CHAPTER 83
Sunday
Sierra Nevada Mountains, California
Julian stared at the row of bunkhouses. They were
utilitarian but robust; almost a century of abandonment, but they
looked to be firmly intact and ready to face another. Nature had
made good use of the last hundred years in reclaiming the land the
drab wooden huts sat on. Small Christmas-tree-sized saplings sprang
out of the ground in and around the buildings, whilst patches of
briar, hip-high, tangled in and out of the support struts beneath
each bunkhouse, pushing fronds of green up through loose and warped
floorboards.
He’d naively hoped there might have been someone
here, a lone caretaker in a Portakabin, some other hardy
all-year-round trekkers, a party of Japanese tourists even.
And still no fucking cell phone signal.
‘At least it’s shelter,’ said Rose, shivering. She
looked at him. ‘Do you think they’re still on our tail?’
‘God knows. I’d say they’re probably still picking
their way through the trees in the other valley,’ he replied,
giving Rose’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘I’m pretty sure we
lost ’em,’ he added, hoping he sounded more confident than he
felt.
The sun was fast approaching the jagged line of
peaks on the far side of the valley, casting long, cool shadows
that were sliding across the gentle valley floor towards the river
and them. It was going to be cold tonight.
‘Come on, Rose, let’s get inside. See if we can’t
find a cosy nook somewhere.’
They stepped up onto a wooden porch and pushed
aside a thick wooden door that creaked dryly. Skylights in the
sloping roof - one broken, the other fogged with a green filter of
algae and moss - provided enough light for them to find their way
around the dim interior.
The bunkhouse was one long communal space. A row of
coarse wooden bunkbed frames lined each lengthways wall. An iron
wood-burning stove sat against the far wall. Above them several
thick gable beams ran across from one side to the other, protruding
metal pegs from which dangled coils of heavy rope, a loop of twine
tied from one beam to another - most probably, once upon a time, a
clothes line - and several rusting tools including a band saw, a
rotary saw.
‘Your basic two-star accommodation,’ he muttered
and managed a humourless laugh that trailed off quickly.
Rose wandered over to a bunk in the corner and
hunkered down on the floor beside it, pulling her knees up to her
chin and wrapping her arms around them.
‘I’m shit scared, Jules.’
He reached up to one of the cross-beams and lifted
a large, rusty canting hook off a peg. He held it by its wooden
handle and examined the long, curved hook. He hefted it in his
hand. It looked vicious but unwieldy. It felt good to hold.
He wandered across the floor towards her, examining
the hook. ‘Yeah, got to admit I’m a little scared too.’
‘How scared? Am-I-going-to-die scared? Or just sort
of a bit anxious?’
He laughed skittishly. ‘Remember the time we
followed that candidate to the BNP rally?’
She nodded.
‘Or the time we got death threats from that Jihadi
cleric?’
She nodded again.
‘Well, more scared than that,’ he replied, sliding
down the wall to hunch up next to her.
They sat in silence a while, watching the coppery
hue of the evening sun stream in through the fogged skylight
windows, the shadows slowly climbing up the opposite wall.
‘Jules, when you came into my tent this morning,
you definitely had something to say to me, didn’t you? But I was
too busy yapping on about the photo. What were you going to
say?’
He shook his head and laughed. ‘That I was
beginning to have a bad feeling about things.’
Rose smiled. ‘Little earlier next time, hmm?’
‘Dr Griffith warned me about this. That insanity
like Preston’s can carry down the line.’
Rose nodded. ‘I must have got it wrong, then,’ she
sighed. ‘The Rag Man story, the survivor who emerged from the woods
- I thought that was Lambert.’
‘Well, maybe it was.’ Julian leaned his head back
against the rough wooden wall. ‘Perhaps Preston left behind some
descendants in Iowa, before he set off with his followers, and
Shepherd’s family link is to one of them.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘Either way, Shepherd’s unstable, right? Did you
notice right before we ran how weird he was?’
‘No I didn’t really . . . it’s a bit of a
blur.’
‘He seemed out of it, vacant, like he was slightly
stoned.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he’s got a few
skeletons of his own to hide somewhere.’
‘What . . . some bodies buried in his
basement?’
Julian hugged his knees for warmth. ‘Who knows?
Maybe he’s got himself a typical serial-killer basement complete
with a Gothic well, where he’s been busy stitching together a
woman-suit. ’
Rose snorted.
‘He seemed prepared to kill us just to bury a story
about his . . . what? . . . his great-great-grandfather?’
‘It would have damaged his campaign. I can believe
someone like that would do what he could to stop it.’
‘Maybe. But would you kill someone for that?’
Rose shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Would any normal politician murder someone just to
bury a negative story?’
Shepherd looked up at the deep blue sky, robbed of
the sun and left only with a stain of its memory on the horizon. It
was going to be a freezing cold night; the thinly combed clouds
stretched in front of a growing early audience of stars made that
solemn promise.
Several paces ahead, a small piece of glowing
technology was leading Carl forward. He held something no bigger
than a slim cell phone, with a pale backlit screen displaying a
direction and a distance. He’d assured Shepherd that although the
tracker was a few years out of date - CIA surplus - it was more
than adequate for the job out here.
Tracker’s good for five to ten miles depending on
line-of-sight obstructions. That had been Carl’s crisp and
businesslike explanation of the gadget’s efficacy as they set out
from the clearing after them.
‘Not so good for urban detection,’ he’d added. ‘Lot
of walls and electrical interference, but more than good enough for
the job out here. This’ll lead us right to them, Mr
Shepherd.’
You disapprove?
Shepherd winced at the sudden intrusion of the
voice in his head. It seemed a little louder than last time, more
insistent, shrill even, certainly so much louder than any others
he’d played host to.
We don’t need to kill any more people, he replied.
It’s an unnecessary risk. We didn’t need to kill that old
woman.
There was no response. He managed an edgy smile in
the failing light. If Duncan knew . . . if any of his campaign
sponsors knew, if those millions of voters out there knew that his
mind played out such terrible dialogues, that suggestions -
malicious ones, spiteful ones, murderous ones . . . genocidal ones
- were quietly whispered to him every day and then cautiously
argued down, well . . . he could imagine spilling it all to Dr Phil
or Oprah on live TV.
What a release that would be, to share his burdens
with someone.
They will talk.
I can persuade them not to.
Are you a good man?
Yes . . . yes, I think I am.
You are also a weak man.
The hectoring, disapproving tone in its voice sent
a sharp pain through his head.
I’m not weak.
The voice was quiet again.
Several yards ahead of Shepherd, Carl suddenly
cursed under his breath and stopped.
‘The damned signal keeps dropping. Hang on a second
. . . we need to let it pick up again.’
While he waited for his tracker to sweep for the
signal, he looked out at the wide, graceful valley below them,
silently scanning it with sniper’s eyes for any signs of life.
Evening was settling across it fast, and amidst the muted tones of
dusk he was reassured to see no pin-pricks of light anywhere; just
more endless wilderness and no one else around. No one for miles .
. . and miles.
His eyes, however, picked out the artificially
straight lines of a man-made construction down by the river.
‘Some buildings down there, Mr Shepherd,’ he called
out, pointing towards a horseshoe bend in the river.
Shepherd shook away his thoughts and looked at
where Carl was pointing. He could see a dark huddle of huts nestled
close to the river’s edge in an area swept clean of trees. He was
familiar with the history of this area; he knew what it was. The
trees down there had gone a long time ago.
‘It’s a logging camp, closed down like all the
others round here, back when they started moving logs on rails
instead of along the river.’
Carl nodded, then looked back down at the tracker
display. ‘Fucking mountains here are playing havoc with the
line-of-sight signal.’
‘I should imagine they’ll be hiding in that camp,’
said Shepherd. ‘It’s where I would head if I was running.’
Carl looked up from the display and nodded. ‘Yeah,
I guess that’s where I’d head too. Ahhh . . . there it is,’ he
said, ‘signal’s picked up.’ He studied it silently for a moment and
then nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. They’re in there somewhere, Mr
Shepherd.’
‘Good, then let’s not waste any time. If we can run
them to ground there, that’ll do just fine.’
‘This is a straightforward locate and terminate,
right?’
Shepherd turned to him. ‘I’d like to talk with them
first. But if an instant kill is required, then so be it.’
Carl nodded. ‘Understood.’