Keats echoed that by turning round and knocking McIntyre’s barrel up in the air. The gun boomed noisily and another pale blue cloud of smoke erupted to dissipate amidst a thinning strata of powdersmoke hanging above them.
As the peal of gunfire faded, a stillness descended over both groups. The woman was moaning in agony on the ground, her two children whimpering pitifully by her side.
‘Go! Now!’ barked Preston. ‘Before it’s too late,’ he shouted, enraged.
Ben stared down at the white snow, criss-crossed with fresh and dark splatter marks.
‘Now!’ shouted Preston.
Keats turned to face the others. ‘Let’s go.’ Broken Wing nodded, echoing the command to Three Hawks and the other Paiute. They began a slow retreat across the clearing, Hussein and Ben keeping their loaded guns ready, Bowen, McIntyre and Weyland attempting to clumsily pour powder from their horns as they walked backwards, spilling it in dark trails.
‘Save it, you idiots,’ muttered Keats, ‘you’re wastin’ yer powder.’
We’re going to need it, thought Ben.
Ben kept his eyes on Preston and his men. There were more of them mustering, spreading out in a long line, muskets being loaded - the metallic clattering of ramrods and rolling lead shot filling the air.
Shit, they’re going to fire a volley at us.
Ben counted about two dozen of them, spreading out either side of their leader in a scruffy, irregular line that looked chillingly like a firing squad. Ramrods being tucked away, several of the muskets were levelled out ready to fire once more.
‘My God, they’re going to fire!’ Ben cried.
‘Goddamn it, keep moving!’ Keats shouted, turning and breaking from a steady plodding retreat into a jog. ‘Keep moving!’
Most of Preston’s men had levelled their muskets by now and patiently awaited his say so to fire. Instead Preston raised his hands and cupped them around his mouth.
‘Be gone from this place!’ His words echoed off the tree line around them.
As they retreated around the lumpy carpet of snow-covered bones in the middle of the clearing, Keats slowed down, satisfied they were far enough away that most shots would fall wide.
‘We ain’t leaving, folks.’
Ben turned to him. ‘But we have to.’
Keats ignored that. ‘We have work to do - every man, woman an’ child.’
CHAPTER 60
Thursday
Notting Hill, London
Dr Griffith turned the hot water off and settled back in the bath, enjoying the tickle of bubbles against his skin and the soothing sound of water gently sloshed by his movements, echoing back off the expensive granite tiles.
His home was modest; a nondescript terraced house in a quiet mews in a village-like enclave a minute’s walk from Notting Hill High Street. He had considered moving to something more prestigious, but he’d made the place comfortable over the years, particularly his bathroom, on which he’d spent at least fifteen thousand pounds getting it exactly how he wanted it.
He spent a lot of time in there. His asthma, aggravated by the airborne particles of city life, meant every day ended in a hot and steamy bath to settle his chest, his inhaler resting on the soap tray at the side along with the TV remote and his cordless phone.
It would be fair to say this bathroom was the most used room in his home.
He picked up the remote and muted the small plasma TV hanging on the wall and then picked up his phone. Since speaking with Julian earlier in the week and reading further into the journal, there were some more thoughts he wanted to pass on before he got sidetracked with other things.
He dialled and Julian answered almost immediately. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello, Julian it’s Tom. Listen, I thought I’d talk with you a bit more about this story of yours. You got time?’
‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, I’ve read a little more of that journal and I’m increasingly certain that Preston’s a - sticking strictly to medical terminology - a monster. A very dangerous individual capable of, well, frankly . . . anything.’
‘Yeah, I think we’re both agreed on that.’
‘Anyway, there’s something worth taking a moment to consider here.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Whose toes you might be treading on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that there may be descendants of Preston’s who might not take too kindly to having their great-great-granddad portrayed as some kind of Charles Manson figure, a serial-killing cult leader who, very likely, murdered his entire parish. You could quite easily find yourself in some legal tangle over there on the grounds of defamation. Apart from anything else, you’ll want to be careful that you define a very clear line between the Church of the Latter Day Saints and whatever Preston was preaching to his people, otherwise you’ll have them on your back pretty quickly. And believe me, they have money to burn on lawyers.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘Seriously. For example, I would be careful in your use of the word “cult” in favour of the word “faith”. There are significant implications over in the States, least of all tax implications, which faith groups will defend with a certain . . . ferocity. You quite often see that kind of issue being fought aggressively in court by very expensive lawyers on behalf of the Church of Scientology.’
‘Yes, I can do without that kind of hassle.’
‘Something else.’
‘What?’
‘Just something I was theorising about in a column recently.’
‘Go on.’
‘That sociopathic tendencies are a Darwinian strong suit.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, it’s very likely a hereditary hand-me-down, like being left-handed, artistically inclined, having a musical ear.’
Tom reached for his inhaler and took a wheezy pull before continuing. ‘Anyway, the point I want to make is this: just be careful what sort of people you piss off over there with your story, okay?’
‘Well, it’s not like we’ve had any real luck digging up anything on Preston. He remains something of an enigma. I’ve certainly not got any great-great-grandchildren lined up to do a door-step interview.’
Tom nodded. ‘Well, that’s probably for the best. You might end up getting a bloody nose.’
Julian laughed.
‘So, you’re heading back to the US tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, have a good flight and say hi to Rose for me.’
‘I will.’
‘Oh, Julian, by the way, I’m away for a couple of weeks. My agent’s flogging overseas rights to some European publishers, so I’ll be part of the dog and pony show; meet-and-greet, then some talks, some signings. But we’ll hook up again when you get back?’
‘Yes, for sure.’
‘Because whether you manage to put a production together or not, I’d dearly love to work with you on this as a book. We could co-author if you like, or you write and I’ll consult, whatever. Want to talk about that downstream?’
‘Yeah, sounds good.’
‘Excellent. Happy flying, then. I’ll speak to you soon.’
‘Thanks, speak soon.’
Tom disconnected and placed his cordless phone back on the soap shelf, then settled back in the bath. ‘Yes, a book,’ he muttered to himself, his deep voice resonating off the granite tiles and around the bathroom.
He was reaching for the TV remote when he heard a noise from downstairs.
CHAPTER 61
Thursday
Notting Hill, London
It was a soft clack.
He froze for a moment, then realised that it was probably the wind playing with the letterbox flap. Outside, through the top, unfrosted panel of his bathroom window, he could see the tip of the solitary withered and miserable-looking inner-city poplar that grew outside the back of next door’s house, uplit by the amber glow of street lights, swaying gently.
&nbs
p; He watched it gently undulating from side to side, and listened to the pleasing tinkle of a wind chime.
He left the TV muted. Not that he was the twitchy sort, but there had been several burglaries along their cul-de-sac in recent months. In any case, it was relaxing listening to the hiss of a breeze through the leaves, and the gentle random musical notes. Despite being so central in London, and so close to the high street, he was constantly amazed at how quiet their little piece of backstreet Notting Hill was. In the distance a police siren wailed and a dog barked in reply . . . but other than that, so peaceful.
Another noise.
It sounded like the slightest scrape of one of his kitchen stools across the parquet floor. That was all it was . . . a nudge. Not a sound that could be mistaken for the central heating coming on, or any of the other plethora of tickings and creakings a house will make in the night.
It was the sound of someone else in his house.
Shit.
He felt the first cold prickle of anxiety, and a quickening of his breath. He reached out and took a pull on his inhaler.
Just a kid . . . a chav looking for something easy to swipe and run.
He knew from past dealings with young offenders that they were at least as frightened as the people they robbed or mugged. If there was someone down there, a confident boo would have him running like a startled rabbit.
‘YOU HAVE EXACTLY TEN SECONDS TO PISS OFF BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!’ His voice boomed out of the bathroom. He listened intently for the sound of trainers skidding on his waxed floor, the clatter and slam of a door or window being opened and the diminishing slap of running feet outside on the pavement.
But he heard nothing.
‘ALL RIGHT, SCREW IT. I’M CALLING NOW,’ he bellowed again. This time there was a wheezy signature to his baritone voice.
He picked up his cordless, dialled all the nines, held it to his ear waiting to hear the trill of the call ringing through. But there was nothing, just a rustle and crackling and then something that sounded very much like a breath being taken.
‘I can hear you up there,’ a voice muttered out of the earpiece.
‘Whuh?!’ he blurted, dropping the phone onto his wet belly.
He heard footsteps across the downstairs hall.
‘What do you want?’ Tom called out, his troubled breathing beginning to rob his voice of its natural authority.
The lights upstairs suddenly went out, leaving the bathroom illuminated only by the flickering glow of his plasma screen. Some light spilled up the stairs from the kitchen and hallway lights, and he thought he caught the momentary fluttering of a shadow cast up the stairway and onto the wall outside his bathroom. Then it darted out of sight.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
The lights downstairs went out. And finally his TV winked off.
‘Please! Take what you want and go!!’ he gasped in the darkness, his eyes struggling to adjust.
He heard the creak of weight settling on one of the stairs.
Oh God, oh fuck.
‘Look,’ he puffed between laboured breaths, ‘my wallet is in my jacket down in the kitchen. There’s at least a couple of hundred pounds in there.’
No reply.
‘There’s a cash card in there too,’ he said and sucked quickly from his inhaler. ‘The PIN is one, four, six, six.’
He heard creaking again on the stairs and knew that was the other wonky step near the top.
‘Please! Take what you want and go!’
His eyes began to pick out some details around him, lit by the diffused amber glow of the street light outside.
‘I’ve come to kill you, Tom,’ a voice whispered from just outside his open bathroom door.
‘Who are you?’ Tom replied.
‘Not that important who I am now, is it?’
He pulled himself with some difficulty up out of the warm, soapy water.
‘Stay in the bath!’
‘O-Okay.’
Play along, Tom. Play along.
He desperately searched his memory for someone who might have a reason to come after him like this. He’d contributed to the arrest and conviction of perhaps a dozen murderers in some small way. But he couldn’t imagine how they could have—
‘I’m afraid you know a little too much about things right now.’
‘W-what? I . . . I know what?’
‘Sorry, I’m not here to discuss that. I’m here to kill you.’
‘What? P-please . . . I have money . . .’ he stammered, struggling with difficulty to find his breath. ‘If you t-tell me how much—’
Then his eyes detected something shifting. It was low down, squat, in the doorway, swaying from side to side. A rocking movement - compulsive. Tom trawled his memory for the most likely criminally insane candidates. There were one or two over the years whom he had written notes on, interviewed, but not necessarily been instrumental in putting away. No revenge motive he could think of.
‘What’s your worst fear?’ the voice whispered.
‘My . . . my worst . . . why? What? Why are you—’
‘Come on. What do you fear the most?’
‘I . . . p-please . . . don’t—’
‘Let me guess, then.’
Tom felt his lungs clench like a fist and a wave of light-headedness caused him to sway. He sat down heavily in the bath. Water splashed noisily out of the tub and onto the floor.
‘I hear you wheezing,’ whispered the voice. ‘You’re asthmatic, aren’t you?’
Tom refused to answer.
‘Hmm, I had a cousin who was. Worst thing she feared was suffocating. She used to have nightmares about that, night after night, screaming . . . gasping.’
‘Oh God, please no!’ he pleaded, subconsciously fumbling in the dark for his inhaler.
The voice laughed. A dry, brittle rattle that sounded sly and childlike.
‘So, I’m afraid that’s how it has to be, Dr Thomas Griffith.’
Oh God Oh God Oh God.
‘This can be very quick. I’ve done it a few times before.’ The voice laughed softly. ‘They call it water-boarding . . . sounds like something fun, doesn’t it?’
‘Please, not drowning! Please!’
‘Shhh. Listen, I can make it easy for you. I’ll hold you under while you breathe in that water. Thirty seconds of thrashing and it’s over. The longer you hold your breath, the more your body will fight it.’
‘Oh fuck n-no!’
‘Or I guess you can struggle . . . and this’ll take us both a lot longer. It’ll be harder on you.’
Tom pulled himself unsteadily up onto his knees in the bath and suddenly felt his bowels open wide. Above the roar of blood in his ears and the deafening rasp of air struggling through a pinhole gap in his throat, he heard the tumbling of his own shit into the bath water.
‘Decision time. Do I have to wrestle you under? Or are you going to lie down like a good man?’
Tom’s vision clouded and the world skewed sideways.
He toppled over into the water, banging his head against the porcelain. He felt the impact and saw stars. Warm water rolled over his face and he snorted as water ran up his nose. Dazed and light-headed, he was still lucid enough to instinctively pull himself back out of the water.
He suddenly felt a heavy weight on his broad chest, holding him under. Through the turbulent, swirling veil of bath water, as his arms and legs scissored desperately, he thought he could just make out the pale face of his killer.
He held the man under for a full five minutes after the movement had ceased. Enough to satisfy himself that the man was dead.
He nodded with satisfaction. There would be little noticeable bruising on the man’s body; he’d been careful not to hold him down under the water with his hands around the neck - instead he’d applied the weight of his body across the chest - no telltale thumb or finger marks.
He’d been taught by the best.
He fumbled in the water for the man’s inhaler, fished it out and then h
eld down the dispenser button, listening to the rush of medication whistling out. It took a solid minute before the thing exhausted itself. He then tossed it casually on the floor of the bathroom.
Make it look natural.
He went downstairs, flipped all the fuses back on and returned to the bathroom. He studied the scene with the bright bathroom spotlights on; the pools of water that had splashed out of the tub, the dark clot of blood on the edge of the bath, the empty inhaler tossed angrily aside. He was looking at the scene of an overweight and unhealthy man who’d had an asthma attack, found his medication had run out, panicked getting out of the bath, slipped, fell, hit his head and drowned.
He smiled.
Good enough.
The British police were amateur enough to read this as an unhappy accident. He doubted whether the two murders would be linked anytime soon. If some bright young go-getter in the CID intelligence office did eventually get round to noticing they both shared an acquaintance by the name of Julian Cooke, it would be too late to haul him in for questioning, because Mr Cooke was about to become a statistic; another poor, unfortunate, ill-prepared trekker who had vanished in the wilderness of the Sierra Nevadas.
He unmuted the TV, recessed expensively in the granite wall. A news programme was on. He stopped for a few seconds to watch, intrigued by how differently news appeared to be presented and packaged here in the UK.
The British like their presenters ugly and old.
He was bemused by that, contrasting the pair of presenters on screen with the tanned and well-groomed young studio-brats he was used to watching back home.
Interesting.
He wandered downstairs, checking that he’d left no telltale signs of intrusion, then went back through the lounge into the kitchen, to the window he’d eased open, out into the yard, over a fence and was gone into the night.
CHAPTER 62
Thursday
Palo Cedro, California
Rose smiled and slurped on an iced Becks. ‘So, I’m not exactly sure what Forensic Linguistics is. It sounds impressive.’