Authors: Michael Marshall
“No reason, then. But as you’ve seen, there’s a compelling reason to do so now. We really only need your input on one matter, Ms. Baynam,” the man said. “We’d like to talk to John Zandt.”
He leaned forward. “Where is he?”
FIFTEEN
MINUTES LATER
N
INA WALKED OUT OF
the building. Her back was straight and her strides were strong and of equal length. She didn’t turn to look up toward room 623’s window, though she strongly suspected Monroe would be standing there, watching her go. If she saw him, there was a danger she would march back into the building, run straight up the stairs, and attempt to do him harm. She was strong. She might even pull it off. It would feel good, but she might as well take her career and throw that out the window while she was there. This might effectively have happened already, but it wasn’t going to be her who wrote it in stone.
Instead she got in her car and drove out of the lot. She took her time making the right turn and drove slowly for a while, not heading anywhere in particular. Within ten minutes she was both furious and a little frightened to see she was being tailed.
She pulled over at the next public phone box she saw. She walked over to it, feeling like an actress, and made two calls. When the first was answered she asked a favor, waited while someone explained why he couldn’t do it, and then provided a brief but compelling reason why he could.
As she waited for the second call to be connected she watched the road and saw the nondescript sedan pull over twenty yards farther along. The guy was either a beginner or he’d been told to make it obvious. Either pissed her off.
After about ten rings, the call was picked up.
“Things are badly fucked up,” she said to an answering service. “Stay away and watch your back.”
She put the phone down and walked back to her car. As she passed the gray sedan she leaned across and flipped the driver the bird. He stared back impassively, but didn’t follow. As she drove home she was dismayed to find that her eyes kept filling, until she realized it was fury that was causing it, as much as hurt. Fury was good. Anger led somewhere.
“You’re going to rue the day, Charles,” she muttered, and felt a little better, but not for long. As an agent now suspended from duty, with an ex-boyfriend under investigation for two murders, and a boss who no longer trusted anything she said, it wasn’t clear how she could make anyone rue anything at all.
“WE’RE
GETTING OUT OF HERE
,” W
ARD SAID
.
He was stuffing pieces of computer equipment into the bag he’d come with. He had stood and watched while Nina screamed down the phone at Zandt’s answering service for a second and third time, before finally taking the phone from her hand.
“It doesn’t matter who the guy in the suit is,” he said. “It’s clear what his job is. He’s part of the squeeze on John, and he’s powerful enough to be able to walk into an FBI field office and have the boss there do what he says. You sure he wasn’t bureau brass?”
“He just didn’t come over like it.”
“Whatever. He’s in security somewhere, and he’s either one of the Straw Men or doing what they tell him. That means we’re not safe in this house or this city.”
“But where are we going to go?”
“Somewhere else. Do you speak any Russian?”
“Ward, we’ve got to find John. He’s in far more danger than us. They’re trying to nail him for something he didn’t do.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is we only know where he’s been through what he’s told us. He tells you he’s in Florida, he tells me he’s there too. He’s got a previously established reason. Neither of us is going to run a trace on him, subpoena his cell company and demand to know exactly where the call is coming from.”
“But why would he have killed this Ferillo person?”
“Are you saying it’s impossible? He killed the man he thought took his daughter. And back then he was still a cop.”
“I’m just saying he would have to have a very, very good reason.”
“Maybe he did. We’re not going to know until he takes one of our calls. In the meantime is there any way you can get hold of his cell records? If we can do a point-of-origin trace we can confirm a wrong-state alibi for him.”
“I’m on it, Ward. I made a call on the way back here.”
“Fine. In the meantime, get your stuff together.”
“Ward, I’m not leaving my . . .”
He stopped packing, came and put a hand on each of her shoulders. He looked her in the eyes and she realized this was the closest they had ever stood. She realized also that this was a man who had spent three months on the road not for the fun of it, but because he’d known a moment like this would come.
“Yes, Nina, you are,” he said. “We knew we only had so long before they came for us in earnest. This is it. It’s begun.”
TWO
HOURS LATER THEY WERE ON
99
PASSING
Bakersfield heading north. Ward was driving fast and not saying anything. Nina’s cell rang and she ripped a nail snatching it out of her bag. She swore when she looked at the screen.
Ward glanced at her. “Is it John?”
“No. I don’t recognize the number. It could be the call I’m waiting for. Or . . .”
“If it’s Monroe, don’t tell him anything, and cut it off fast.”
She hit Connect. She listened to the voice of Doug Olbrich, who had done what she had asked. She asked him three questions she had already formulated in her head. When she’d heard the answers she severed the connection and sat with her head in her hands.
Ward gave her precisely twenty seconds. “So?”
She didn’t move her head. “That was a guy I know in LAPD. He’s heading the task force on the hard disk killer.”
“And?”
“I asked him to chase some records fast. He has someone who’s very good at it.” Suddenly, and with no warning, she punched the dashboard with all her strength. “I’ve messed up, Ward.”
“Why?”
“Olbrich got hold of John’s T-Mobile account. He tracked some points-of-origin. He noted that three days ago John made a call to a number I recognize as your cell.”
“Yes. Big deal. We arranged to meet in San Francisco. That’s when he told me he was in Florida.”
She nodded, said nothing. Looked at her hands in her lap. The cuticle under her torn nail was bleeding.
“Tell me, Nina.”
“John lied,” she said. “He hasn’t been to Florida in six weeks. He was in Portland the day Ferillo died.”
The meaning of life is that it ends.
—F
RANZ
K
AFKA
SHE
WAS FOUND IN SOME BUSHES
. P
EOPLE ARE
. They are found in woods too, and in hot and cluttered bedrooms; they are found in back alleys and parking lots and the back row of movie theaters; they are found in swimming pools and in cars. You can be found dead almost anywhere, but bushes are often the worst. The bodies’ condition and location leave little room for the comforting idea that they might just be asleep, drunk, passed out, unconscious in one way or another—but still capable of being led back to join the party of the living. Dead in the bushes is very dead indeed.
These particular bushes were around the back of the parking lot associated with Cutting Loose, a hair salon on the main drag through Snoqualmie. The body was discovered, as is sometimes the case, by a man out walking his dog early in the day. Having kept it together for long enough to make a call on his cell phone, wait close to the spot—but yet far enough away to avoid attracting the curious—and finally point the way for the two cops from the sheriff’s department, this man now sat on the other side of the street, back against a fence, head between his knees. His dog stood close by, confused by the smell of vomit, but loyal and game. When they got back to the house, the dog
knew, he’d be confined to barracks for the long day while the human went out and did whatever it was he did when he wasn’t there to hang out with the dog. The dog was therefore in no hurry to go home. If the price of a little extra freedom was sitting on rain-wet asphalt near some regurgitation, that was fine by him. He licked his owner’s hand, to show moral support. The hand flapped at him, feebly.
One of the policemen was now on the radio, putting out the word. The other stood a couple of yards away from the body, his hands on his hips. He had not seen a great many dead bodies, and there is something horribly transfixing about them. He was frankly glad that other policemen would soon arrive and take this situation off his hands, that it would not be his responsibility to spend the next several days, weeks, or all eternity trying to work out what process had created this livid, could-not-be-deader thing out of someone living, how this woman had made the journey from some other place to here. He did not want to have to think overly much about the mind of a man—assuming it was a man, because it almost always was—who would think it right or even merely expedient to dump someone a few yards off the side of the road like so much trash. Worse, perhaps, because people at least bothered to put their garbage in bags. This had been abandoned like it was less than that, as if it didn’t even merit the temporary, aboveground burial people afforded to empty cans and cereal boxes.
He heard his colleague signing off, and decided he’d seen enough. As he was turning away, however, he noticed something glinting at the dead thing’s head end. Against his better judgment, but feeling a little like a bona fide detective, he took a step closer to the body and bent down a little to get a closer look.
They had already informally decided that it would take neither long or a genius to work out the cause of death. The woman was dressed in a smart suit, or the remains of one. Her body below the neck did not look like something you’d want to touch, but that was death’s casual work, after the fact. It was above the neck that something had happened
while she was still alive. There was something skewed about her head, and it was covered with brown, dried blood and other, blacker, material to such a degree that it was hard to make out the features. It was in the middle of this, just above the brow, that the weak morning sun was catching something.
“Careful, man,” his partner said. “You screw up the scene and they’ll pull your asshole out and wear it like a ring.”
“I know, I know,” he said.
Still he leaned in a little closer. This was as far as he was going to go, for sure. He tilted his head slightly, to reduce the glint. The smell was odd. The sight was bad. It was unpleasant all over.
In the mess that had been her forehead, something looked out of place.
He held his breath and moved forward another few inches. From here you couldn’t avoid seeing the ants and other insects going about their duties, hurriedly, as if they knew someone was going to come and take this treasure away from them. You could also see that there was something stuck in the woman’s forehead. The protruding edge was the width of a playing card, though it was much thicker—a quarter inch, maybe slightly more. The glint came off the parts of this thing that weren’t covered in dried blood. It seemed to be mainly made out of chrome, or some other kind of shiny metal. The lower edge of it looked to be a black plastic.
Suddenly some of the remaining glare disappeared, as his partner leaned in to have a look and blocked out the sun. As a result the policeman could just make out something that looked like a very narrow label running along the end of the object.
“Fuck is that?” he said.
BY
A LITTLE AFTER NINE IT HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED
that the thing sticking out of the woman’s forehead was a hard disk, a small one, the kind found in laptop computers.
It wasn’t long before this information reached the FBI field office in Everett, and then quickly down to Los Angeles. From there, everything went batshit.
Charles Monroe tried every number he had, but Nina Baynam wasn’t answering. He kept trying anyway, at regular intervals. Something had gone wrong with Monroe’s life, in a way he didn’t quite understand, and it was getting more and more wrong by the minute. He had looked away, lost concentration for just one second, and turned back to find his ducks were no longer in a row.
His ducks had always been in a row before. Not now. It was even beginning to look as if some of them were missing.
HENRICKSON
SWITCHED THE ENGINE OFF AND
turned to Tom with a grin. It was, Tom estimated, approximately the man’s fifteenth of the morning, and it was as yet only ten o’clock.
“You ready for this?”
Tom gripped the backpack on his lap. “I guess so.”
Forty-eight hours had now passed since he came back to Sheffer. The previous morning he’d woken from a night’s nonsleep to find he felt too ill to consider a walk in the woods that day. Whatever adrenaline had hauled him back to Sheffer had burned out, leaving him exhausted, in many kinds of pain, and deeply nauseous. He also realized he had to do some proper thinking.
Henrickson had been cool about the delay, and told him to rest up. This Tom had done, initially, sitting in the chair in his room wrapped up in all the bedding he could find, getting stuff straight in his head, working out things he could do. In the early afternoon he had gone for a long drive, coming back after dark. By then he’d felt well enough to go for another drink with the journalist. This morning he’d felt better, if not exactly in top form. Calmer, perhaps. More compartmentalized.
Pulling into the lot at the head of the Howard’s Point
trail provoked a far stronger reaction than he’d anticipated. If returning to his nest down in the gully had made him feel like a spirit coming home, stepping out of Henrickson’s Lexus made him feel like his own grandfather. The journalist had parked on the opposite side of the lot to where Tom had come to rest—and fallen, for the first time—but that somehow made the layering effect even more unsettling. When the clunk of his car door closing echoed tightly off the trees, the view seemed to have a shivery fragility, as if it had been quickly painted over some other scene. Some emotional charge had changed. Of course the last time he’d been here he’d been drunk, whereas now he was merely slightly hungover, and feeling a bit sick, and there was a lot more snow than before.
“Jim, you know it’s going to be very hard to find the place.”
“Of course.” The reporter had ditched his suit and was wearing an old pair of jeans and a tough-looking jacket. His boots spoke of proper walking experience. He looked hale and fit and altogether more prepared than Tom felt. “You were out of it, and it was nearly dark. Not the end of the world if you don’t find the same exact spot. Just . . . it would be good if you could.”
“Can’t you just tell me what we’re looking for?”
Grin number sixteen. “Don’t you like a surprise?”
“Not so much.”
“Trust me. It’ll be great for the book. ‘Kozelek leads the way back to the spot that changes history and biology and what the hell else as we know it. His fearless scribe points out the final proof. They share a manly hug.’ It’s a buddy thing. Hug’s optional, of course.”
Tom nodded, wishing not for the first time that he hadn’t mentioned the idea of writing a book. Henrickson had claimed not to be trying to get him drunk, again, and he believed him; yet by the end of the second evening Tom had spilled pretty much everything there was to know about himself. Pretty much.
“I just don’t want to get lost again.”
“We won’t. I’ve done hiking. I have a compass. And if
you didn’t have a serious sense of direction, you’d be dead now.”
“I guess so.”
Tom swiveled his ankle gently. It still hurt, but the new boots seemed to help. He shrugged the backpack on. This time it held bottled water and a flask of sweet coffee and a couple of flapjacks. There was probably still glass at the bottom too, but that was okay. He brought it along because it was from before. The glass was from before too. He had an idea that he might try to dump the bag in the forest somewhere, to try to leave behind everything it represented.
He walked over into the top corner, hesitated a moment, and then stepped over the thick log that formed a boundary to the parking area.
Henrickson waited until the man had made it a few yards up the trail, and then turned to look back across the lot. For just a moment he’d felt something in the back of his neck, almost as if he was being watched. He panned his eyes slowly around, but couldn’t see anyone. Strange. He was usually right about that kind of thing.
He looked back to see Kozelek had stopped. Now that he was started, the man’s enthusiasm for the trip was growing fast, as Henrickson had known it would.
“It’s this way.”
Henrickson stepped over the log and followed him into the forest.
THOUGH
THERE WAS A BANK OF CLOUDS OVER TO
the west, the sun was strong and bright. It cast strong, attractive shadows in the undisturbed snow. The two men walked for a while climbing slowly, without saying much. By this time the road was a good distance behind them, and there was no noise but for the sound of their breath and feet.
“You seem pretty confident, my friend. You remember coming up this way?”
“Not remember. Just . . . I recognize the shape. Sounds
stupid, maybe, and I’m really not much of an outdoors person, but . . .”
He stopped, and indicated the layout of the trees and hillside around them. “Which other way are you going to go?”
Henrickson nodded. “Some people, they got no sense of direction at all. Like some kid’s windup toy. Let them go, and they walk in a straight line until they hit a wall. Others, they
feel.
They just know where they are. Works with time, too, matter of fact. What time do you think it is? Take a second. Think about it. Actually, don’t: feel it instead. What time does it
feel
like?”
Tom considered. It didn’t feel like any time at all, but it was probably about a half hour since they started out.
“Half past ten.”
The man shook his head. “Closer to eleven. About five to, I’d say.” He stretched his wrist out of his jacket and looked at his watch. A grin, and then he held it out to Tom. “How about that. Four minutes to.”
“You could have checked earlier.”
“Could of, but didn’t.”
Tom stopped walking. They were coming to a ridge, and he was momentarily unsure of which way to go. Henrickson took a few steps back and looked the other way. Tom realized the man was giving him a chance to work things out, to feel the way, and felt an absurd rush of gratitude. It had been a while since someone had trusted him, had been willing to think of him as someone who knew things. William and Lucy had grown old enough to see him as someone with faults, rather than qualities. Sarah knew him all too well. He was a given. The curse of the middle-aged man was knowing—or believing—that he’d told all he had to tell. Soon as you suspected that, you started wanting something, anything, to prove it wasn’t so: and that’s where the mistakes started, when the bad things happened.
“It’s this way,” he said, turning right.
“Feel the force, Luke.”
The next twenty minutes were hard going, and it was a while before either had spare breath to talk. Then the way
started heading down the other side of the ridge, with a much higher climb ahead. None of it looked familiar to him, but it seemed to be the way to go.
Tom glanced across at the reporter, who was walking alongside and matching him with easy strides. “You’ve been looking for Bigfoot a long time, haven’t you?”
“Surely have.”
“How come nobody believes in it?”
“Oh, they do,” he said. “Just, it’s one of those things that’s hard to make work, if you believe what we’re supposed to believe. Nobody wants to look stupid, which is another way They work. You’re prepared to look a little dumb once in a while, the world opens like an oyster.”
“So what is it?”
“What do you think?”
Tom shrugged. “Some big ape, I guess. Something that lived here before humans arrived, then shrank back into the forests. There’s plenty of space out here. Right?”
“Half right,” Henrickson said. “Personally I believe they’re the last surviving examples of Neanderthal man.”
Tom stopped, stared at him. “What?”
Henrickson kept walking. “Not a new theory, actually. Only problem is getting the detail to work. You know what archaeologists are like—or maybe you don’t. Blah, there’s no evidence; blah, the fossil record; blah, my professor says it ain’t so. Way I see it is this: You’ve got Neanderthal man, one of the best-adapted species the world has ever known. These guys had spears four hundred thousand years ago. They spread out over half the world, including into Europe when that’s no place you want to live. The ice age is still frosty, there’s animals with very big teeth, and there is nothing, repeat, nothing, to make life easy for them. And yet they survive for hundreds of thousands of years. They have burial rituals. They have dentistry, which must have been horrible without
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to ease the wait. They make ornaments and jewelry and they have trade ties that spread the stuff over Europe. Cro-Magnon man eventually turns up—that’s us—and for a while the
two species sort of coexist. Then the Neanderthals die out, bang, leaving about enough bones to fill a handbag. And apparently that’s all she wrote.”
“So what did happen? According to you?”
“They never died out. There were never that many of them. They just got good at hiding.”
“Hiding? Where?”
“Two kinds of places. First is deep forests, out in northeastern Europe, Finland—but also here in the good old U.S. of A. The prehistorians claim there’s no way Neanderthals could have got here, but I think that’s underestimating them. Could have hugged the coast over from Russia, managed to get across the big icy water down to the Northern Territories, then just kept coming down the coast until they found somewhere habitable. Then when we finally arrive in force, they just head up into the forests. What better place? You’ve got thousands of square miles of wilderness that people still don’t trouble much even
now.
Throughout Native American culture in this region there’s some nice little hints. The Chinooks have tales about the ‘ghost people’ who lived in their own places, who the tribe had a working relationship with. Then you got the ‘animal people’: the Okanogan lived right in these mountains and they believed there once were ‘animals’ that had culture before the ‘people’—by which they mean humans—had got themselves together at all.”
“And the second place? The other place they hid?”
“Right under our noses. What’s the most common type of legend all over Europe?”
“I don’t know.” Tom also wasn’t sure he was going the right way anymore. They were past the bottom of the divide, and starting to head up again. The increasing harshness of the terrain was familiar, but nothing else, and the ground was getting steeper in just about every direction, so that didn’t count for much. For the time being, he just kept going, and Henrickson kept on talking, with the smooth flow of someone who’d been over something many times in his head. And, if Tom was honest, with the confidence of someone who wasn’t quite as bright as he thought.
“Ogres. Elves. Trolls. All of which, according to me, are also examples of surviving Neanderthal man. Creatures that lived here before we did, and had their own strange ways. Who were common at first but then got more and more rare—until hardly anyone saw them anymore. But we remember them. Language works in strange ways. ‘There were giants here in these days’? I think ‘giant’ didn’t mean ‘big in body.’ It meant incomers found a previously existing species that was powerful and accomplished—that was
culturally
big, like the Okanogan’s animal people.”
“But they died out.”
“Not completely. What else do we hear a lot about, all over the world? Ghosts. Shadowy presences. And what else? Aliens. The grays. Who, incidentally, seem to land their ships in forests quite often, which is a weird approach to aviation, don’t you think? Grays, fairies, spooks are all ways of explaining strange stuff that we see every now and then. Ways of explaining away a whole species they claim died out, but which just faded into the background—and creeps around us, keeping out of our way.”
“But none of those things look remotely like Neanderthal man,” Tom said.
“No, for two reasons. First is tales swelling in the telling. Over hundreds of years, a couple of thousand, the legends take on their own weight, their own rules and trappings and visual references. Second is that Neanderthal man has a way of clouding our minds.”
“What?”
“They reckon the species’ throat and mouth maybe wasn’t up to fully articulated speech. Yet they managed to do all this stuff, so obviously they
could
communicate—and in a way that body language and a system of grunts ain’t going to achieve. My theory is that they did it at least partly through telepathy. They still do, as do we. Telepathy is just empathy turned up a whole lot. And when they’re confronted by something they think is dangerous, like us, they throw shapes into our heads. We see the pictures already in our own minds. They reflect our imaginations right back at us.”
“This is all nonsense,” Tom said, distractedly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t buy a word of it.”
“If I’m right, and we’re looking for a Neanderthal, why does everyone say Bigfoot is eight feet tall? They make us
think
they’re tall because tall is scary. And why do so many people—like you, Tom—report a vile smell? Why should they or any other creature go around smelling bad? No reason. They just make us
think
they do, as another protection mechanism, one of the simplest in the book. They hide by putting smoke in our minds. That’s why they’re so hard to find. Nearer to civilization, we think we’ve seen a ghost. Out here you see something closer to their true shape, because part of us has always known they’re still out here.”