Give her the
Mentally formulating a lurid curse she
checked the tablet’s GPS map again. Right. Fifty meters
up and to the east, and she should come out above and behind the place. The
car, Willard, and that old spook who posed as his driver were parked in a pull-out,
less than a mile away as the crow flies. Donatelli
wasn’t a crow, and it had taken her forty minutes to get here at a brisk
canter. Odds were that Willard had given birth to a whole litter of kittens by
now.
Damp with sweat, the shirt stuck to her
skin, chafing under the backpack. She adjusted the straps a little, wondering
for the hundredth time why she’d brought it along. Deadweight.
Then again, you were supposed to carry a pack when hiking, right? Nothing to do with some irrational need to hang on to a piece of
vicarious reassurance.
I’ll kill you if you’re dead, Farrar!
Unlike the pack, the route was
justified, despite a detour of about four klicks. This whole hike was an
insanely long shot, but sauntering up the driveway would have been a worse idea.
Much better to sneak round the back. The trouble with
this being that, from lack of relevant experience, Donatelli
hadn’t banked on Alpine topography. Which, incidentally,
sucked too. No wonder Farrar liked it: uphill all the way and a
twenty-four-carat pain in the butt. Right up his street.
She started walking again, picking a
path between rocks and upturned roots and brambles. Thank God for the moon.
Thank God for wild-ass guesses. The long shot had become shorter a while ago,
when pandemonium had broken out down there. She’d heard something like an
explosion, shouts and dogs bawling, and somebody had thrown the light switch.
It either was the party to end all parties, or there was a problem. She didn’t
know whether or not to hope that the problem was Farrar.
Minutes later she reached the edge of a
cliff, crouched by a boulder, and cautiously peered down. Every window in the
old villa was lit, ditto for the stables nearby—staff quarters and/or control
room. A high perimeter fence. No lights there. Power outage? Dogs and five men, all of
them armed, right at the foot of the cliff, watching two others clambering up
the fence. What the…?
The long shot had just hit home. Among
the audience she’d spotted McMahon.
I bow to your intimate knowledge of
Matthew McMahon.
McMahon, looking boyish and
innocent and organizing a manhunt. If that’s what it was. What the heck do
you think it is, Donatelli? You don’t need Dobermans
to chase squirrels. They were putting the dogs into harnesses, ready to hoist
them up the cliff. He’d managed to escape. Maybe.
“Farrar, I’ll kill you if you’re dead,”
she murmured.
A hand clamped over her mouth,
smothering a yelp, and someone dragged her away from the edge and into the
trees. “Logic isn’t really your strong suit, is it?”
It was an indistinct hiss, could have
been anybody’s, but she’d already recognized him. That emotional signature was
unique like a fingerprint. And it was the second time he’d got the drop on her.
He must have been hovering two inches above the ground for her not to have
heard him close in.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Not
the tones of a happy man.
“I missed my”—his hands had dropped, and
she’d whirled around to face him, which let the air out of some of his bravado—“flight.”
“Sorry. Didn’t expect
company.”
“I can see that.”
Dear God, he was a faun! And she was
inordinately relieved that the darkness hid as much as it did. This was neither
the time nor the place.
… kindly
try thinking with your head instead of your—
Too right. She could do without a repeat
performance. “We gotta get out of here. They’re crawling up the wall down
there.”
“I was about to bail when you traipsed
in. Where’s the road?”
“The road? This way,” she croaked, pointing
northwest. “I think.”
“Okay. We’ll go that way.” Which was southeast.
“Why?”
“Because they’ll expect me to
make for the road. I can’t outrun them.”
“What about the dogs?”
“They won’t come near me. Let’s go!”
She nearly asked just what it was he’d
said to the Dobermans, but thought better of it. That way was
uphill, of course. No surprises there. He never looked back, hell-bent on
roasting her over a small flame. The more time passed,
the more Donatelli felt like she wanted to shake him.
Talking seemed like a bad idea, for any number of reasons, so she concentrated
on counting trees, without much success, not least because her irritation
slowly turned to worry. His limp seemed far more pronounced than usual,
painfully so. The gradient was punishing, and how he managed to keep going was
beyond her.
About an hour later they’d climbed past
the tree-line. Any faint sounds of pursuit had died away, but being out in the
open still wasn’t ideal. Farrar tried to up his pace. It worked for about five
steps, then his leg gave at last. She caught him
before he fell, helped him sit down.
“I’m fine.” Through gritted teeth, and the underlying message was clear. He didn’t want
her help; more than that, he didn’t want her to touch him.
“Sure. Just a rough
day at the office, right?”
Wrong. Out here it was bright enough to
see beyond the obvious. Streaked with dirt all over, he’d have looked like a
nine-year-old after a mud-bath if it hadn’t been for the dark circles under his
eyes and a face pinched with pain. His knee was swollen past its usual sorry
state. He must have fallen. Hit it… And how’s that for wishful thinking? In the
crook of Farrar’s elbow bloomed a large dark blotch, as if a vindictive nursing
student had gone to town on him.
“The son of a bitch hurt you!”
“Shh.”
Finally, he met her eyes, a little baffled, a little sheepish, not at all what
she’d expected. “Quit being so angry. It’s a waste of
energy. Or are you angry with me?”
“No. Yes… No! Not you. I’m—”
“I’ll live, O’Donatelli.”
He nudged her leg and looked away again, scanned the edge of the forest. It was
quiet. “I think I need a bath.”
“A bath?” A truce,
maybe. Porcupine truce… Donatelli followed his
gaze and saw the well a bit further up. A hollowed-out bole,
fed by a clear trickle of water that spouted from a battered pipe.
“It’ll be cold.”
“So what?” A grin,
tentative, almost as if to check whether grinning was okay. “I’ve got
half the mountain stuck to me, and it’s trying to eat me alive.”
“Fair enough.” She pulled him up and slipped an
arm around his waist to support him, ridiculously happy to feel him close and
recalling too late that he’d be aware of it.
His right arm looped around her
shoulders. “You’re going pink, O’Donatelli.”
“I’m glad I found you. Alive. What’s your excuse?”
“Always happens when I lose my shorts.”
Laughter fizzed up her throat. “By the
way, I’ve got your clothes.”
“Now she tells me,” he grumbled.
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“Yeah. Right.
How the devil did you find me, anyway?”
So talking was possible after all. Soft, dewy grass under their feet, soft stillness, soft skin.
Farrar’s skin. Soft contentment.
“Remember that com code they gave to Wegener?”
“Yeah?”
“It belongs to the safe house. The DIA’s owned the place for years. Dates back to when we
still had a base in Garmisch.”
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t. Willard did.”
His step faltered, and she felt his
confusion prickle through her fingertips before she heard it. “Been playing
with that Ouija board again, O’Donatelli?”
“Not exactly. Reports of his death were
exaggerated.”
“And why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Rhetorical question. No answers required. She hadn’t
been surprised either. Not much, anyway. Over at the well, she experimentally
put a hand in the water. “Holy shit! Don’t say I
didn’t warn you!”
“I won’t.” He eased himself into the
trough, took a deep breath and lay back until he was
completely under water. Two seconds later, he resurfaced with a gasp that
sounded like it wanted to be a roar. “You didn’t say it was that cold!”
“I knew it!” She chuckled. “Come here.”
Hands cupped, she scooped some water
over his head. A family of twigs had found a new home in his hair. She plucked
them out, scooped up more water, rinsed off more dirt, rubbed it off his
shoulders and back, off his arms and hands, his chest, his legs. He sat
perfectly still through it all, and she’d have guessed he was slowly freezing
to death if it hadn’t been for that furtive shimmer of pleasure he couldn’t
conceal from her.
At last she stopped. “You’d better do
that knee yourself. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
He nodded, and she crouched by the
trough, watching him gingerly slosh off the worst of the grime.
“What happened?”
“I refused to take my medicine, so Koop
stepped on it.”
Donatelli sucked in a breath, and it
earned her a wry look.
“No big deal. It’s not like there’s
anything left to be wrecked.”
“What medicine?” she asked quietly.
“Farrar?”
“Truth drug. Some DMT derivative, I think. It
kicked in pretty fast. Didn’t work.”
“It didn’t work?”
“I told you I’m a freak.” Which was as much as he was going to share. “I’m cold. Gotta get out.”
Riffling through the backpack for
shorts, pants, and a shirt for him, she tried not to waste energy by being
angry. Whoever said the rules of the game were fair? You’re in the dirt
business, Donatelli, and no amount of soap’s gonna
rinse that off.
She looked up at Farrar standing by the
well, tall, lithe, lopsided as ever, shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long
legs, muscled like a dancer’s, all strength and no bulk. Nice ass, too. Wringing water from his hair, moonlight catching silver in the
droplets. Then he sensed her scrutiny, squinted over his shoulder.
“What?”
“You’re wrong, Farrar. You’re no freak.
You’re a faun.”
“Mr Tumnus?” He laughed softly.
“Jerk!” It didn’t help. The mental image
of Farrar in a goatee and muffler stuck, and she giggled. Trust him to have
read C S Lewis.
He’d sat down on the rim of the trough,
grabbed his shorts and pulled them on. “I must have spent years ferreting
through wardrobes, hoping to find the one with the door.”
“Me too.” Smiling, she perched next to him,
handed him a T-shirt and pants. “Ever had Turkish Delight?”
“Traumatic disappointment.” The growl came from inside the
shirt. “Silicone with burned hazelnuts. I have serious
reservations about letting Natie read the book. The
Turkish Delight myth might scar her for life.”
“You miss her.”
“Yeah.” Fighting with the pants now,
fabric sticking to damp skin, and he tried to look busy.
“Willard says she isn’t with your
mother.”
“I didn’t think she was.”
Might as well ask, Donatelli. Might as well ask
while you still have the nerve to do it. “Why did you agree to go with
them? You knew they were lying. You knew what they—”
“Because, come morning, the chambermaid
would have walked into that hotel room and given one of those tediously
overdone chambermaid-in-distress screams. Cut to corpses on floor. They would
have killed both of us. Don’t for a second believe—” Farrar swallowed the rest
and rose.
“Believe what?”
“Nothing. None of my business,” he
murmured, then pointed at the dark shape of a shed
about fifty yards up the slope. “We need some cover. This’ll have to do.” With
that he set off.
Nice digging technique, Donatelli! Real slick. Shouldering
the backpack she trotted after him.
It was pitch dark in the shed, and her
shins struck some derelict agricultural implement within seconds of entering.
Once she was through griping, she heard a rustle from the back. Farrar seemed
to have hit upon a mother lode of hay. She groped her way towards the sound and
settled into a pile of dank, moldy stalks. Leftovers from last year,
apparently, about to develop into a whole new life form.
“I need to get in touch with Willard,”
she mumbled for want of anything more inspired to say, dragged the pack between
her feet and excavated for the tablet.
If nothing else, it piqued Farrar’s
curiosity. “Where is he?”
“In a car, parked near the
turnoff to the safe house.”
Her butt itched, probably from a few
stray stalks that had made their way into her underwear. Did fleas live in old
hay? There were several messages, all from Willard and increasingly impatient
in tone. By the last one, the old goat’s temper evidently had got the better of
him.
Tell me you found Patrick, and don’t
tell me you lost the goddamn tablet! I need both him and the file!
“Nice to be missed,” remarked Farrar
acerbically. He must have been peering over her shoulder. “What file?”
“I don’t know—”
“Don’t lie to me. Please!”
She did a slow sweep with her right
until she connected with his arm, brushed up to his face, fingertips touching
his cheek. He felt tired, on edge, acutely suspicious.
“I’m not lying. I was going to say I
don’t know what’s in it or why it’s so important. It’s Bluebeard’s Castle.”
“Bluebeard’s Castle?”
“You know. You can open all doors,
except this one.”
“Ah. Since when have you had it?”
“Willard sent it to me the morning… that
day on the boat, when you took the pills…”
“For God’s sake, spit it out!” Ferocious
hurt radiating from him like heat, then he shook off
her hand. “The morning they took Natalie.”
“Yeah.” She wanted to hold him, knew
he’d never allow it now. “Willard said it was the only copy. I assume that’s
why he’s so antsy.”
You could practically hear the wheels
clicking. Farrar made connections faster and more astutely than anyone she’d
ever met, and one of these days she’d have to try and get a handle on how his
mind worked. Suddenly he drew a harsh breath, almost a sob.
“You callous bastard… Open the file, Donatelli!”
“I can’t do that. He— Don’t!”
“For the love of God, tell me where that
file is!” He’d snatched the tablet from her, and in the darkness she saw the
glow of the screen dance like a crazed firebug. Shaking.
He was shaking.
“Farrar! Talk to me! What’s in that
file?”
“If I’m right, it’s the trigger. It has
to be.”
“Trigger?”
“Where’s the file, O’Donatelli?
Please.”
Oh, what the hell. “It’s in a hidden
folder. Give me that thing!” Now he had her trembling. Her fingers fumbled with
the stylus, finally managed to activate the voice decoder. “Enable subsystem
partitions. Go to H drive, backslash, eighty-nine Q, forward slash, fourteen.”
It whirred a while, the humming
punctuated by Farrar’s short, ragged breaths.
This is a protected folder. Please enter
your password.
“994KR7DM400.”
Inside the folder was a single file:
PRF030266.wav.
“That’s my service number,” rasped
Farrar. “Open it!”
“Alright! Alright…
Open file.”
The tablet complied.
Something that looked like a
small operating theatre. Farrar, with short, dark hair and an eternity
younger, strapped to a chair. Singing. Singing badly and in a weird accent. The same two lines,
again and again and again, like a machine. Or a cracked
record.
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me
His older self knocked her elbow as he
crumpled, sent the computer flying. It landed in the hay, still yammering on,
and she wished it’d stop, stop that freaky singing.
“Farrar?” No reaction, so she felt for
his shoulders, shook him. “Patrick!”
Struggling in her grasp, bathed in
sweat, hands icy, he whispered, “Let go… Let go of me… This is bad. It’s real
bad, O’Donatelli…” Then his voice changed completely.
“Oh man… It’s raining. It’s pissing down with rain…”
She tucked him against her, gently
rubbed cold fingers. “Where, Patrick? Where is it raining?”
“USS Kandahar. Off the
Albanian coast. Gonna hitch a flight and jump in.”
“Jump in where?”
“Border. Border in the
Devil’s Mountains.”