Tom looked back over his shoulder at the mound, the small wood where he had found the crawl space beneath the fence, and he wondered how he could explain this new madness to Jo. He had always been the strong one, the one to comfort her when tears came and memories shadowed the present. Now, covered in mud and with the stench of old corpses on his skin, how could he possibly explain?
In the dusky light he saw someone climbing the fence.
It's him! Mister Wolf! Help me, please, don't let him put me back in!
Tom tried to imagine being buried alive, thrown down into the pit with all those bodies, surrounded by dead family. But the thought that galvanised him into action was the certainty that if he were discovered, he would never get away from here. He had uncovered a horrendous crime, a monstrous lie. Madness or no madness, he had to flee.
And whether Natasha was real or a made-up presence in his mind, she was about to take control.
Cole parked a hundred feet behind the other car. He remained in his Jeep for a few minutes, lights off, scanning the surrounding area for any signs that he was being observed. He kept reminding himself that this was a fifty-five-year-old office worker he was following, but caution had always been his way. It had saved his life more than once and now, so close to this place, his hackles were up.
He had not been here for ten years.
He stepped from the Jeep, shut the door quietly and rested one hand on the pistol in his pocket. Day was slipping into dusk, and he wanted to investigate Roberts' car before full darkness fell. This was a bad time of day to be sneaking around with one hand on his .45 … but yet again, he reminded himself of who he was following. Roberts was hardly going to be perched on a hillside with the cross-hairs of a .30-30 centred on the back of Cole's head.
Still …
Glancing left and right, Cole quickly made his way to the parked car. He approached from the passenger side, keeping well away from the vehicle, closing in only when he was certain it was empty. He tried the door. Roberts had left the car unlocked. Other things on his mind.
Yeah, his dead son.
Cole shook his head. There was no time for pity.
He climbed the bank and stood at the security fence, staring out across the Plain. Although he had not been here since that fateful day ten years before, he could still remember every detail about this place, every point of reference that would lead him to where the bodies were buried. To his right lay the small wood, to his left in the distance a slight hill that was already merging with the darkness, and in front of him, somewhere past the fence, would be the rock shaped like a rugby ball standing on end. He sniffed the air and remembered the scent of the moors, closed his eyes briefly and heard the familiar silence. Even the feel of the place on his skin and in his guts was something he still understood so well; that gravity, that sense of the raw power of nature sleeping here. He was back, and it felt as though he had never been away, as if every day of the intervening ten years had been wiped from existence. God knew he had lived that day in his nightmares enough times to make it last forever.
'God help me now,' he muttered. 'God help us all.' He scanned the Plain, zeroing in on the approximate location of the grave … and there was movement. He looked to the side of the shape and saw it stand and walk, though whether it was toward or away from him he could not tell.
Now, suddenly, dusk would become his friend.
He set about climbing the unclimbable fence. Roberts had got in somehow—cut through the steel, found a hole—but Cole had no time to search for his point of ingress. He wanted this to be quick and easy, no long chase across the moors, just a brief sprint and a bullet to the back of the head. Though the prospect of killing again filled him with a sense of emptiness, it would not be the first time he had buried people out here.
Cole had spent a lot of his youth climbing mountains. Now he used techniques he had learned years ago to brace himself against the gap between two fence uprights—toes and fingers pulling and pushing in opposite directions, ankles and wrists burning, fingers and toes cramping—and slowly, gritting his teeth, he moved higher. Once he was within reach of the curved rails heading the fence he swung one foot up and hooked it behind a rail, pulling himself up and over. He dropped down on the other side and rolled, bringing the pistol out of his pocket and kneeling in one movement.
This low down he could see Roberts' shadow against the horizon. If he kept low enough he would be able to approach in this way, ensuring that he himself was not seen until the last moment. If Cole was very lucky—and very quiet—he would be able to shoot the guy without him even knowing what had happened. That would be best for both of them.
Then, away from here as fast as fucking possible. Even this close to the grave Cole's skin was crawling.
Can she get out? he thought. But no, of course not, not after so long. She'd be dead down there. Or if not dead, close enough. But she's still there. Still so close. And those others, their heads gone, but did we really know what we were doing? Did we?
'Fuck it!' Cole muttered. Bent low, he hurried toward Roberts.
He moved quickly across the Plain, passing the rock shaped like a rugby ball, not needing it now because he could still see the movement of his target. In maybe five minutes he would come close enough to risk a shot, but between now and then he had to keep his eye on Roberts. There was still an hour until the sunlight bled away completely—and tonight, with no cloud cover, there would be moon and starlight—but once he lost that shadow it would be difficult to find again. The need to get away from here was pressing on him already, trying to turn him and urge him back to the road. Every step he took closer to the grave felt heavier, as if he were running into air growing thicker by the second.
And he remained alert for any whispers in his mind.
Of them all, Natasha had been the one most adept at touching minds. Just a touch, a feel, a nudge, never anything more, but enough to know that she was there. Her psychic fingers were vile. It was like opening your mind to a sewer exhaust.
Even if she is still alive, she won't know were here.
In his mind, in the underground where he relegated those memories he was desperate to forget, something stirred. He ran through the streets above, dodging from idea to idea as he neared the central hub of his consciousness, that place where his whole life converged and found meaning. His concentration was complete, and the manhole covers and tunnel entrances were well sealed by his determination to do what was right. Each day he prayed to God, and each night when he slept the memories leaked out. Another prayer on waking usually put them back down. But now there were signs of life down there, an echo awoken from distant memory, a voice that stalked the tunnels and dark places, barely a whisper as yet but growing, growing, each echo from mossy walls or crumbling brick ceilings increasing rather than diminishing its strength.
Eventually he heard the words: What's the time, Misterwolf?
'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' Cole whispered as he ran. He knew that he should be utterly silent, that he was acting like an amateur. But there was something he had to cover up, a rising sound inside him that needed camouflaging. Was that her, actually talking in his mind, or had he imagined it? So he whispered while he ran, and his underground sang louder with the voice that he had prayed he would never hear again.
The smell told Cole that he was nearing the grave. It was damp, rich, a cloying sweetness, the stench of old rot and buried secrets laid bare. He knelt down, sniffed again, then started to breathe through his mouth. The whole area felt corrupt. The water soaking into the knee of his jeans could be infused with chemicals from their rotten bodies, and the air was rich with their stench. He was breathing in gases from their exposed corpses. Even the deepening darkness was slick and greasy.
He's opened the grave!
He had never expected it of him. He hadn't even thought that Roberts would find the grave's location; it had been chosen because it was away from any real point of reference, just another nowhere in a Plain of many such nowheres. But Cole now knew that this had already gone much further than he could have guessed, and for the first time since killing King he felt anger at him, not pity.
Stupid fuck! What was it with him? Why the hell start talking after so long?
Cole wanted so much to turn and run, but his whole life was centred on this place and what had happened here. He had always hoped and prayed that he would never have cause to return. He had never picked up the trail of the escaped berserkers, but he had tried continuously, never giving in. Not like the army. Their shunning of their responsibilities had been the main reason for his leaving and pursuing the escapees on his own. He was not
