he hadn’t shown any sign of pain but his leg was stretched out in front of him and his ankle was obviously broken. The foot was turned at a dreadful angle and there was already a massive swelling that went halfway up his leg.
For a long minute, neither of them said anything.
One boy will stand against the Old Ones and alone he will fall.
The words of the amauta seemed to whisper back to Matt in the midnight breeze. So this was how it was meant to happen. It had all been neatly arranged. A helicopter crash. Atoc killed. Pedro too injured to move. Matt on his own. Just as predicted.
Matt smiled grimly. “Adios,” he said.
“No. Matteo…”
“I have to go.” Matt stood up. The wreckage of the helicopter had begun to cool down. There wasn’t going to be a fire or an explosion. He could leave Pedro here. “Richard and the others will be on their way,” he said. “You won’t have to wait too long.”
He didn’t know how much Pedro understood. It didn’t matter any more.
Matt turned and walked away.
He was still hurting. His head was pounding and every bone in his back and neck seemed to have been twisted out of shape. He looked down at his hands and saw there were cuts all over them. His shirt was torn. It occurred to him that if anyone was watching, he would look like a walking corpse.
And yet, as he limped forward, the pain seemed to slip away. It was a strange feeling, as if he was leaving the pain behind him like a set of discarded clothes. There had been a breeze when he started, but now it died down and he was able to hear the soft contact of his feet with the earth. There was an extraordinary stillness in the desert. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath. He glanced up at the sky, black and littered with stars. He could make out the rise and fall of the mountains in the distance, nothing more than a single brushstroke on the great canvas that was the night. Briefly he wondered about the condors that had attacked him the last time he was here. What would he do if they returned?
He was alone. He had never felt so alone. He could see himself as a tiny speck in this vast, empty desert, making his way to what he knew must be certain death. Why was he doing this? He had no weapons. Atoc must surely have had a gun, but Matt hadn’t even looked for it in the wreckage of the helicopter. Why not? The answer came to him at once. He had his power, of course. For a brief second he was back at Forrest Hill and saw the chandelier destroy itself, the glass bulbs exploding one after another. He had used his power then. No – that wasn’t true. It had been his power that had used him.
The mobile laboratory was in front of him. The helicopter had come down less than a quarter of a mile away. Now that he was closer he could see that the laboratory was part lorry, part container, part mobile home. It had been driven here on eight fat, rubber tyres but once it had arrived it had been jacked up on steel legs so that the wheels were about twenty centimetres off the ground. There was a driving cabin at the front – empty – and a door with three steps at the side. Matt’s eyes were drawn to the roof. Another satellite dish, about three metres wide, pointed upwards, connected to the main body of the vehicle by a series of thick wires. There were other machines surrounding it. A ladder led up the very back.
Perhaps he could climb up. But even if he did, even if he wasn’t discovered, what would he do then? He couldn’t cut the wires. He’d brought nothing with him. And someone would shoot him down the moment he began.
Nothing moved. What time was it? Matt still had no watch and he wondered if it was too late, if midnight had already passed. In that case, somewhere in the Nazca Desert, or perhaps in another part of Peru, the gate would have opened. The Old Ones would already be walking, once again, on the face of the earth.
He refused to accept it. Salamanda was in front of him, inside the laboratory. Matt still had time to do what had to be done. Everything that had happened to him since he had arrived in Peru – indeed, long before – had been building up to this moment. He was here for a reason.
He closed his eyes.
The power. Find it. Use it. Direct it. It’s inside you. You only have to use the trigger.
It was the smell of burning. Matt knew that somehow all this had begun with the death of his parents in a car accident when he was eight years old. That morning, his mother had burnt the toast. And whenever his power came back to him, so did the memory of that single, defining moment in his life. When Gavin Taylor had tripped him up at Forrest Hill, he had smelled burning. And the next day, in class, as Gwenda prepared to drive a petrol tanker into the school… the same thing.
The secret was to smell something that wasn’t there. To imagine it. He had no idea how it worked, but if he could take himself back to that instant when – even though he hadn’t known it then – his power had first revealed itself to him, it would throw a switch somewhere inside him and then it would begin.
Matt stood where he was, his arms folded loosely in front of him. He was breathing slowly, his eyes still closed. He could feel the cool of the night on the back of his neck. He didn’t struggle, knowing it would do no good. Instead, he waited for it to happen. He felt a sense of calm. He was meant to be here. Everything was meant to be.
And far away inside himself, he felt it. It was like a train at the end of an endless tunnel, except that he was the tunnel and the train was something stirring within himself. He saw a flash of yellow, not here in the desert, but thousands of miles away, six years ago. The kitchen. He was there with his parents. He could see his own legs, in short trousers, dangling over the side of the chair. A wisp of smoke, invisible now, curled beneath his nostrils. There it was. The smell of burning. It had come to him again.
Matt opened his eyes.
He knew what he was going to do. He knew he was able to do it. He didn’t even have to think about it any more. He lowered his hands, palms outwards, and in front of him the silver trailer began to shimmer and bend as if caught in a heatwave. Matt concentrated. It was as if he was pushing himself, or some part of himself, forward. Something invisible was flowing out of him. He heard a shot but nobody had fired. He had torn one of the bolts out of the roof. He smiled to himself and at once another bolt snapped, then two more. The satellite dish groaned, metal fighting against metal. If there had been four men, standing on the lorry, they would have been unable to move it. But Matt was ripping it out as if it was paper.
The entire dish rattled as if it was trying to jerk itself free of the metal roof. Matt helped it. He merely flicked his eyes and off it came, the cables and supports snapping, the whole thing spinning away into the night. And that was it. It was over. Whoever was inside the trailer would no longer have control of the satellite. Matt was astonished that, after all he had been through, the whole thing had ended so quickly.
The door of the mobile laboratory opened and a figure appeared.
It was Salamanda. Matt had only seen him once but of course the elongated head, the mottled skin, the tiny eyes and mouth were unforgettable. He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt, the sleeves open and loose. Carefully, he stepped down from the trailer. Even the three steps were a challenge for him. All his attention was focused on keeping his head upright. It was the same task that had occupied him throughout his life. Behind him, through the open door, Matt saw other men and a woman wearing a white coat. Miss Klein. He remembered her from the hacienda. Salamanda wouldn’t have been able to track the satellite on his own. He had brought along his technicians to help.
Almost idly, Matt wondered what would happen next. Salamanda reached the ground and stood, staring at him. He had something in his hand. A gun – of course. Did he really think he could use that against Matt?
“Why are you here?” Salamanda screamed in fury. His face would have been contorted in anger except that it was contorted already and always had been. His eyes blazed. “How did you get here?”
“What time is it?” Matt asked.
Salamanda stopped. It was as if he had been slapped.
“What…?”
“What time is it?”
The man understood the question and why Matt had asked it. “It’s five minutes to twelve!” he whimpered. “Five minutes… that’s all I needed! Five minutes more!”
He raised the gun and fired.
The bullet exploded out of the barrel and began to travel towards Matt, aiming for his head. It didn’t get anywhere near him. Matt had no idea how he did it. He had never felt like this before. He simply concentrated and
