October Skies (46 page)

‘Dammit!’ he cursed again.

He stumbled downhill towards the camp, through the tightly packed fir trees, coarse pine needles whipping and scratching his face as he pushed his way along by the last fading grey twilight.

He’d found no freshly disturbed snow, no sign of Preston. His hope of coming across the man alone had not happened. If he had, he wondered if he’d have been able to shoot him in cold blood.

Perhaps.

But now it looked as though he was going to arrive back at the camp with nothing to show, with only an unsubstantiated accusation to make. Ben had no idea as yet what he would do when he emerged into the clearing, no plan at all. Perhaps if he threw his gun down and crossed the clearing with his hands raised high, they might let him approach them without shooting him down.

And what if Preston is there, amongst them? You think he’s going to let you talk for long?

‘I have to try,’ he gasped under his breath.

If he was right, if this was Preston’s work, if Preston did have some crudely fashioned devilish disguise and it was not being kept in the trapper’s shelter, then perhaps it was stowed in the temple. Perhaps even stowed in that metal chest the man kept behind his cot.

All of a sudden, that seemed a certainty to him; in that chest he was sure to find something that would expose Preston; a blood-stained knife, a gore-spattered mask of bone . . . something. He wondered if there might be a way to creep around the edge of the clearing, to await a moment of distraction and steal inside the temple, hoping to remain undiscovered long enough to wrench the chest open and pull something out that would bring everyone immediately to their senses.

It was a pitiful plan, but short of running away into the woods alone and freezing to death, or joining Keats in some futile last stand, he could think of nothing else to do.

He caught a glimpse of light through the trees, the flickering orange of a flame. Keats had built a large pyre in the middle of their blockade to provide enough illumination that they’d clearly be able to see anyone coming for them. The pyre, it seemed, had now been lit and was already burning well.

It was then that he heard the first echoing crack of gunfire.

‘Oh, God, no!’ he gasped.

It’s started already.

 

He watched Lambert struggling past, wheezing and panting, staggering through the branches and drifts of snow, making enough noise to awaken even the hibernating creatures of the woods.

Squatting in the branches, he watched the man pass beneath him towards the camp, whimpering and muttering to himself.

You’re too late, Benjamin Lambert.

This man will try to stop them, the voice whispered to him from a dark corner of his mind. He didn’t mind the voice being there in his head with him; it was comforting in a way. It knew just what to do.

This man might stop it. Kill him.

It’s too late now. They’re all going to kill each other.

He watched Lambert stagger blindly forward through the undergrowth and low branches, towards the peeling echo of an opening salvo of gunfire and the distant undulating twinkle of firelight.

The angel was right, of course. Lambert might yet put an end to this before it got going. The angel always offered the best advice, the best guidance - a voice to listen to and learn from. Alone, his own anger would have been the end of him. The angel had helped him channel the energy of his rage very cleverly.

Ingeniously.

It had become fun, watching the fear and paranoia eat into those people, watching the Elders become like frightened children, and Preston descend into madness.

He smiled beneath the mask. Listening to Vander beg, whimper and squeal like a pig had been the most fun of all.

Kill him.

He dropped down from the tree into the snow. He was hesitant to follow the angel’s whispered instruction. Lambert was further away now, making better speed through the thinning trees, drawing closer to the clearing.

He is getting away from us.

He found an inner reserve to dare to confront the angel.

I wish for him to get away.

The bones stirred uneasily, and for a moment he thought he felt the warm smoulder of disapproval burning through the canvas sack to touch and scorch his skin. The warmth intensified for a moment, then the sensation quickly faded.

Perhaps. He is a good man.

They watched him stagger out of view, wading through knee-deep snow, calling out desperately to those in the clearing to cease. But the crackle of gunfire had intensified and there was a growing cacophony of voices coming from the clearing; some taunting, some pleading, some screaming - men, women and children all joining in a chorus of chaos.

I want to get closer, so that we can see.

The voice was silent in agreement. He stood up, spines of bone clinking softly against each other, then he stepped forward and followed with quiet, lithe grace in Lambert’s tracks.

Tonight, the one we both want will die.

Yes. I want his death to be worse than that of the others. I hate him.

Then we should be closer.

 

Julian checked the email on his BlackBerry to remind himself of the agreed time as he stepped inside.

It was, as he thought, four p.m.

He looked around Angel’s Muffin House, a small and cosy teahouse with lace doilies, chequered tablecloths and a faux brass oil lamp adorning each table. Several small windows with net curtains allowed in some of the dull pallor of late afternoon, but it was dim enough inside that he needed a moment for his outdoor eyes to adjust.

It appeared to be deserted, not a single customer. Not that that surprised him. Like the rest of this quaint little holiday-season town, he imagined Angel’s Muffin House bustled with trade in the summer but tumbleweed rolled through it the rest of the year.

It was a well-chosen spot for a discreet meeting. This had been Arnold Zuckerman’s emailed suggestion. Julian hadn’t noticed this cake shop, tucked away off Blue Valley’s one, quiet, high street.

The guy’s visited this town before, then.

Julian was busy wondering why the proprietor of Angel’s would bother to keep it open like this, when he spotted movement in a dimly lit corner. He noticed a middle-aged man sitting alone at a table. Self-consciously he wove his way past several tidily laid tables towards him.

‘Arnold?’ he asked, holding out a hand.

‘Yes,’ the man replied with a warm smile and a rich, deep, vaguely familiar voice. ‘Mr Cooke?’

Julian nodded and they shook hands formally.

‘Please,’ the man said, ‘pull up a seat. I ordered us a pot of Earl Grey and some delicious-looking cinnamon muffins.’ He spoke with the warm, old-world charm of a storekeeper; very appealing and welcoming in a come-and-join-me-by-the-firem’boy kind of way.

Julian sat down and the man poured tea into his cup from the pot.

‘You flew in from Britain today?’ he asked.

Julian nodded. ‘Into Denver, earlier this morning.’

‘You must be tired.’

Julian added milk and spooned in some sugar. ‘Yes, I am a bit.’

An awkward silence passed between them as Julian decided how to open up the discussion.

‘Look,’ said the man, ‘this is a bit awkward. I’m not particularly good at playing games with people, Mr Cooke. I lie very badly, which . . . believe me, is a real handicap in the line of work I’ve chosen. I’m afraid I’m not who I said I was.’

Julian looked up at him. The man smiled a little guiltily. ‘You might recognise me, or you might not. Depends how well you’ve been following the news lately.’

Julian realised he knew the face from somewhere - distinguished in the way a mature character actor might be.

In the news?

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘now you say it, I think I have seen you on TV.’

The man sighed and his smile widened. ‘I suspect you probably have. It’s getting harder and harder these days to find a quiet corner where I can be myself.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. I should apologise for not being on the level with you, Mr Cooke.’

‘Okay, Arnold Zuckerman is an alias.’ Julian smiled. ‘I thought it sounded like a badly made-up name.’

‘Yes,’ the man acknowledged with a soft laugh. ‘If I place a cap on my head and a pair of glasses on my nose and try a change of clothes I can still - just about - walk up a street without being accosted by someone. But’ - he sipped his tea - ‘not for much longer, I imagine.’

Julian looked at him intently, trying to place this man’s face in the right context. He remembered seeing that face recently as a still image, a picture on the front of a magaz—

Then it came to him.

‘Oh shit!’ he whispered. ‘You’re . . . you’re the independent candidate, uh . . . Shepperton?’

He nodded. ‘William Shepherd.’

Julian’s jaw dropped open. ‘Oh my God!’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Not quite. I’m just a part-time lay preacher.’

Julian grinned. There was a warm, disarming familiarity to the man, which he found quite charming.

I’m sitting across the table from a man who may well be the next President of the United States.

Shepherd noticed Julian’s sudden stiffness. ‘Relax,’ he laughed warmly, ‘and please call me William. You know, despite being demonised, or lionised, depending on which news network you want to watch, I’m just a tired old guy trying to muddle through one day after the next and do what’s right for my country.’

‘You seem to be doing well, though.’

‘It’s still early days. There’s another whole year of campaigning to go. There’s a lot of work to do yet, to convince the American people it ain’t the end of the world if they go and vote a Mormon into office.’

‘A costly business.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘Tell me about it. I believe the predicted spend on political campaigning by the others is likely to top two billion dollars by the time election day rolls around. I’m hoping to rely on the message, instead of slick campaigning.’ Shepherd leaned forward and offered a sly wink. ‘You know what? I think people are beginning to see through all that glossy crap these days.’

‘Do you think you stand a chance?’

‘I’m making a lot of new friends,’ he replied. ‘There’re a lot of backers out there beginning to smell a good bet.’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘In any case, the Democrats and Republicans are both looking dirty, the amount of mud they’ve been slinging at each other. All I need do is convince middle America that voting for me won’t let in the party they despise the most.’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘But look, if you’ll forgive me, I’m bored witless of discussing campaign tactics. I have a man called Duncan who drives me up the wall with that kind of tedium. No . . . I’m here because we share a fascination with a certain obscure historical character.’

‘Yes.’ Julian reached for a muffin. He pulled it apart in his hands and picked at the hard-baked crust, not hungry but needing something to fiddle with. ‘So then, I suppose the obvious question from me is: why your interest in this William Preston character?’

Shepherd took a moment to consider the question.

‘I’ll level with you. It’s not so much Preston himself that I’m specifically interested in. As you saw on my web page, I managed to put together some background on the man, but it’s what happened to the group of people that were travelling west with him that I’d like to learn more about.’

‘So, what do you know?’

‘They vanished in the mountains . . .’ He looked out of the window, through the net curtains at the panorama of peaks towering over the small town. ‘Somewhere out there.’ Shepherd turned to look at Julian. ‘One of them was my great-great-grandfather. ’

Julian’s eyes widened. ‘No! Seriously?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘My great-great-grandfather.’

‘Preston?’

Shepherd hesitated. ‘Lord, no. It was a young man.’

‘Would his name have been Lambert?’

‘Yes,’ replied Shepherd - his turn to look astonished. ‘Yes, it was. How on earth would you know that?’ he asked, his deep voice dropping to a whisper.

Julian wondered how much of the truth he wanted to pay out to this man. He decided there was no harm in giving him a little bit more for free. ‘We discovered what happened to those people. We found where they ended up.’

‘Oh my . . .’ Shepherd’s deep eyes widened.

Julian smiled. ‘Better still, we found the journal of one Benjamin Lambert. A very detailed account of what happened out there.’

Shepherd gasped. ‘That’s an incredible discovery!’

Julian nodded. ‘Yes, yes it is.’

Shepherd spread his hands. ‘And? Would you tell me what happened to them?’

Julian sipped his tea silently.