‘I’m not even sure they are Indians,’ replied Vander. ‘Me and Mr Zimmerman saw ’em up close in the woods. Dark as the Devil himself, they were.’
Keats snorted. ‘If they ain’t Indians, what the hell are they?’
‘Demons, Keats . . . Satan’s imps sent to torment us.’
There was a sharp intake of breath amongst the quorum.
‘That’s enough, Eric,’ snapped Preston. ‘We have God on our side, so we have nothing to be afraid of.’
Ben heard a tremulous note of uncertainty in the elder’s voice. Or perhaps it was his weakness, or the pain, that robbed his voice of authority. Preston turned to Ben.
‘How is Emily Dreyton?’
‘She’s in deep shock. Her mind has gone for now.’
‘Has she spoken of what she saw?’ asked Vander.
‘She has said nothing. Nor do I imagine she will for some time,’ replied Ben. ‘So terrified was she at what she saw . . . her mind is gone, and it may never return.’
‘Poor girl,’ muttered Preston. ‘Poor Dorothy, poor Samuel,’ he added with genuine remorse etched across his face.
‘Who’s with her now?’ asked Vander.
‘Mrs Zimmerman.’
There was a murmur of approval amongst them. The woman had lost a daughter, Emily had lost her mother. Mrs Zimmerman was the best person to sit with her.
‘They may still be alive,’ said Ben. ‘All we have is Emily and some blood - most of it I’ll wager came from the Indian boy. They could still be out there.’
Preston nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you’re right, Lambert. We should send out a search party to—’
‘We ain’t headin’ out tonight, Lambert,’ Keats cut in, ‘and that’s final. I ain’t riskin’ the lives of anyone else lookin’ for dead people. First light tomorrow we will look.’
Ben turned round to him swiftly. ‘What? We can’t leave them out there overnight!’
‘I ain’t leadin’ out a party in the dark!’
‘They’ll die of the cold!’
‘Reckon them to be dead anyways,’ muttered Keats. ‘We go at night, we’ll miss the tracks and we’ll not find them.’ He looked around at the others. ‘Sky’s clear tonight. Don’t expect no snow, so we go at first light. That way we can follow the blood up to where whatever happened . . . happened.’
Preston nodded. ‘That seems sensible, Mr Keats.’
Ben shook his head, knowing the guide was probably right that poor Sam and his mother were gone and there was nothing they could do about it but try and find their bodies. The small, unlikely hope that Sam might be lying somewhere wounded and pleading for help was nothing more than a wish that he knew was going to torment him through the night.
‘And I shall come with you, Mr Keats.’
Vander turned to him. ‘Are you well enough, William?’
‘I’ll be fine, Eric.’ Preston offered Ben a courteous nod. ‘Mr Lambert has strapped me up well.’
‘First light, then,’ said Keats. ‘Reckon we want to have at least two dozen men with guns readied to fire. Might want to be ready if we bump into ’em Paiute. They’re out there nearby for sure.’
There were murmurs of agreement amongst the gathered men.
‘What are we going to tell the others?’ asked Mr Larkin. ‘About what did this to the Dreytons?’
‘Reckon we’ll tell ’em it’s a bear for now,’ growled Keats, ‘till we know better.’
Preston cocked his head. ‘You may tell your party what you wish.’
‘So what’re you goin’ to tell yours?’
‘It was the work of those demons out there!’ snapped Vander.
‘You forget,’ replied Ben quietly, ‘that one of those demons died bringing Emily back to us.’
‘The Devil likes to play games with the innocent, Mr Lambert. ’ Preston spoke softly. ‘There’s sport in that for him. For now, until we know a little more, we shall tell our people to pray for Dorothy and Samuel. We shall assemble a party in the morning.’
Preston stood up, his head dipped beneath the low ceiling. ‘This meeting is done now.’ He uttered a short prayer, then dismissed them. The men filed out into the weakening sunlight. Vanilla rays lanced through the tree tops, bathing their small world in cream where they landed, and leaving violet shadows where they didn’t.
Preston touched Ben lightly on the arm as he followed in Keats’s wake.
‘Mr Lambert.’
‘Yes?’
‘Might I have another dose of your medicine tonight, for the pain?’
Ben studied his pale features. ‘Is it that bad?’
Preston nodded. ‘It gives me a merciful release from it.’
He thought about it for a moment. ‘A small dose then.’
‘Whatever you think is correct.’ Preston smiled.
‘I’ll return with the bottle after I have checked in on Emily,’ he said and then turned to catch up with Keats.
Preston watched them go, then stepped back inside the church, shuddering at the transition from bitter cold to the pleasant warmth left behind by the accumulated bodies.
‘I’m worried about Saul,’ said Vander from the gloom inside.
Preston’s eyes slowly adjusted and found him sitting on the cot. He sighed sadly.
‘William, you know it was necessary. She would have spread doubt amongst the others about you.’
Preston slumped down wearily beside Vander. ‘I know. They need me now, more than ever. But I wish in my heart it had been anyone other than Dorothy who was troubled with doubt. She was so devoted.’
Vander nodded.
‘And now we have to wonder what has happened to Saul,’ said Preston. ‘Perhaps it might have been the bear, perhaps the Indians.’
‘And Emily? What did she see?’
Preston nodded regretfully. ‘What might she say?’ He turned to Vander. ‘I love her too, like all my children.’
‘God needs you strong, William.’
‘I know.’
Ben ducked down and entered the shelter. Its frame was sturdier than the one he shared with Keats and Broken Wing. The Mormon men had constructed, for Dorothy and her children, a firm lumber frame from their wagon, large enough for three or four people to sit together in, but only tall enough to kneel in.
By the light of a single candle he could see Emily huddled away from the entrance, wrapped in several blankets, her knees pulled up to her chest, and staring blankly into space. Lying beside her was Mrs Zimmerman, sadly stroking the girl’s forehead and singing a lullaby. She stopped to look up at him.
‘Mrs Zimmerman,’ Ben said politely, nodding. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s gone far away from here.’
He knelt down next to the girl. ‘God only knows what she witnessed.’
Ben looked closely at her face, moving his hand to and fro in front of her dilated pupils, with no reaction.
‘She’s not spoken?’
‘Not a word. Not a single word,’ she replied, studying Emily’s pale face. ‘Truth be, Mr Lambert, I have never seen fear so bad as that in my life.’
He shuffled closer to her, unwinding his poncho and draping it over Emily’s blanket-covered body.
‘I’ve seen shock like this before: industrial accidents brought into the London hospital where I was studying. Shock . . . the mind closes down to shut out the pain, and yet can still function amazingly well. I once witnessed a man walking in carrying his own arm under the other. Machinery had wrenched it out at the shoulder.’
Mrs Zimmerman made a face.
‘The point is, the mind is very resilient. Emily’s has shut down for now . . . from what she’s witnessed. I can only presume it was something quite horrific. And now, her mind is in a dormant state, hiding . . . hibernating somewhere safe.’
‘But she’ll come back to us eventually, won’t she?’
Ben nodded. ‘Eventually.’
‘What happened, Mr Lambert? Do you know?’
‘Eric Vander thi
nks it was the Indians did this. Keats says it might have been a bear.’
Mrs Zimmerman nodded tiredly.
‘Tomorrow morning there’ll be a search party and we’ll find out all that we need to know,’ he said.
Ben knew it would be a hard find, chancing across their bodies. Hard, in as much as he would see Sam in a horrible way. If it had been a bear, their bodies would be horrendously disfigured. It was not a final image he wanted to have in his mind of the lad.
I’m so sorry, Emily. So sorry.
He stroked her pale cheeks, remembering a cheerful face around the campfire, delighted with the loan of a doll.
‘I’ll look in on her again soon,’ Ben said to Mrs Zimmerman. ‘Will you be with her tonight?’
Mrs Zimmerman nodded. ‘All night.’
Ben smiled. ‘Good.’
CHAPTER 38
Tuesday
Fulham, London
The phone rang only a couple of times before a deep voice answered it. ‘Dr Thomas Griffith.’
‘Tom, it’s Julian Cooke.’
A moment’s hesitation passed. ‘Julian . . .’ Then, ‘Julian! How the hell are you?’
‘I’m well, Tom, very well.’
Julian had worked with him a few years ago on their series Uncommon People. Dr Griffith was a forensic psychologist who freelanced for the Met, on occasion for the Crown Prosecution Service and, more often these days, he also found himself contributing the foreword to books on hard-case East End gangsters and the criminally insane. His last collaboration had been with a crime novelist, co-writing a book on Harold Shipman.
The book was doing very well. Julian had noticed it piled high on the centre tables of Waterstones and Borders, and spotted Thomas on daytime TV shamelessly plugging it. Thomas was made for TV; a gregarious character, a large and generously covered frame and an enormously deep voice finely tuned to deliver a Welsh accent.
It was all going very well for Thomas, right now.
‘What are you up to these days, Julian?’ his baritone voice boomed down the line.
Julian sucked on his teeth. He knew the call was going to involve eating a small helping of humble pie.
‘Not as much as I’d like. Business is still coming in, but you know what it’s like; a lot less money sloshing around the TV business these days.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I saw your book. Doing very well, I see.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? I’m quite taken aback. There’ll be more, I hope.’
Julian smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure there will be. Publishers love to keep backing a winner.’ Actually he was pleased for the lucky bastard. Good fortune couldn’t have fallen into the lap of a nicer bloke.
‘Tom, look, apart from wanting to hear the melted-chocolate tones of your voice again, there’s another reason I rang.’
Griffith chuckled. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s something I sort of stumbled upon by accident over in America. Before I go into too much detail, this is between us and no one else, do you understand?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m not going to need to send you a confidentiality agreement, am I?’ Julian asked cautiously. He trusted the man more than most. Thomas’s word had been good in the past when they’d worked together. But it would be reassuring to hear him make a verbal promise.
‘On my mother’s grave, Julian.’
‘Okay.’
Julian explained what he and Rose had found, careful not to tell him exactly where it was. Only Grace knew the precise location, and for now he wanted to keep it that way. He described the Lambert journal, and summarised the tale he had transcribed thus far. Dr Griffith patiently listened in silence as Julian talked through it for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
‘Well now, Julian, what’re you asking for? A diagnosis over the phone?’
‘Yes, but I’d like to back it up with a meeting. Perhaps, if you’re interested, involve you in the documentary somehow.’
‘Well, I’m . . . I’m—’
‘Sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that. I know you’re busy right now promoting the book—’
‘No,’ he cut in, ‘no . . . I’m interested, Julian. I’m fascinated. I’d very much like to be a part of this. I mean, to all intents and purposes, if we’re ruling out Indian wood spirits and giant grizzly bears, it sounds very much like you have a reliable account of an interesting mystery.’
‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’
‘And this journal sounds like wonderfully detailed material to work from.’
‘It is very detailed. I mean, the author obviously had a lot of time to fill, waiting to die up in those mountains. So look . . . I presume we’re both thinking it’s the same person?’
‘The religious leader chappie.’
‘Uh-huh, Preston.’
He heard Griffith shuffling position, the sloshing of water in the background, and remembered the large Welshman kept his phone by his side, even in the bath.
‘A fascinating character by the sound of him. A classic cult patriarch, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Look, Tom, I can email you what I’ve transcribed already of the journal, and attach a load of jpeg images of the other pages I’ve yet to work through, if you’re interested in taking this further?’
‘Yes, please do.’
‘And then when you’ve had a chance to look through, perhaps we can arrange to get together for lunch and talk about it?’
‘That would be marvellous,’ Griffith boomed back.
‘Great. Your email address - still the same?’
‘As always.’
‘I’ll put “Preston” as the subject heading so you don’t miss it amidst all the spam.’
‘Very good.’
‘How long do you want to have with the material? Thing is, I’m here in the UK for another three days, then I’m heading back out to the States to rejoin Rose. We’ve got to move quite quickly.’
‘Why’s that? It’s sat around a century and a half already.’
‘We’ve got a grace period of a couple of weeks, courtesy of a kind old park ranger who’s sitting on it before she calls whatever US heritage department covers this kind of find. So, we’re scrambling around to get as much virgin footage of the site as we can.’
‘I see. Well, hmm . . . you’ve caught me at a good time. I could do with a break from the current routine. Give me a day with the notes, and then we’ll talk.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, and Julian?’
‘Yup?’
‘Do you know how it ends? What do you know of what happened?’
‘As far as we can surmise, no one survived. There’s no record of it anywhere.’
‘Oh that’s good - somewhat chilling,’ he said, the water sloshing again. ‘I like that.’
Julian smiled. ‘I thought you would.’
‘Well, send me what you have, and then we’ll do lunch later on this week. I’ll make sure my publicist keeps Thursday and Friday lunchtimes free.’
‘I will. It’s been good to speak to you again, Tom. Been a while.’
‘And you.’
Dr Griffith hung up abruptly and the line purred. Julian was about to set his phone down when he heard the faintest click over the earpiece. The purring sound cut out momentarily and he thought he could detect, if only for a second or two, the rustling sound of movement picked up by an open microphone. Then another click, and the purr resumed.
He put the phone down, still looking at it.
‘That’s . . . that was odd,’ he muttered.
And not the first odd thing, either, is it?
Returning from a visit to the Soup Kitchen office earlier today, he had an inexplicable feeling that his flat had been entered. Not quite able to put his finger on the tiny, intangible details that made him think that - a book out of place, the mouse cable coiled differently around the back of the keyboard - he hadn’t been certain enough not to dismiss it as some sort of creeping paranoia.
/>
But now this.
He looked again at the phone, long enough to convince himself that all he’d really heard was a digital gremlin on the network or, quite possibly, his line crossed with another for a fleeting moment.
He shook his head reproachfully. ‘Come on, Julian, get a grip.’
CHAPTER 39
24 October, 1856
A light downfall of snow during the night had not managed to fully conceal the trail left by the Indian; there were enough dark patches of almost black blood that had soaked into the snow and were now a frozen part of it.
Keats led the way up through the trees, his keen eyes squinting and watering from the dazzling upward reflection of sunlight off the snow. The sky was a clear blue, combed with one or two unthreatening clouds, and the sun beat down a welcome warmth on their backs and shoulders as they went uphill, moving between the trees from one splatter of frozen blood to the next.
A search party had not been painstakingly chosen; the old guide had simply emerged from his lean-to as soon as the sun had breached the tree line, and bellowed out with his foghorn voice that he was ready to go and wanted some volunteers.
Within a few minutes every single man and boy old enough to carry a gun had mustered in the centre of the camp around Keats and Broken Wing. Preston joined him promptly and then they dismissed roughly half the men to stay behind and guard the camp. The other half, eighteen men including the two trail captains, set off swiftly from the clearing and up the shallow bank of the forest floor, through saplings stripped bare for kindling and into the deep foliage of older trees.
They followed the trail for only about ten minutes, just long enough to lose sight of the camp below, climb a small spur and descend the other side towards a small glade beyond, when Broken Wing suddenly raised a hand and shouted out something in Ute.
Keats pulled his pipe out of his mouth and muttered, ‘This is where it happened all right. Jus’ up ahead.’
They emerged from the trees. Even dusted with snow and no bodies to be seen, it was clear a butcher’s blade had been hard at work here. A log, lying across the clearing, was slick with glassy frozen blood and beside it on the ground was what looked like a small heap of offal.