conspiracy theorist had been credited as co-writer and was, apparently, still dining out on that. These were pretty much all rubbish, except -
He stared at the one image. It was hacked - obviously - from one of the innumerable satellites orbiting the Earth. It was fuzzy - of course - and the comment written on the back read 'Dead End. UFO, battle re-enactment or the real thing?'.
''Of course'' he said sarcastically. ''Battle re-enactments are an interplanetary spectator sport.''
But there was something about a vehicle that appeared to be parked at the edge of one of the photos. Study it from all angles and he couldn't quite work out what it was. Maybe it was the supposed UFO? Ha, ha.
On impulse, he googled Dead End. It had something of a history as a hippie camp and then a Survivalists playground. Now one of the properties there was up for sale.
X
The second day found him driving up to Dead End, as 'Mr Collins', a prospective buyer of the property. It was pretty stupid really, he'd no intention of buying a property in the middle of nowhere. But he did need to get out of the apartment for a while, stretch his legs, even it only was towards the pedals of his car.
The owner - Joanne Hervey - had been there, packing up the last few belongings in the house. She was a tough looking woman, accompanied by an equally tough looking man. For all that they were friendly enough, digging out kettle and mugs etc so they could have coffee during his visit. There had been one jarring note.
''Two of my cousins were buried here recently, after a car crash, Mr Collins'' she said' ''They're buried in a small enclosure on the hillside. I hope you'll respect their graves.''
''Of course.'' He was quick with his reassurance.
''You'd better'' her companion growled.
''Mick'' the woman said reprovingly and changed the subject.
Later on, he wandered around the land that went with the property, taking photos to discuss with his 'partner'. He managed to get in a shot of the man and woman while they were loading boxes into the trailer attached to their car.
In one sense, this had been a wasted journey. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen on the land that surrounded the property. But his journalist's instinct told him that the couple who were finishing loading the trailer were worth looking into. So he did.
X
Joanne Hervey was rich - very rich, courtesy of the oil that had been discovered on her father's farm. A hefty lump sum and income from oil company shares had come her way and she'd invested wisely. The way in which she'd lived was hardly typical of the very rich. She'd drifted around the States for years, then taken up the Survivalist cause. She and her then partner had been founder members of the group that moved into Dead End. The partner was long gone and so were the majority of the other Survivalists.
Survivalists - he knew - were a pretty mixed bunch. Some were harmless eccentrics. Some might actually be useful if they were ever needed. But some - he'd covered a court case, back in the days when he was a junior reporter - were neither of those. The Survivalist in question was now doing life in Slabside. Joanne Hervey, on the other hand, appeared to have a clean record, apart from a few speeding tickets. Clean - except for her association with Mick Rory.
Nate did a double take when he discovered the man's identity. Felon, arsonist, frequently linked with an even more notorious criminal. Both listed as prime suspects in a few unsolved robberies. And murders.
Nate's journalistic instincts were shouting at him by that point. Not about Dead End though. About the pair he'd just met. Nate did the obvious thing. He called Ralph Dibney, Private Investigator.
X
While he was waiting to hear back from Dibney, he tried to solve a minor mystery of his own. Where was Rip Hunter?
He'd had an irate call from Rip's publisher, who knew that Nate and Rip were drinking buddies. Apparently the author had committed the capital crime of missing a deadline. Nate had called by Rip's apartment three times and got no answer. He paid the janitor to let him in and found nothing worse than a few bills in the unopened post. Rip was hardly poor these days and wouldn't have worried about those.
Miranda didn't know where he was and, as long as the maintenance kept arriving - who cared if he'd gone on a bender or was off with some woman?
Nate did. He over-ruled Miranda's objections and reported Rip as a missing person.
''Don't they freeze bank accounts?'' she'd asked, sounding alarmed.
''You've got a job'' he retorted and hung up on her.