the wind. Above him, the stars swam in and out of focus. After a moment, fighting nausea, he struggled to his feet and looked at the encircling trees. It was only then that the realisation hit him that he was lost. Without the Prophet’s guidance, he had little or no chance of finding his way to the caravan. He was going to have to go back down into the tunnels, tackle the Prophet and force him to lead them there. It was either that or risk wandering in circles in the woods until he fell unconscious from the pain or loss of blood. Heart heavy as a lump of lead, he looked at the trapdoor. Jamie tugged at his arm again. “Do you know the way to the caravan?” Harlan asked him hopefully.
Jamie nodded. Briefly closing his eyes with relief, Harlan handed him the torch and gestured for him to lead the way. They clambered up the grassy bank and entered the deeper darkness beneath the leaf canopy. Occasionally, Jamie paused, shining the torch this way and that, before continuing onwards. Even though the night was cool, sweat poured off Harlan. At shortening intervals, he was forced to lean, panting, against a tree and wring out the makeshift bandage like a wet dishcloth. The blood leaking from him was no longer blood it was molten lava, scorching its way down his leg and squelching in his shoe. Every step now was pure agony. He stared at his feet, thinking, one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving. Keep moving or die.
After about twenty minutes, although it seemed more like twenty hours to Harlan, they emerged into the clearing to the left of the caravan. The car was only a couple of hundred yards up the dirt track, but it might as well have been a hundred miles away. As Harlan tried to move, the world went blurry with the pain. For a moment he stood swaying on the edge of unconsciousness. Then he saw Jamie’s face. The boy was staring at the caravan as if transfixed, mouth working mutely, tears streaming down his cheeks. The sight pulled Harlan back from the brink. His gaze moved beyond the boy to the Landrover. He took the Prophet’s keys out of his pocket. There was an ignition key amongst the bunch. There was a risk that in using the Landrover he would contaminate physical evidence, but he didn’t see any other choice. Jamie blinked as Harlan tapped his shoulder and pointed to the vehicle.
With Jamie supporting Harlan by the elbow as best he could, they moved torturously slowly towards the Landrover. The key fitted. Harlan hauled himself behind the wheel, groaning with relief as he took his weight off his injured hip. He glanced at the backseat while Jamie ran around to the front passenger door. There was a pharmacy prescription bag sealed with a label on it. He picked it up and read the label. ‘Mary Webster. 1831 Wilmslow Road, Parrs Wood, Manchester’. A faint ripple of surprise passed through him. He’d assumed the Prophet would out of practical and psychological necessity be a loner, but that obviously wasn’t the case. Who was Mary Webster? he wondered. The Prophet’s wife? His partner in crime? Was he one half of a murderous duo cast in the mould of Brady and Hindley? It was possible, of course, but unlikely. More probably it was his mother. Whoever she was, she was in for a big shock when the police came to batter down her door and tear her home apart. She’d be in for an even bigger shock, one she’d likely never recover from, when she learnt what they were searching for. And so the trail of devastated lives would continue on and on with no apparent end.
Exhaling a burning breath, Harlan reversed onto the track and slammed the gear-stick into first. Even cushioned by the four-by-four’s suspension, every bump in the dirt was like a twist of a torturer’s rack, squeezing more nausea up from the pit of his stomach. Halfway to the main road, he braked, threw open his door and vomited. There wasn’t much to bring up. He’d eaten little other than doughnuts for days. Finally, they made it to the road. Harlan checked his phone. There was a signal. He called Jim.
“What is it?” his ex-partner asked brusquely. “Things are kind of crazy here right-”
“I’ve got him,” interrupted Harlan, his voice was low and hoarse with agonised exhaustion.
“Got who? Are you alright? You sound terrible.”
“The guy who snatched Jack Holland. I found Jamie Sutton as well. He’s alive.”
There was a moment of silence, as if Jim was struggling to take in what he’d heard. Then he said, “Where are you?”
As Harlan described as best he could where they were, he examined the blood soaked makeshift bandage. “And send an ambulance. I’ve been…” His voice slurred off. Without him even realising it, his eyes slid shut and his head nodded. Suddenly he was with Tom at the park, pushing him on a swing. Tom was laughing, kicking his feet high, his thick brown hair blowing in the wind. A perfectly happy scene, but something about it made Harlan uneasy. More than that, it made him angry. So angry he wanted to scream and claw at it, tear it to shreds.
“Harlan, are you still there? Talk to me?”
Jim’s voice jerked Harlan away from Tom. With difficulty, he lifted his head. “Hurry, Jim.”
“Someone’s already on the way. Don’t hang up, Harlan. Stay on the line with me until they get there.”
“I’ll try.” Harlan seemed to hear his own voice from a distance. He leant his head against the window. The pain wasn’t so bad anymore. He knew that probably wasn’t a good sign.
“We’ve got a helicopter up. Can you see it?”
Harlan rolled his eyes glassily at the sky. “No.”
“Keep looking. Tell me when you do.”
Harlan gazed up at the stars. His eyes drifted as he wondered dimly about how Jamie knew the path through the woods. The answer seemed obvious. The boy had been moved from the cave to the caravan enough times that he could find his way between the two even in the dark. But for what purpose? From Jamie’s reaction to the caravan, the answer to that also seemed chillingly obvious.
He looked at Jamie. The boy was sat hunched down, hands clasped in his lap. Even after everything that’d just happened, he met Harlan’s gaze warily. “Did that man, the one from the cave, take you to see someone else at the caravan?” Harlan hated to ask the question, but he had to know.
Jamie nodded.
“Was it a man?”
Jamie shrugged.
“Were you blindfolded?”
Tears shimmered in Jamie’s eyes as he shook his head.
“Did the person wear a mask?”
Another nod.
“Did…did…” Harlan stumbled over his words. The world was turning grey at the fringes. Merciful blackness beckoned. Just one or two more questions, he told himself, then you can let go. “Did this person take photos of you?”
Jamie shook his head and gestured in the air. Harlan wrinkled his brow, not understanding. Then realisation hit him. “They drew you.”
Jamie nodded. The tears finally spilled over.
“It’s okay,” said Harlan, barely murmuring the words. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
But it wasn’t going to be okay. Never. Ever. Harlan returned his gaze to the stars. One was brighter than the others. It hadn’t been there before. He watched it moving nearer. He heard a distant sound. Whump, whump, whump, like a pounding heart. Then his eyelids slammed down and it felt like when Kane hit him with the bat, only this time he was falling into warm, dark water.
Chapter 16
Harlan remembered being stretchered to the ambulance, flashing lights, the wail of the siren. He remembered being wheeled into the hospital, a nurse cutting away his clothes, doctors crowding around talking about blood loss and X-rays, shining lights in his eyes. He remembered a voice. “Harlan, can you hear me?” it’d asked. “Blink if you can.” He’d blinked. Another — or was it the same? — voice had said something about exploratory surgery. He even remembered being lifted onto the operating table. But all of it was hazy and remote as a dream. And the whole time, one train of thought kept running through in his brain: I need to talk to Eve. I need to hear her voice. I need her to be here. I need her. I need her…
The next thing Harlan remembered was waking up to find himself lying in a hospital bed in a single room, hooked up to an oxygen mask, an IV bag and a cardiac monitor. A female doctor was stood at the end of his bed, reading his medical notes. Her face blurred in and out before his drug-clouded eyes. He felt floaty, disconnected. Noticing he was awake, the doctor asked, “Mr Miller, how do you feel? Any pain?”
