He nodded. Ben thought he saw the slightest hint of revulsion and regret in his face. ‘Yes, I did,’ he uttered. ‘And Preston too.’
‘Oh, Sam,’ Emily whispered quietly.
‘I did it for you, Em. For me, too.’ He took a step forward and she whimpered in fear, recoiling from him.
‘It’s me,’ he pleaded tearfully, stretching out his hand to her. Her eyes were drawn to the serrated blades strapped to his hand, clogged with dry blood and shreds of tissue.
She screamed.
It was a brittle, high-pitched scream that tore to pieces the cushioned silence of the wood. Emily wrapped her arms around Ben, terrified of her brother. Sam’s face changed in that instant - the last sign of the boy replaced with the listless, bland face of a killer.
‘Emily!’ Ben looked down at her. ‘Run!’
She let go of his hand and took a dozen uncertain steps towards Broken Wing and Mrs Zimmerman.
‘RUN!’
She turned and fled towards them.
Ben faced Sam. ‘Sam?’
The face he could see behind the fractured bone was still and lifeless.
‘Not Sam, not any more,’ it whispered and advanced several steps towards Ben.
From behind him, Ben heard Broken Wing call out. ‘Lammbit! Come!’
Ben waved. ‘Go! Dammit! GO!’
The creature in front of him eyed the long-bladed knife Ben held in his hand, and smiled.
‘Sam,’ he said quietly, ‘let her go. Broken Wing will take her to the Shoshone; they’ll care for her there. She’ll be safe.’
It shook its head. ‘Not Sam. I am the angel,’ it added, one hand gently patting a canvas sack that hung from a belt. Ben heard the soft clink of bones as it swung gently.
‘In that bag, Sam? Is that something Preston had? Is it what was in his chest?’
The creature managed a smile. ‘I chose to leave him. I chose Sam.’
Ben could hear the crack of a branch echoing from the trees behind him. The others were getting away. The longer he could delay Sam here, the more chance they’d have.
‘You are Sam,’ he replied. ‘Take off the skull . . . take off the bones.’ He pointed to the canvas sack. ‘Undo that . . . let it go, Sam. These things are affecting your mind, making you something you’re not.’
It stood there in silence. The one eye Ben could see was no longer glancing distractedly over his shoulder at the others. They were out of view now.
‘I know you, Sam. Before the bad things happened, you and I . . . we were friends. And we can still be, if you take all these bones off and leave them behind you.’
The creature cocked its head curiously. ‘Sam is telling me he once liked you,’ the voice hissed. ‘Wanted to be like you.’
Ben glanced at the long, viciously jagged blades attached to the hand as the fingers flexed and the sharp serrated bones clinked together.
That’s going to cut me to bloody pieces.
‘Sam, listen to me,’ he uttered, his mouth dry. ‘Something very wrong has found its way inside you - inside your head. Something bad. But we can make it go away.’
‘Sam is not listening any more,’ it hissed. ‘He needs to rest.’
Ben looked at the eyes; one he could see clearly, the other twinkled through the skull’s dark orbital socket.
‘I can cut you up like I cut all the others.’ It took another step towards him.
‘Stay where you are!’
Its twinkling eye appraised him silently for a moment. ‘You seem like a good man.’
Ben left that unanswered, Keats’s blade held out in front of him, watching the creature ease forward another step. Only three yards separated them now.
‘Stay where you are.’
‘You seem like a good man, with love in your heart.’
‘And so are you, Sam.’
‘I told you, Sam is not here now.’
‘Let me talk to him again.’
‘No.’
‘Sam? Sam, talk to me.’
‘He is not here now.’ The creature took another step closer.
Ben backed up. ‘Sam! For God’s sake, wake up!’
The creature stopped, its head cocked slightly, listening for a moment.
‘Sam? Is that Sam talking to you?’
The angel ignored him, still listening.
‘Sam, are you there?’
The angel shook its head. ‘No, I am still here, but . . . Sam asked me to tell you something.’
‘What?’
It was fast. It crossed the ground between them with liquid grace - a blur of movement that left Ben’s sluggish reaction in its wake. The lunge was aimed high, across his chest and throat. Before he had a chance to understand what had happened, Ben was on his knees, looking down and watching ribbons of dark red sputter out onto the snow in front of him.
Keats’s knife fell to the ground, and a moment later he dropped down onto his hands, his mind now caught up with events.
My God . . . I’m dying.
The angel squatted down so that the shattered jaw of the long skull was inches from his face. It pushed the skull-mask off and threw it on the ground.
Ben stared into Sam’s young face, smudged with dirt and flecks of drying blood from the small shards of bone that had exploded into his face a few minutes ago. It was Sam’s face that, not much more than a week ago, had been full of the silly dreams that young people have. Now it was listless, expressionless, even more terrifying than the skull on the ground beside him.
Ben felt light-headed. The blood, gushing out from his throat, was bringing his life to a rapid conclusion.
‘Sam asked me to say he liked you. You were his favourite.’
Ben fell to the side and instantly felt the press of the cold ground against the side of his face. The angel stepped over him and then was gone, sprinting lightly in pursuit of the others. Then it was quiet, save for the rumble of the river, and a shifting breeze in the canopy of boughs high above. He watched the swaying movement of bare twigs and branches and the featureless white winter sky beyond, calmly savouring his last few moments.
Then finally, in a distracted way, he chastised himself that he’d not been able to bring his journal full of adventures, as promised, back home to Mother.
CHAPTER 85
Sunday
Sierra Nevada Mountains, California
Rose shivered, sitting on the rough wooden floor beside him. ‘I’m freezing.’ She pulled her anorak further down her legs, huddled up inside it like a mini-tent.
‘We’ve just got to sit tight for tonight.’
‘And tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow? If we stick to the river and follow it down, we’ll come across somebody sooner or later, I guess.’
Rose’s lips twitched with the cold. ‘They won’t find us here?’
Julian couldn’t work out whether it was a question or a statement. ‘No . . . no way they’ll find us.’
‘I just . . . I just . . . I can’t believe they shot Grace like that.’
‘I know.’
‘Jules, I’ve never been so flipping terrified.’
‘I know, I know, but I think it’s going to be okay now,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder. ‘We’ve lost them. As soon as I get a bloody signal on my phone, we’ll call someone - the police, a newspaper - and let them know what happened. Shepherd won’t touch us then. It’ll be all over for him.’
They endured the creeping cold in silence, listening to the gentle breeze play with the loose things it could find around the camp, and the chattering of each other’s teeth.
‘What the hell have we found out here, Jules?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This story . . . I get the feeling there’s more to it than we’ve worked out. I don’t understand why Shepherd’s doing this. He’s risking everything just because of some ancestral skeleton?’
‘Maybe he’s got some skeleton of his own to hide,’ he replied.
‘You think?’
Julian shrug
ged. ‘Who knows? I think it’s safe to say the guy’s unhinged.’
‘Just like his great-great-grandfather.’
‘If he’s happy to see us dead, maybe he’s killed with his own hands before? Who knows what goes on in that guy’s basement . . . if you know what I mean.’
‘But what about the Rag Man? Lambert?’
‘I don’t know, Rose. That may have nothing to do with Shepherd. So that guy survived? So what? Right now we’ve got a bloody psychopathic preacher who’s running for President, chasing after us with his hitman. I’ll be honest with you: right now that’s my main concern.’
She shivered. ‘You want to huddle up? I’m freezing.’
‘Okay.’ Julian shuffled up against her and placed one arm round her shoulders.
Rose sighed, her tremulous breath blowing out a cloud in front of her. ‘To think someone like that could end up being President.’
‘A very scary thought.’
‘Yeah,’ Rose replied thoughtfully. ‘Another very good reason for us to make sure we get out of these mountains ali—’
Julian grabbed her arm.
‘Ouch!’
‘Shh!’
‘What?’ she whispered.
‘Thought I heard something.’
‘Wind-blowing-stuff-around something or . . .’
He squeezed her arm tighter. She got the point and hushed. Then, listening intently for any other noises over the clatter of debris being teased by the occasional gust, they heard it. Faintly at first but quickly growing more distinct: two voices talking quietly and the sound of footsteps approaching.
‘Oh shit-shit-shit,’ whispered Rose. ‘How the hell did they find us?’
Julian shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
It was impossible unless . . .
Unless there’s some kind of tracking device stuck on either of us.
But there was nothing on them other than the clothes they were wearing, and . . .
And my fucking BlackBerry.
Carl studied the small screen. ‘Right in this bunkhouse, I’d say,’ he muttered quietly. ‘Yeah, they’re definitely in here.’
He pulled something out of his backpack and, with a click, attached it to the top of his gun. A green glowing light spilled from it.
‘It’s quite a long building. I’ll take point,’ Carl said quietly, ‘and we’ll sweep it from one end to the other. You best stay a few yards behind me, Mr Shepherd.’
‘I understand.’
‘Are you proficient with that firearm?’ he said, pointing towards the rifle Shepherd was holding.
‘I’ve fired a few hunting rifles in my time.’
‘Good. Keep it muzzle down, sir. Unless I shout for back-up fire.’
Shepherd sighed. ‘We’re dealing with a television researcher and a camera girl.’
Carl turned to him. ‘With respect, we’re dealing with two people who saw their friend shot dead. They’ll fight or flee. Either way, we’ve got to be ready to bag ’em.’
Shepherd conceded the point. ‘Yes, you’re right, Carl. Shall we?’
Carl took a step towards the hut’s entrance, his pistol with mounted nightscope raised before him, in his other hand the tracking device, still counting down the distance, but now only tens of yards away. He took a step up into the hut, his boots clunking on the dry wooden floor. Shepherd watched him whip sharply from side to side, checking the corners, checking every angle.
‘Clear,’ he reported quietly. ‘Room full of bunkbed frames. A long bench each side, wood stove at this end, some lockers. The signal’s coming from the far end.’
He stepped further inside, making his way slowly to the middle of the floor between the two facing rows of bunk frames. Shepherd stepped up to the doorway of the hut. It was the only way in and the only way out; as good a place as any to hold position. He knelt down in the doorway, holding the rifle muzzle down as Carl had told him, imagining for a fleeting moment that he was a real soldier doing a house-to-house through some Baghdad back street.
He grinned in the dark.
This is fun.
‘Checking this end first,’ whispered Carl, sweeping his nightscope across the stove and around the nearest bunks. He crouched down low and looked quickly beneath the bottom bunks. ‘Signal’s here . . . can’t see anyone, though.’
Shepherd decided to flush them out. ‘Julian! Rose! We know you’re in here! Your phone was tagged. I’m sorry, but there’s no getting away. You best come out.’
There was no response. A gust of wind played with the skylight shutter in another bunkhouse further along.
‘Why don’t you come out? I don’t really want to add to the body count if I can help it.’
Nothing.
‘Grace was a mistake. Carl reacted too quickly. He didn’t need to shoot her. I’m truly sorry about that.’
Shepherd held his breath and listened more closely to the faint sounds coming from inside the hut: the rustling, skittering sound of a rat, the soft moan of a gentle wind eddying inside amongst the rafters . . . and yes, he could hear it now, the stuttering breath of someone trying to be ever, ever, so quiet.
‘Come on out. We’ve got some matters to discuss. We’ll come to some arrangement.’
Carl took another few steps forward, panning his scope left and right between the bunks that he passed by. ‘The signal’s ten yards from my position, right ahead.’
Shepherd swallowed back a nervous giggle. This was getting to be too much fun.
‘Oh, you know what? Screw this . . . I’m lying. You’re both going to die. I might kill you quickly, or I might decide to have some fun first. It really depends how much you piss me off right now.’
Shepherd listened intently again as the last vibration of his voice faded. He could hear that staccato breathing, faster now, fluttering with fear.
Carl took another few steps forward, whip-panning left-right. ‘I’m nearly on the signal. Can’t see ’em yet, though.’
‘One of them, at least, is in here. Can’t you hear the breathing? It’s the young woman.’
Carl listened. ‘No, not yet.’ He looked at the display in his hand. ‘The signal’s just ahead, to the left, between two bunks.’
Carl took another few steps forward, crouching low to sweep beneath the bunks on both sides, then finally he drew up to where the signal was coming from. His display read just over two yards. Through the nightscope, he saw something lying on the floor.
‘Shit!’ he snapped out angrily.
It was the BlackBerry. He knelt down to pick it up. ‘The fuckers ditched it and ran.’
‘No!’ Shepherd called out from the doorway. ‘I can hear . . . I can hear her breathing. The girl’s right in here with us.’
Carl held his breath and listened. He could hear nothing. He picked up the phone and then heard something else - the soft puff of exhaled air and the rustle of sudden movement from right beside him. He swung the nightscope to his left, just in time to catch a blurred streak of movement from the top bunk of the frame beside him.
With a sickening penetrative crunch, his eyes saw stars and his ears whistled and rang with a deafening white noise - the sound of his mind going into traumatic shock. His finger convulsed on the trigger and fired off half a dozen rapid rounds.
Julian’s right thigh was punched hard. He heard the crack of his femur.
‘Rose! Get out of here! RUN!’ he screamed, letting go of the wooden handle, and watching Barns slump to the floor with the large, rusty canting hook through the back of his skull, little rapid breaths puffing out of his mouth like a steam train.
He heard the clump and scrape of feet on the wooden floor, someone scrambling. Then he heard Rose whimper and cry out in the dark on the other side of the hut - the sound of a struggle, and her desperate, muffled cries.
Then a heavy thud.
Oh Christ, no.
Julian struggled with the pain in his leg, trying to pull himself out of the bunk.
‘R
ose?’ he called out.
It was quiet.
‘Rose!’
Grimacing, he managed to swing his leg over the wooden bunk frame and lower himself to the floor. By the faint, ghostly blue glow of light from a device in Barns’s twitching hand, Julian could see the metallic glint of something smooth on the floor; the man’s gun.
As he reached down for it, everything went black.
CHAPTER 86
Sunday
Sierra Nevada Mountains, California
The young woman was crying, her eyes fixed on the gun. Cooke, lying beside her in a small pool of blood from a cut on his scalp, was unconscious. He was breathing noisily, blowing bubbles in his own blood.
He looked at Carl. He was quite clearly dead. Pity. The man had been an extremely loyal and useful acolyte.
William Shepherd sat on the bunk in silent contemplation, Carl’s pistol held in one hand resting in his lap, the more cumbersome rifle on the bunk beside him.
‘Wh-what are y-you going . . . t-to do?’ whimpered the woman.
Shepherd put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’
He needed quiet to think. There were considerations to make, risk assessments. He had to think this through logically before he did something that couldn’t be undone.
Why are you waiting?
The voice was very loud now in his head, almost uncomfortably so.
‘I have to think,’ Shepherd replied aloud.
Kill them.
‘Is it necessary?’ he uttered, and then realised he was speaking.
Is it necessary? I’m certain their silence can be bought.
What if it can’t?
It’s a risk, I know. He nodded. But I’m not prepared to have blood on my hands.
You already do.
No, I don’t. Carl exceeded his authority. He killed unnecessarily.
The voice laughed unkindly.
It’s true. I never asked him to kill. I asked him to . . .
Tidy things up?
Shepherd winced. Yes, he’d used those words and left Carl to interpret them, knowing full well what that would mean. The man had been fiercely loyal; loyal enough that he would happily have taken a bullet for him. Deep down, Shepherd had been aware that there would be a body or two before this was all satisfactorily resolved.