‘Shit, I need another rest, please!’ gasped Julian.

Rose eased him down onto the ground. ‘Aghhh! Shit!’ he cried. ‘Leg’s killing me!’

‘It’s broken in several places,’ said Rose. ‘I think I can hear it grating.’

He winced as he lay back in the coarse grass looking up at the sky. It was tumbling with thick winter clouds that threatened to open up at any moment.

‘Yeah, thanks for telling me that, Rose. I can damn well feel it grating,’ he grunted through gritted teeth.

She offered him a pitiful smile. ‘Hang in there, Jules. I’ll get you out of here. You thirsty?’

He nodded.

She opened the backpack. It had belonged to Agent Barns. Inside was a survival pack: foil wrap, a couple of high-protein bars and a flask of water. She pulled out the flask and gave it to Julian.

She caught sight of the linen sack inside and eased it carefully out, opening it to reveal half a dozen corroded plates of metal. Beneath her fingers, she felt the indentations and bumps of unintelligible letters and shapes stamped into the metal.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, passing him one of them.

Julian turned the plate over in his hands, inspecting it sceptically. ‘Some kid’s metalwork project, looks like,’ he snorted wearily, passing it back. ‘A sheet of scrap metal with a few interesting shapes banged into it. I’m going to be honest here . . .’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s not the word of God written in the language of angels.’

‘And this?’ she asked, pulling out the threadbare canvas sack. The bones inside clinked softly.

‘Ten quid says they were once somebody’s bloody pet cat.’

‘They’re old,’ she said. ‘The canvas bag looks like it’s seen a lot of years.’

Julian shrugged. ‘I don’t know. An old pet cat, then.’

Rose laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe. What’re we going to do with ’em?’

‘Dunno. We’ll get someone to take a look. If they’re genuinely Joseph Smith’s scrolls, then I suppose they have some historical value. I’m sure the Mormon church wouldn’t mind having them back.’

Rose nodded. ‘I guess. Ridiculous, though, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘That there are people out there, people like Shepherd, who would kill for a bag of old cat bones and a few pieces of scrap metal.’

Julian laughed weakly. ‘It’s a world full of crazy people.’

She looked up at the sky. The first few snowflakes were coming down towards them, light and carried like pollen on the gentle breeze.

‘Starting to snow,’ she said. ‘C’mon, we better get going. I don’t want to be caught out here overnight.’

‘No.’ Julian winced.

She put the two cloth sacks back in the pack and slung it over her shoulder, then, grimacing at the pain she was about to inflict on Julian, began to help him to his feet.

‘Shit!’ he howled. ‘Ow! Slowly, Rose . . . slowly!’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she cooed apologetically.

He gasped, took a few deep breaths. ‘Okay . . . all right, I’m good to go.’

‘This river will lead us down to the camp site,’ she assured him. ‘We’ll make it there by evening, I’m sure.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

They proceeded along the silted riverbank, puffing clouds of laboured breath and watching the winter sky above unleash the first tentative snowfall of the season.

Julian managed to conjure a faint, sanguine smile. If it wasn’t for the jarring agony in his leg, this would be quite a pleasant hike. It was peaceful, almost silent except for the gentle, muted hiss of the river, the swish and thump of the backpack against Rose’s shoulder with each staggered step, and something else . . . the soft, reassuring whisper of a breeze through the naked branches of elms and cedars along the riverbank; a whisper that sounded almost human . . . almost like words.