Alex Scarrow - October skies

‘That’s awful!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘My God, poor Sean.’ She hadn’t seen him in the last year and a half since he’d worked with them on preparing to air Uncommon People. He’d almost been another member of the team, providing them with guidance on what they could get away with airing and what they couldn’t.

‘Nowhere’s safe in London these days, is it?’

‘Sometimes feels that way. If it isn’t someone who should be on meds, it’s a pissed-off hoodie carrying a shank. It depresses the hell out of me.’

She looked across at him. ‘But that’s so creepy, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘You met him, then, a couple of days later, he’s dead.’

He puffed air. ‘Creepy. And bloody awful. I still can’t quite believe it, either.’ His fingers drummed on the dashboard.

They sat in silence for a while, both uncertain what to say next.

‘This’ll sound shitty, Rose, but it needs to be said.’

‘What?’

‘I was relying on Sean to fast-track a deal. That’s not going to happen now.’

‘You’re right, it does sound shitty.’

‘Well, sorry. That’s the way it is. As I’m sure you’ve worked out, we’re going to have to pull out of this story for now and head back home.’

‘I suspected as much,’ she replied. ‘How much is left in the bank account?’

‘It’s not good. Just under four thousand.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll get my agent to pull in some work. We’ll do some crappy corporate stuff, and then head back out here again in a few months’ time. How does that sound?’

‘I don’t suppose we’ve got much choice, have we? Bills to pay.’

‘Bills to pay,’ he echoed quietly.

Rose overtook a slow-moving lumber-laden truck uphill.

‘After I’ve met this guy, we’ll see if Grace can take us out one more time, then we’ll need to check out of the motel and head back.’

‘What guy?’

‘What?’ Julian looked at her. ‘You got the mail?’

She shook her head.

‘Oh, it’s no big deal. Some guy who has an interest in Preston. I hit upon his website. We’ve exchanged a couple of emails. Since I was already coming back, I thought I’d try and hook up with him.’

‘Where?’

‘Actually, he’s coming to Blue Valley.’

‘What?’

Julian shrugged. ‘He’s keen, I guess.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Arnold Zuckerman. Anyway, I’m sure I emailed you that.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Communication isn’t exactly your strong suit.’

‘Damn. I could’ve sworn.’

‘Maybe I missed it. Anyway, this Arnold… who is he?’

Julian laughed. ‘I’m imagining a real hardcore historical anorak. But it looks like he’s got some bread and butter on Preston’s background. It’ll be useful. Best we grab all the material we can in the time we’ve got left.’

‘Are you sure he’s not another journo?’

Julian shrugged. ‘Who’s to know? He doesn’t come across as such, just a passionate amateur.’

‘He’s coming to Blue Valley to meet with you?’

‘He offered. Said it wasn’t a problem.’

‘Well, don’t stay up too late. I already arranged with Grace that she’ll take us in again tomorrow morning. She’s meeting us at the park’s camp, early.’

‘Oh, well done. How early?’

‘Seven.’

‘Bugger,’ Julian grumbled. ‘I could’ve done with a lie-in. Can’t we start off a little later?’

‘Let’s not forget she’s doing us the favour, Jules.’

‘Fair point.’

They drove on in silence for a while, long enough that Rose suspected from Julian’s awkward shuffling that he was on the cusp of raising a particular, awkward subject.

‘How’s the good Dr Griffith?’ she asked.

Julian smiled. ‘Looking well, doing well. He sends his best; he thinks highly of you.’

‘As he should.’

‘Actually,’ Julian uttered, pulling out his cell phone, ‘I tried him earlier, but he’s not answering.’ He checked his log. ‘Not called back.’

‘Was he interested in the Preston story?’

‘Very. Perhaps there’s something we can do with him. That’s a follow-up meeting we can have when we get back.’

‘He’s putting some money in?’

Julian made a face. ‘Not sure… maybe. More likely he’d want in on a book of some sort.’

‘Great,’ Rose wilted. ‘Well, that’s me cut out of the loop, then.’

He turned to her. ‘Not at all, Rose, not at all. We discovered this as a team. Anything that comes from it, we share. I promise you that.’

He paused, and she knew he was putting together some thoughts.

‘There’s too much we’ve shared, too much between us, that I’d cut you out like that.’

Too much between us? She wondered what Julian meant by that. They both spoke at the same time.

‘Julian, I-’

‘Did we nearly-?’

She felt her cheeks flush in the deafening silence that followed.

Julian shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Something almost happened between us, or am I mis-remembering and making a fool of myself?’

‘No,’ she snapped quickly, ‘nothing almost happened. We had a few beers, and we were buzzed on the story, just having a laugh… as we always do.’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded, looking out of the window at the passing peaks, carpeted with a veil of dark green firs and dotted here and there with cedars and oaks turning a rich, burning, autumn gold against the October sky.

Was there a hint of disappointment in his voice? Or was she reaching?

That wasn’t disappointment… that was relief.

She knew Julian was the kind of guy who didn’t like anyone getting too close to him. That awkward little moment, back in the diner last week, had most probably frightened him back inside his reinforced shell. Nearly four years working together, building a trust, a tight friendship, a robust partnership… and she’d nearly blown it all because, for a moment, she’d let her guard down and shown him how she felt.

She sighed. It had been a stupid moment, a stupid impulse, and she ground her teeth, angry with herself.

1 November, 1856

Ben tumbled over a root and fell to his knees in the snow. ‘Shit!’ he cursed, quickly picking himself up and pressing on.

‘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.