Down Cemetery Road Part 38

'Yup.'

'We're bound to get lucky.'

'Yup.'

Think about it: we've had bodies, bombs, drugs, thunderstorms . . . Life was a country song: If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

There was a car coming, a blue car, and it slowed as it reached the stop.

'Local rapist,' Zoe muttered.

A man leaned out of his open window. He was alone in his car. He said, 'You weren't waiting for a bus, were you?'

Before Zoe could make any one of a dozen responses, Sarah said, 'We are, yes.'

'Because unless they've changed things recently, that bus doesn't run any more.'

'You local?' Zoe asked.

'No. But I work the roads. I've driven this stretch for years. Trust me.'

Oh, sure . . .

'The name's Keller. David Keller.'

'Uh-huh,' said Zoe.

'And if you're heading this way, I can give you a ride. Far as the next town, anyway. Somewhere you might find a bus.'

Zoe looked at Sarah. Sarah looked right back.

'Thanks,' said Sarah. 'We could use some help right now.'

So could Howard. He'd had to alter the tracker's parameters already: four miles and counting either they'd got transport, or that bear could really move. On the main road, where he could locate himself on his map, he'd pulled into a lay-by and was fussing over details: a power pylon to his right, or probably east, meant he was either here or here . . . So they were back on the water or heading down the coast. Something of a toss-up, really. But he had no choice but to act like they were still on the road.

And at the back of his mind, with that part of his brain he used for crosswords, s.e.xual fantasies, and other mental activities demanding attention to detail, he was clocking through the possible ident.i.ties of a woman in a red jumper and, he was halfway definite, a gun in a leather shoulder bag.

The detective. That was what his subconscious came up with a minute or so before pa.s.sing it on. She was something to do with that detective Sarah Trafford had hired, and Axel had pacified.

That was the trouble with loose ends, he decided, starting the car up again, heading in what he hoped was the right direction. You didn't pay attention at the time, the whole blasted ball of wool came apart.

He didn't know yet if he was capable of wrapping this up himself. Maybe he'd get lucky, and Amos Crane would do that for him. But one way or the other, he was going to get his hands dirty, because if he didn't put Amos Crane away first, Amos Crane would bury him . . .

Point B slowed to a crawl and stopped. Maybe that was his luck changing direction, Howard thought . . . then realized he couldn't swear as to whether his luck so far had been good or bad.

Images of something else buried flashed through Sarah's mind: the sun on heavy leaves, and old stone, and decorated gla.s.s. The kind of image that tugs at you and you can't pin down, because it never actually happened; it's a detail from a radio show or a page in a book something described that your mind has coloured in, allowed to become as real as memory. But what was stone and gla.s.s and hidden among the trees?

'. . . Pharmaceuticals?'

'You'd be surprised how many people give me the wink when they hear that word.'

'Stop the car,' she said.

'Sarah?' said Zoe.

Zoe was up front, talking to . . . David Keller; that was his name. And she'd turned round now, frowning at Sarah, wondering what the h.e.l.l was up now; you couldn't blame her, Sarah decided; I act like I'm bonkers half the time these days. Maybe I am. And none of this is happening.

'Sarah?'

'I'm sorry. David? Could you stop the car, please. I've just realized something.'

Obediently, he stopped the car, and turned to look at Sarah too. 'Are you in some kind of trouble?' he asked.

Shrewd. Maybe. Though it didn't take a genius.

'Kind of. Do you have a map? A local map?'

'I might have. There's all kinds of stuff in the glove box.' He nodded at Zoe, meaning: Sure, go ahead, look in the glove compartment.

There were maps: also packets of extra-strong mints, sungla.s.ses, wet-wipes, Opal Fruits, much of which tumbled into Zoe's lap when she released the catch . . . Three maps down she found the one they were after, and handed it to Sarah without a word.

A little way up the coast. We found a church by the side of a wood. Well, a chapel.

'Is it something special you're looking for? I do know the area quite well.'

Deserted, it was . . . We sheltered there that first night. Sanctuary, you'd call it.

'Sarah?'

'I know where they are.'

'What makes you '

'Zoe, please. Trust me. I know where they'll be.'

She fell back to her map-reading: never one of her greatest skills. But she knew a little cross when she saw one: bang next to that densely green patch, which must be Michael's wood.

'I know this is none of my business,' their driver began.

'David. I'm sorry about this. We both are. You can let us out here, there's somewhere we need to be.'

He turned in his seat to face her. An old face, or looking older than it actually was, perhaps funny, Sarah found time to think, how some people can look older than they appear to be. He'd stopped to help them, and here she was telling him they didn't need his help. Didn't seem the type to turn nasty, though. His face crinkled when he spoke.

'I see a lot of people on the roads . . . I don't mean you look desperate. But you get a sense for it, after a while. You need help. That's okay. I can take you where you need to go.'

'She doesn't know what she needs,' Zoe muttered.

He looked at her.

'Sorry.' Zoe turned to Sarah again. 'But listen, I thought we'd decided this? We head for the nearest exit.'

'They're near here,' Sarah said. Sounding stubborn, mulish, even to her own ears. But h.e.l.l, she'd come this far. 'I know they are. And you said it yourself, we need Michael. Without him, who's going to listen?'

'But '

'And he's got Dinah.' And he's dangerous, she didn't add. Didn't need to. He's killed people; for all we know, he'll kill her too kill himself, kill her, who could tell, after everything else he'd done?

'Sarah '

'I'm sorry, David. This isn't fair on you. And thanks for your offer, you're a kind man, but I can't drag you into this. It's okay, Zoe.'

'No it isn't.'

'I can manage '

'Shut up.' Zoe opened her door. 'So we're going. Or staying. Whatever. Come on.'

The car rolled forward a couple of feet, and she almost fell out.

'What the f.u.c.k?'

'Did I get your attention?'

'David?'

'Sorry,' he said. He turned to Sarah once more. 'Miss? I'll say it again. You want to go somewhere, I can take you. I don't like leaving you here, the side of the road like this.'

'But '

'It's not for your sake, it's for mine. You know? This way I don't lie awake all night, wondering if you got where you needed to go.'

She was still holding the map, folded over now so the little cross, the dense square of green, looked a hop and a jump away. But why walk when they could ride? He could give them a lift, then drive off: his good deed done.

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure.'

Zoe shut her door again. 'This is what I like. Firm decisions, swiftly taken.'

He held his hand out; Sarah handed him the map. Showed him with a finger: 'It's that church. Or chapel, or whatever it is. I just remembered . . .'

'It's of consuming historical interest,' Zoe finished.

'So we go there,' he said. 'Five minutes. Okay?'

And proved to be good as his word.

Two more things: Howard, who'd worked out where he was, started after point B just as point B started to move . . .

. . . and Amos Crane, who'd been following all this, smiled, as he moved too.

IV.

There was a small wooden door, very old, with fresh splintering around the handle; with iron nails stamped into it like bullets. There were bushes round this door, clawing their way out of the stony ground like an ill.u.s.tration of a parable.

There was a stained-gla.s.s window too; a somewhat Celtic cross. There was no name to the chapel that Sarah could see. Nothing to tell you where you were.

There was a blue 2CV parked lopsided to the back of the building; its rear left wheel an inch or so above the ground, as if its front right had found a ditch.

Sarah stood taking this in while Zoe waved distractedly at the car now heading away from them, reversing up the track through the trees, towards the main road. 'Nice man,' she said.

'Hmm?'

'He didn't have to help us.'

'No.'

She was going to take a few steps forward, push on the door, go right in. Any minute now. That was what she was going to do.

'So what's the story, Sarah? Ten minutes ago, you had no idea where they were.'

'I remembered.'

'You remembered he said he'd meet you here?'

'I remembered he talked about it. Back when he and Tommy Singleton escaped. This is where they hid.'

Zoe took it in. Shook her head. 'Well, if you ask me,' she said, 'it's f.u.c.king spooky,' and she reached into her bag for her gun.

Sarah didn't notice. She was taking those few steps forward, pus.h.i.+ng on the door. Which swung open.

. . . What it reminded her of, those first few seconds, was the chapel in that awful place where she'd first gone looking for Dinah. Arimathea. Here, now, walking into another chapel, she suffered again that sense of old air, of air locked in stone, and the feeling crashed in on her that this was what had become of her life: it had degenerated into a succession of moments, each of which had to be lived through in turn. Brief flashes of memory ignited for her, like sudden views of a bright room: the distant thump of a house collapsing, and sparks flying upwards into a dark sky; a man with blood like a necktie pooling down on to his desk; another with a rope of dental floss he was trying to kill her with . . . And herself, all those years ago, falling from the roof, with lights cartwheeling like a circus attraction. All of that. And all leading to where she was now, in another old, cold chapel, looking for a girl who was a survivor, as she was herself. So far.

There were no benches in the chapel. No altar. No furniture of any kind. Just a bare room with a filthy stone floor, some old cracked windows and naked beams low overhead. And a man sitting against the wall opposite, with a small child in his arms . . . Dinah.

Michael was levelling a gun at her.

That was almost it. Right there. Not a matter of her past life flas.h.i.+ng before her eyes not again more a case of seeing her future, all of it, folding into a single instant, an instant in which he fired the gun, she fell, the world went black . . . None of it happened. Instead he lowered the gun as she stepped out of shadow, raised it again as he saw Zoe who was right behind her then put it down once more. No matter Zoe held a gun. He looked, Sarah thought, so tired so tired, he was maybe half dead himself.

'You came,' he said.

'You forgot your jacket.'

A stupid thing to say, she knew; one of those flippant comments she'd be embarra.s.sed about afterwards, if there was an afterwards. She came forward, his jacket feeling baggy on her shoulders. 'This is a friend of mine.'

Zoe nodded at Michael. She was still holding her gun. Michael simply stared at her, then looked back at Sarah.

Only a matter of hours, after all, but what had he done with them? Killed how many people? And look at him now, holding a small child, who seemed very like she might be sleeping: what did she say to him? What did she say to Dinah?