Douglas Preston: Cold Vengeance

He puffed away, looking around. “Mr. Grant, do you have anything to add?”

“I do,” said the small, wizened man, leaning on his walking stick, his voice almost as high as a girl’s. “If you do get caught in it, don’t struggle. Lean back into it gently, let your body float up.” He fixed a bushy eye on Esterhazy, glaring. “I’ve got a question for Dr. Esterhazy: when you were traipsing over the Mire after that stag, did ye see any landmarks?”

“Like what?” Esterhazy said, his voice confused and uncertain. “It seemed awfully empty to me.”

“There’s ruins, cairns, and standing stones.”

“Ruins… yes, it seems we passed by some ruins.”

“What’d they look like?”

“If I remember correctly—” Esterhazy frowned in mock recollection—“they appeared to be a stone corral and a shelter on a sort of hill, with the marshes beyond and to the left.”

“Aye. The old Coombe Hut.” Without another word the gamekeeper turned and began tramping through the grass, moss, and heather, the bloodhounds with their handler hurrying to keep up. He walked fast with his head down, his short legs churning, walking stick swinging, his shaggy hair like a white halo around a tweed cap perched on top.

For a quarter of an hour they moved in silence, interrupted only by the snuffling and whining of the dogs and the murmured instructions of their handler. As the clouds thickened again and a premature gloaming fell over the moors, some of the men took out powerful flashlights and switched them on. The beams lanced through the cold mists. Esterhazy, who had been feigning ignorance and confusion, began to wonder if they hadn’t gotten lost for real. Everything looked strange and he recognized nothing.

As they descended into yet another lonely hollow, the dogs suddenly stopped, snuffled all around in circles, and then charged forward on a scent, straining their leashes.

“Easy, now,” the handler said, pulling back, but the dogs were too excited and began to bay, a deep-throated sound that echoed over the moors.

“What’s with them?” Balfour said sharply.

“I don’t know. Back. Back!”

“For God’s sake,” shrilled Grant, “pull them back!”

“Bloody hell !” The handler pulled on the leashes but the dogs responded by lunging forward, in full throat.

“Watch out, there!” cried Grant.

With a scream of pure terror the handler suddenly went down into a quagmire, breaking through a crust of sphagnum, slopping and struggling, and one of the dogs went in with him, the baying turning into a shriek. The dog churned, his head held up in terror.

“Stop your struggling!” Grant hollered at the handler, his voice mingling with the cries of the dog. “Lean back!”

But the handler was in too much of a panic to pay attention. “Help me!” he screamed, flailing away, splattering mud.

“Bring the hook!” commanded Balfour.

A member of the Special Services team had already dropped his pack and was untying a rod with a large rounded handle on one end and a broad loop of rope on the other. He snapped it out like a telescope and knelt at the edge of the bog, wrapped the rope around his waist, and extended the end with the handle.

The dog yelped and paddled.

“Help me!” the trapped man cried.

“Grab hold, ye damn fool!” cried Grant.

The high-pitched voice seemed to have penetrated and the man grasped its meaning. He reached out and grabbed the handle at the end of the rod.

“Pull!”

The rescuer leaned back, using his body to leverage the man out. The handler clung on desperately, his body emerging slowly with a sucking noise, and was dragged onto firmer ground, where he lay shivering and gasping for breath, covered with clinging muck.

Meanwhile the dog was shrieking like a banshee, churning and slapping the bog with his front legs.

“Lasso his front quarters!” shouted Grant.

One of the men already had his rope out and was fashioning it into a loop. He tossed it toward the dog, but it fell short. The dog struggled and screamed, his eyes rolling white.

“Again!”

The man tossed it again, and this time it fell over the dog.

“Tighten and pull!”

He pulled but the dog, feeling the rope around his neck, twisted and struggled to avoid it, letting it slip off.

Esterhazy watched in mingled horror and fascination.

“He’s going under!” said the handler, who was slowly recovering from his fright.

Another man readied a loop, this one tied with a slipknot, lasso-style, and he crouched at the bank, giving it a gentle toss. It missed. He pulled it in, loosened the noose, prepared to toss it again.

But the dog was going down fast. Now only his neck was above the muck, every tendon popping, the mouth like a pink cavern from which came a sound that went beyond a scream into something not of this world.

“Do something, for the love of God!” cried the handler.

Ooowooo! Oooowooo! came the sound, horribly loud.

“Again! Toss it again!”

Again the man tossed the lasso; again he missed.

And suddenly, without even a gurgle, there was silence. The sound of the dog’s last smothered cry echoed across the moorlands and died away. The muck closed up and its surface smoothed. A faint tremor shook the bog, and then it went still.

The handler, who had risen to his feet, now sank to his knees. “My dog! Oh, great Christ!”

Balfour fixed him with a stare and spoke quietly but with great force. “I’m very sorry. But we have to continue.”

“You can’t just leave him!”

Balfour turned to the gamekeeper. “Mr. Grant, lead on to the Coombe Hut. And you, sir, bring that other bloodhound. We still need him.”

Without further ado they continued on, the dog handler, dripping with mud, his feet squelching, leading the remaining bloodhound, who was shaking and trembling, useless for work. Grant was once again walking like a demon on stubby legs, swinging his stick, stopping only occasionally to viciously stab the end of it at the ground with grunts of dissatisfaction.

To Esterhazy’s surprise, they weren’t lost after all. The land began to rise and, against the faint light, he made out the ruins of the corral and hut.

“Which way?” said Grant to him.

“We passed through and went down the other side.”

They climbed the hill and passed the ruins.

“Here, I think, is where we split up,” said Esterhazy, indicating the place where he had departed from Pendergast’s trail in the effort to flank him.

After examining the ground, the gamekeeper grunted, nodded.

“Lead on,” said Balfour.

Esterhazy took the lead, with Grant right behind, holding a powerful electric torch. The yellow beam cut through the mist, illuminating the rushes and cattails along the edge of the marsh.

“Here,” Esterhazy said, halting. “That’s… that’s where he went down.” He pointed to the broad, still pool at the verge of the marsh. His voice broke, he covered his face, and a sob escaped. “It was like a nightmare. God forgive me!”

“Everyone stay back,” said Balfour, motioning the team with his hand. “We’re going to set up lights. You, Dr. Esterhazy, are going to show us exactly what happened. The forensic team will examine the ground, and then we’ll drag the pool.”

“Drag the pool?” Esterhazy asked.

Balfour glared at him. “That’s right. To recover the body.”

ESTERHAZY WAITED BEHIND THE YELLOW TAPE laid on the ground as the forensic team, bent over like crones, finished combing the area for evidence under a battery of harsh lights that cast a ghastly illumination over the stark landscape.

He had followed the evidence gathering with growing satisfaction. All was in order. They had found the one brass casing he’d deliberately left behind, and despite the heavy rains they managed to find some faint tracks of the stag, as well as to map some of the crushed marks in the heather made by himself and Pendergast. In addition, they had managed to confirm where the stag had burst through the reeds. Everything was consistent with the story he’d told.