Only once had he felt truly threatened. He had gone to the plane to replenish his supplies of cash, for he had to prepare for another winter. He had entered the plane through the canvas hatch at the back, noting once again how far the fuselage had sunk. It might take years, but eventually the plane would be lost entirely. He pulled back a piece of rotting carpet and lifted the panel that it concealed in order to retrieve the money.
He was just about to reach into the bag when he was struck by a blinding flash of white pain, as though a shard of metal had been forced through his right ear and into his brain. They came on him with increasing frequency, these attacks, but this was the worst yet. His body went into seizure, and he spasmed so hard that he broke two teeth on his lower row. The cabin of the plane began to close in on him, and he experienced a terrible sense of falling and burning. Then the world went black, and when he opened his eyes again he had somehow crawled from the plane, and the girl was nearby, circling him but drawing closer. She was angry at the passenger for taking the hiker when she had wanted him for herself. He had to get away from her, but his sense of direction was distorted. He reached for his gun, but it was gone, and he suspected that the girl had taken it. She hated the gun. Its noise troubled her, and she seemed to know that it was important to him, that without it he would be more vulnerable. He was forced to keep the girl at bay with stones until, through sheer luck, he managed to struggle back to his cabin, for in his confused, agonized state he was unable to find the fort. There he barred the door against her, and he listened from his pallet bed as she scratched at the wood, trying to force her way inside.
When at last he was strong enough to leave, he found that the door was scarred by the girl’s efforts, and he dug one of her old, twisted fingernails from the exposed white wood. He returned to the plane, and discovered the remains of a fire, and he saw that the interior had been disturbed. The money was gone, although he had retained enough good sense to separate it into three piles, keeping some of it at the cabin and some buried in plastic behind the fort. But it was not the money that concerned him so much as the intrusion, and the imminent risk of discovery.
He stripped the cabin and the fort of his possessions, wrapped them in plastic, and buried them. He hid the shrine beneath a screen of leaves and twigs and moss that he had constructed for just such an eventuality, then retreated many miles to the north where he had built himself a hide. After a month he risked returning to his cabin, and discovered to his surprise that the site was as it had been, and nobody had come to find the plane. He could not understand why, but he was thankful. In the wilderness, he continued his solitary worship, and his solitary search. He subsumed his pleasure in killing because he knew that, if indulged, it would eventually draw people to him.
Until that week, when he had taken the two hikers, and offered up the woman’s remains to the Buried God.
That was why he had returned to the fort, at least for a while. The girl always grew angry when he killed, and it would take days for her temper to subside. Just as with the hiker long before, she was angry because she had wanted the couple for herself. She wanted company. By killing those who strayed into her territory, the passenger deprived her of it, and the uneasy truce that existed between them was threatened. On those occasions, the passenger would take refuge in his cabin or, more often, in the fort, and from its safety he would watch the enraged girl stalking outside its walls, casting her whispered threats to the wind. Then the girl would disappear, and he would see no trace of her for weeks.
At those times, the passenger believed that she might be sulking.
So the passenger left the girl to her fury. He climbed into his sleeping bag in the fort and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. The Buried God’s voice had grown louder recently, desperate to communicate something to him, but the passenger could not interpret the message, and so the frustration of both grew. The passenger wished that the Buried God would be silent. He wanted peace. He wanted to reflect upon the man and the woman he had killed. He had enjoyed taking their lives, the woman’s in particular. He had forgotten the pleasure that it brought.
He wanted to kill another, and soon.
47
Harlan Vetters and Paul Scollay had headed out on their fateful hunting trip in the afternoon, but it didn’t seem like a good idea for us to follow suit: the plane would be difficult enough to find in daylight, and flashlights would mark our position and progress just as surely as the noise of ATVs. Neither did it seem smart to leave at or before dawn, as the likelihood of encountering hunters was greater. I decided that we would leave shortly before ten a.m., which would give us a clear five or six hours of good light before the sun began to set, by which time we would, with luck, have found the plane, obtained the list, and be on our way back to Falls End without incident.
‘With luck,’ said Louis, without enthusiasm.
‘We never have luck,’ said Angel.
‘Which is why we always need guns,’ said Louis.
We were staying at a motel five miles south of Falls End. Next door was a diner that sold only seven types of bottled beer: Bud, Miller and Coors; Bud Light, Miller Lite, and Coors Light; and Heineken.
We were drinking Heineken.
Jackie Garner was back in his room, trying to explain to his mother why he was not joining her for their weekly movie night, especially as she and Lisa, Jackie’s girlfriend, had rented Fifty First Dates for him because they knew how much he liked Drew Barrymore. Jackie, who neither liked nor disliked Drew Barrymore, and had no idea how this neutral position had been transformed into something close to an obsession, had no satisfactory answer to give other than that a job was a job. He had told me earlier that his mother had seemed more like her normal self these past few days, which meant that she was just inordinately possessive of her only son. But it was also the case that Jackie’s mother, who had previously regarded Jackie’s girlfriend as a rival for her son’s affections, had softened her position over the past year. Having clearly noticed that the relationship between her son and Lisa was not about to fall apart any time soon, despite her best efforts, Mrs Garner had decided it was better to have her as an ally than an enemy, and Lisa had come to the same conclusion. The onset of Mrs Garner’s final illness now lent both a poignancy and convenience to this relationship.
The diner was full, and a lot of the conversation revolved around events in Falls End. There appeared to be no change in the condition of Marielle and Grady Vetters. By contrast, judging by the talk in the diner, the focus of the investigation into the deaths of Teddy Gattle and Ernie Scollay had rapidly altered, and Grady Vetters was no longer being treated as a suspect.
‘They got injected with somethin’, is what I heard,’ a big, bearded man had told me in the restroom just minutes earlier. He was swaying as he stood at the urinal, so he resorted to leaning his head against the wall to keep himself steady while he peed.
‘Who did?’
‘Marielle and Grady,’ said the man. ‘Somebody stuck a needle in ’em.’
‘How’d you hear this?’
‘My brother-in-law is a sheriff’s deputy.’ He belched hard. ‘No way Grady injected himself, so he’s no killer. I could have told them that. Anyone in town could have. You here to hunt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Need a guide?’
‘Got one, thanks.’
If he heard me, he decided to ignore what I said. He fumbled in his pocket with his right hand while continuing to aim with his left, and produced a business card for Wessel’s Guide Service. Everybody seemed to be a guide in these parts.
‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Greg Wessel. You can call anytime.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Parker.’
‘I won’t shake your hand.’
‘I appreciate that. You hear anything about the men who were killed? The folk on the news didn’t seem to know any more than I do, and I don’t know anything at all.’
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‘Ernie Scollay and Teddy Gattle,’ said Wessel. ‘Brother-in-law says Teddy had track marks on his arm too, and Teddy was a pothead. Potheads don’t use needles. Old Ernie just took two in the back. What kind of fucking coward shoots an old man in the back, huh?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You ask a lot of questions,’ said Wessel. It was a comment, and I heard no belligerence or suspicion in it. ‘You a reporter?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m just here to hunt and, you know, this kind of thing makes a man concerned for his safety.’
‘Well, you got guns, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know how to use them?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Then you got nothing to worry about.’
He finished peeing, and waited his turn while I washed my hands.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘Wessel’s Guide and Taxidermy. I’ll be sober before dawn. Guaranteed.’
Now, back at the table, the waitress brought three burgers for Angel, Louis and me. They were not big. Around them were scattered a dozen very thin, very brown fries, like the detritus of a destroyed bird’s nest. Angel poked at his burger. It oozed a thin trickle of grease.
‘Did we order sliders to share?’ he asked.
The waitress returned to fill up our water.
‘You need anything else?’ she asked.
‘More food would be a start,’ said Angel. ‘Any food.’
‘It’s burger night,’ said the waitress. Her hair was very red. So were her lips, her cheeks, and her uniform. If it hadn’t been November, and the heart-shaped tattoo on her right forearm had not read ‘Muffy’s Bitch’, she might have seemed festive.
‘What’s so special about burger night?’ asked Angel.
The waitress pointed to a hand-lettered sign behind the register. It read ‘Burger Night, Wenedsday! $3 burger and fries!’
‘Burger night,’ she said. ‘Wednesday.’
‘It’s just that the burgers are kind of small,’ said Angel.
‘That’s why they’re three bucks,’ said the waitress.
‘Right,’ said Angel. ‘You know, you spelled “Wednesday” wrong.’
‘You know, I didn’t spell it at all.’
‘Right,’ said Angel again. ‘Who’s Muffy?’
‘Ex-boyfriend.’
‘He ask you to get that done?’
‘No, got it done myself, after we broke up.’
‘After you broke up?’
‘To remind myself that I was once Muffy’s bitch, and not to let it happen again.’
‘Right,’ said Angel, for the third time.
‘You got any more questions?’
‘Too many.’
The waitress patted Angel on the arm. ‘Well, you hold onto them. I get you boys another round of beers?’
The diner’s front door opened, and Jackie Garner walked in.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘And one extra for our friend who’s just come in.’
‘You think he’ll want to eat?’ asked the waitress. ‘Kitchen’s closing in five.’
‘He can share ours,’ said Angel. ‘There’ll be leftovers.’
Jackie didn’t want to eat, and was happy just to sip a beer. The kitchen closed, and gradually the crowd began to thin out, but nobody tried to hurry us along. We clinked our bottles, and toasted to luck, but Angel was right: luck rarely seemed to come our way.
Which was, indeed, why we had guns.
Across the road from the motel and diner stood an abandoned gas station-cum-general store, the pumps long since gone and the windows and front door of the store itself imperfectly boarded up. The back door had disappeared entirely, but the single piece of wood that had failed to deny access to it still remained, although unsecured, providing the illusion of closure.
Scattered inside were empty beer cans and bottles, a box of cheap wine that was still half full, and the odd used rubber. In one corner was a rat’s nest of blankets and towels, damp and moldy from the rain that had poured through the hole in the roof above, a consequence of a small fire that had also blackened the walls and left a smell of burning.
A firefly glow appeared in the darkness, its illumination growing quickly until it was entirely consumed by flame. The Collector put the match to his cigarette and stepped closer to the window. The lengths of wood used to block them were imperfectly nailed in place, and he could clearly see through them the four men drinking in the diner.
The Collector was torn. He was not used to experiencing anger or the desire for vengeance. Those whom he hunted had not sinned against him, and the pleasure that he took in removing them from the world was general, not personal. This was different. Someone close to him had been killed, and another injured. The most recent conversation with Eldritch’s physician had revealed that he was not recovering as quickly as might have been expected, even for a man of his advanced years, and his stay in hospital was likely to be extended. The physician suggested that the effects of shock and grief were greater threats than his physical wounds, but Eldritch had rejected offers of counseling or the attentions of a psychologist, and when the subject of a priest or pastor had been raised the patient had laughed for the first and only time since his admission.
Kill them. Kill them all.
But they were dangerous, and not only because they were armed. They knew of the Collector, and understood the threat that he posed. He had relearned a painful but valuable lesson from Becky Phipps about confronting someone who was anticipating an attack. He preferred to prey on the unarmed and unwary. He supposed that this might be regarded as cowardice in some quarters, but he saw it simply in terms of practicality. There was no reason to make his task any more difficult than it had to be and, when required, he was prepared to fight for his trophy, just as he had done with Phipps.
Bu he also wanted the rest of the list, and these men could lead him to it. He didn’t know where the Flores woman was hiding, and he could only hope that she had not already found the plane. If she had located it and secured her prize, he would have to hunt her down, and that would be time-consuming, and difficult. No, ideally these four men would do his work for him, and he would start killing after.
He watched them finish their drinks and leave the restaurant. They walked to their rooms in two pairs, Parker and Garner in front, the others behind. The Collector’s right hand slipped beneath his coat and found the hilt of a knife. He rested his fingers on it but did not draw it from its sheath. Beside it was his gun, fully loaded.
Three rooms, four men. It was risky, but not beyond his capabilities.
Kill them all.
But the list, the list . . .
48
The first sign that luck might not be going our way came when I woke up and went out to get coffee. In the parking lot was a shiny white SUV, obviously a rental, and leaning against it, already drinking a coffee of her own, was Liat. She was wearing a parka over beige canvas combat pants and a green sweater. The ends of her pants were tucked into rubber-soled boots.
‘I guess you missed me,’ I said.
One corner of her mouth curled up in very slight amusement.
‘You didn’t want to come in?’
She shook her head.
‘Did Epstein send you?’
Nod.
‘Doesn’t he trust us to bring him the list?’
Shrug.
The door to Angel and Louis’s room opened, and Louis appeared. He was already dressed for the woods, but he still managed to make cargo pants look good.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked. ‘She looks familiar.’
‘This is Liat.’
‘Liat,’ said Louis. ‘That Liat.’
‘The same.’
‘Well, I only saw her from a distance, and not from the same angles that you did. She miss you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then why is she here?’
‘To bring the list back to Epstein.’
; ‘She’s coming with us?’
‘You could try to stop her, but you’d probably have to shoot her.’
Louis considered the possibility, then seemed to discount it.
‘You planning on inviting any more ex-girlfriends along? Just asking.’
‘No.’
‘Well, long as it’s just her . . .’
Angel joined Louis. He was also dressed for the woods, and still managed to make cargo pants look bad.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked.
Spare me, I thought.
‘Liat,’ said Louis.
‘That Liat?’
‘Yep, that Liat.’
‘At least we know she exists,’ said Angel. ‘All I saw was a shape in the distance.’
‘You think he made her up?’ asked Louis.
‘It seemed more likely than him actually being with a woman.’
Liat, who had been following the conversation with her eyes, blushed.
‘Nice,’ I said.
‘Sorry,’ said Angel. He smiled at Liat. ‘But, you know, it’s true.’
Another door opened, and Jackie Garner emerged. He squinted at Liat.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Liat,’ said Angel.
Jackie looked confused, as well he might have done.
‘Who’s Liat?’
It was just after eight. Ray Wray was drinking coffee, eating a protein bar, and, after the events of the night before, wishing he was back in jail.
He and Joe had bedded down in bags on the floor of the cabin, on the other side of the sheet from the boy and his mother, but only Joe had managed to get any real rest. Ray had drifted in and out of sleep, and at some point in the night he had woken to see the boy standing at one of the windows, touching his fingers to the glass, his lips moving soundlessly. His reflection hung like a moon against the night sky, the true moon suspended above it like a second face. Ray had been afraid to move, and kept his breathing regular so that the boy would not suspect he was being watched. After perhaps fifteen minutes, the boy prepared to return to his bed, but he paused at the sheet that divided the room and looked back at Ray. Ray closed his eyes. He heard the padding of the boy’s feet as he crossed the room, and then felt his breath on his skin. He smelled it too. It smelled bad. The boy’s face was so close to his own that Ray could feel the warmth of it. He forced himself not to pull away, and not to open his eyes, even as he told himself that this was only a kid, and Ray should just tell him to get his ass back to bed where it belonged. But he did not, because the boy frightened him. He frightened him more than his mother, if that’s what she was, with her ruined face and that dead eye embedded in it like a bubble of fat on barely cooked meat. Ray willed him to go away. He’d been so careful, but somehow the boy knew that he was awake.