said something to Andy, the botanist, about leaving trail signs. Does that help?”
“Yes,” Frank said, almost laughing with relief. “Let me help you get settled in the house. I have a few more questions.”
Newly sighed. “I thought you might. But I demand a price.”
“Oh?” Frank said, wary again.
“I cannot tell you how anxious I am to throw these boots away. . . . I don’t think I’ll recover if I have to keep looking at them. Once we’re inside, would you mind dropping them in the trash compactor for me?”
“With pleasure,” Frank answered.
14
WEDNESDAY NIGHT, MAY 17
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
He lay on his back, drawing in one deep breath after another.
He modestly acknowledged to himself that he had failed to envision how magnificent it would be. The excitement of it bordered deliciously on the unbearable. A weaker man would have been forced to seek some kind of release. Not him. No, not him.
Earlier, before they had opened the plastic, he had dared to touch himself, just once, but he knew better than to try that now.
Her death scent was on all of them, but especially on those who had stayed closest to the grave throughout the day. The guards had taken turns, had gone to see her. They couldn’t resist, of course. Pilgrims drawn to a holy place, he thought, remembering his delight as each returned, bathed in her incense.
But that little tease had been nothing compared to the moment when they brought her back. The memories of their time together — he had almost grown dizzy under the spell of the recollection.
Sheridan and Niles positively reeked of her, of course. That was delightful. How he envied Sheridan. Yes, it really was something near to jealousy — he had touched her. Thinking of Sheridan’s gloved hand on her hand — oh!
He was drawn tight as a bow now, thinking of that, and so he made himself move his thoughts to safer ground.
He thought of Merrick roughing him up. Childish! Nothing could have made him feel better. He’d met Merrick before, in one form or another. Bullies. Schoolyard bullies, like Harvey Heusman in seventh grade. He knew how to handle them. He’d done it before. Harvey had been one of his first victims. He wondered idly whether they had ever found him. It had been many years since he had visited Harvey’s grave, and realizing this, he felt a moment’s remorse — not for killing Harvey, of course, but for failing to keep his appointed rounds.
Like a favorite story that had been read and re-read again and again, recalling the killing of his childhood enemy had long ago lost its power to excite him, but that did not make him less fond of the memory. Visiting the older burial sites could make him quite nostalgic, and he was not one to ignore them. He was good about paying homage to — well, to himself, really! The thought amused him.
Ah, that little humorous moment was enough to ease the tension a bit.
He returned to his very detailed recollections of this afternoon, about to reach his favorite moment. Yes, here she was, pale and looking a little tired — she didn’t sleep well. He would have liked to believe that he caused her late-night restlessness, but on the first evening he had heard the sounds of one of her nightmares, and knew some other terror visited her. That was all right. He’d focus her fear where it belonged, all in due time. For now, it was enough to see the dark circles beneath her blue eyes, her hair falling forward across her face as she looked down for a moment as she walked.
She was coming closer now, closer, and — oh yes! She had the scent. He had breathed in deeply as she walked by him, smelling her scent and the dead woman’s scent together, mingled and lovely, lovely, lovely. Thinking of it made him tremble.
Oh, it was so right, so exquisite! Anticipation hummed through him like an electric current. Everything was working so perfectly, and with everything working so perfectly, it was all that he could do to be still, to lie on his back in this tent, simply feeling his own blood moving through his veins, every nerve thrumming with the strength of his desire.
15
THURSDAY, EARLY MORNING, MAY 18
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
The rain held off until just before dawn the next morning. The rainfall was not hard or steady — just a series of intermittent gentle showers for the most part — but the first of these awakened me as its chilly droplets struck my face. In my fitful sleep I had moved off my open sleeping bag, and so I came awake lying faceup, halfway outside the tent. The part of me that was still on the thin insulation mattress was fine, but the other thirty percent or so wasn’t so comfy. Especially the part that was getting pelted by cold water.
I moved back inside only long enough to change and pack up my gear. When I emerged, I saw the others were already breaking camp. No one wanted to linger here. Although weather might delay the plane’s arrival, last night it had been decided that we would hike back to the landing strip to wait for it.
Occasional but unpredictable gusts of wind made taking down my small tent a tricky business, and those who were managing the larger tent that had housed Parrish nearly lost control of it more than once.
I wondered if the trail would be muddy. Our progress had been slow before, and even though some of the weight of the food was gone from our packs, the body would be an awkward burden to steer through the terrain we had covered on the way in.
The rain briefly lessened the body’s lingering odor, to which I had almost become accustomed, and brought the scent of dampened earth and woods to replace it. But when the first storm passed, and the air became still again, the scent returned. Perhaps it was the moisture in the air that seemed to increase the scent’s power, or that short respite now resulted in a renewed awareness of it, but whatever the cause, its presence was soon unmistakable.
We set out just after a quick breakfast, which I made myself eat because I knew I’d need the energy for the hike, although my appetite was nearly zilch. I tried to cheer myself with the prospect of going home, of seeing Frank again, of being finished with this sad business. But I would not be finished with it, of course; the Sayres awaited me, and my editor expected a story.
As we began hiking, I saw that while the ground and grass were damp, there wasn’t much mud yet. The wind
