A Shadow Fell (13 page)

             
             
             
             
             
             
             
30

             
When we resumed
our climb
the next morning
i
t didn’t take long for us to see we had indeed found an
easier route up the mountain. We were on a reasonably gentle slope – at least compared to what we had experienced before – and I was following a few yards behind Con when he came to a sudden stop. He knelt down and brushed aside some light debris, studying the soil.

             
“What is it?” I said coming up beside him.

             
“
You told me yesterday you’ve always wondered how Henderson could have got his victims up the mountain with the added weight and all.”

             
“Yeah. So?”

             
“
I think we may have just solved th
at little
puzzle
.”

             
I looked at the area he was studying. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to me and I said so.

             
He looked at me and smiled. “These are
skid
marks.
Judging by the
pattern of the
spray I’m thinking they were p
robably made by a small dirt bike.”

             
“Son of a bitch,” I mumbled. We
had
never considered the possibility of motorized transport
on the mountain
because of the topography. And
now it looked as though
Henderson
may well have been
using a different route where the terrain wasn’t a problem.

             
Reaching the cabin site took longer than we
a
nticipated.
The new route was less
physically
taxing but
the distance
covered
w
a
s
considerably greater.

             
Upon our arrival Con did another circumnavigation of the area. He looked for new signs that a tent had been pitched and he scoured the cabin timbers looking for indications that there had been more campfires since our last visit. His initial search yielded no obvious sign
s
of
occupation beyond what we had noted before.
He seemed disappointed in the extreme. As anxious as I was to find and deal with Henderson, he seemed even more so.

             
“I’m gonna expand the search area tomorrow,” he said. He
sounded a little strange and, uncharacteristically,
looked nearly
exhausted.

             
“Okay, Con. I’ll make us some supper and we can
turn in
early.”

             
He nodded
and stretched out on the ground to relax
. I set about heating a can of stew over our little cook stove.

             
At one point I looked over at Con and
an odd thing
happened
. H
e
was staring at me
.
The only word I could think of to describe the look on his face
at that moment
was as one of malevolence.
As quickly as
our eyes
met t
he look
changed
to a smile
. B
ut I had the distinct feeling I had caught him in an unguarded moment of pure hatred.

             
A little chill ran through me.

             
I
told myself I was being ridiculous and
tried to
dismiss
the
sensation
of unease that settled on me.
But I wasn’t altogether successful.

             
That night, as we bedded down
in our tent,
I couldn’t shake the feeling that
there was
something wrong with Con.
As we lay in the dark I listened to his breathing. Usually he fell asleep well before me
but not this time. I had the disturbing feeling that he was waiting me out. But to what purpose? Eventually I faked sleep by snoring lightly to see what might happen. After half an hour or so his breathing changed and
it was obvious he had nodded off
.

             
After breakfast th
e next morning Con announced he would likely be gone for a few hours. He said he wanted to take his time doing a large sweep of the area to see if he could pick up any signs of occupation he may have missed during his earlier search.
It was clear he wanted to be on his own and i
t left me with little to do
in his absence
. Consequently I used the time to try and analyze what had happened between us the previous evening. It had been strange to say the least.
W
as I making too big a deal out of what may have been nothing more than quiet contemplation on his part? I wanted to believe that was the case.
But something
– something I couldn’t define or
conceptualize
-
kept
niggling away at
me
.

             
I began to think back through my association with Con to see if there were any other episodes of strange behavior on his part. I couldn’t really put my finger on anything specific although, truth be told, h
is conduct
was
frequently
a little odd
. I had come to accept his quirks over time and even, to some extent, appreciate them. Now I started to wonder if there might be more to it than a simple case of him marching to the beat of a
slightly
different drum.

             
I couldn’t entirely discount what Tom Kilborn had told me about Con’s wife. After all, I had only Con’s word that he had
received a letter from her
. It was possible
he had fabricated the whole story.

             
It was my experience with liars that they usually gave themselves away
through inclusion of unnecessary
details. Often, when
a person
tells a lie, they will
manufacture
fine points around
the story in an effort to add validity.
It follows, of course, that t
hese details are also lies and if you tell enough of them it’s easy to get tangled up in the web of deceit you’re constructing.
It was in this vein that
I tried to recall what Con
had
said about the call to his wife. Something about c
alling her at noon. And then getting through to her just as she was getting up.
             

             
Almost at once something in my subconscious rang wrong.
I did the math in my head. Unless I was mistaken there was a five hour time difference between Portugal and the east coast of the United States. Portugal, of course, being five hours ahead.

             
And there it was. If Portugal was five hours ahead of us, and Con called his wife at noon, that would make it dinner time there. She would be getting ready for supper, not just getting up.

             
Con had figured the five hour time difference alright, but he had gone the wrong way.

             
So, what did this tell me? Con was almost certainly lying about contacting his wife. And if he was lying about contacting her, that
meant there was at least a reasonable chance that he
may
, indeed,
have
killed her.

             
But if this was true, what was his motivation in lying to me about contacting her? The only thing that seemed to make any sense was that he wanted, for whatever reason, to gain my trust. He might well have surmised that my colleagues in the FBI had told me about the suspicions concerning h
is wife’s
disappearance. That being the case he might also assume I would be reluctant to take him with me on my search for Henderson. But why would he have any desire to
ease my mind
if it was specifically in the hope that I would allow
him to
assist me in that connection?

             
The whole thing seemed to make no sense
to me
.

             
But I now had very good reason to believe that, to Con, it made a
great deal of
sense.

             
             
             
             
             
             
Part 4

             
             
             
             
             
   
The Betrayal

             
             
             
             
             
             
             
31

             
“I
picked up signs of
a trail,” Con said excitedly. “The bastard’s smart, but not smart enough.”

             
He had arrived back at the camp after
almost six
hours
away
and wore
a smug look on his face. As I studied him I could see that there was no doubt about it
-
his behavior had changed. He was less cool. More focused but in a fanatical way.
I could see it in his eyes.
And my experience w
ith
fanatics
, much like that of liars,
was without exception not good. Whether it was religion, politics, or something as benign as saving the whales, fanatics bothered me.
I had once read something on the topic by someone I respected. I couldn’t remember the exact quote but it was something along the lines that ‘if you want to be taken seriously you need to abandon all or nothing fanaticism and embrace a balanced science
-
oriented view.’
When I come across someone who lacks this fundamental ability it raises all kinds of red flags in my mind. I supposed it was
somewhat
impractical
of me
to think this
way. After all, I had taken on the role of a
n
extremist myself. My single
-
minded determination to find Henderson and exact my own form of retribution had to be considered obsessive
. But,
given the circumstances,
in my mind at least, it was justified obsession.

             
Everything aside, though, Con’s news was
exhilarating
.
And until I could figure out what was going on with him I didn’t want to give him any reason to suspect that I had lost faith or trust in him.
“What did you find?”
I asked
, conveying a level of excitement that matched his own
.

             
“
Oil spots, some rock scrapes, shit like that,” he responded dismissively. “I’ve got the general direction he was heading as he went down the mountain. He’s smart enough to use a different path every time so as not to make an obvious trail but I’m onto him.” He nodded his head
in a
faintly
maniacal
fashion
and smiled to himself.

             
This guy is fucking crazy I thought to myself. Why didn’t I see this before? The idea that he may have killed his wife was now
rapidly gaining in likelihood.

             
The only weapon Con carried overtly was a large hunting knife
that
hung from his belt in a scabbard. Although he had never mentioned
it
I was fairly certain he had at least one handgun,  probably his service weapon, in his backpack. I, as Con
was aware,
continued to carry my Glock in a holster at my back.

             
The idea of being up here, a million miles from civilization, with a potential madman, was not giving me a good feeling. I
suspected he was here for reasons that remained unclear to me
-
t
hat he
ha
rbored
a
hidden
agenda
that was not necessarily in concert with my own
.

             
             
             
             
             
             
*
             
*
             
*

             
Con was now like a hound on the scent of a fox. Before daylight the next morning he was up,
anxious to pick up the trail. I insisted on a good breakfast before undertaking what I knew would be a
strenuous
day
.
I had not slept well and although Con
seemed to have the capacity to go
forever
without nourishment
,
I most certainly did not. I cooked up some powdered eggs with bacon, toast, and coffee
and tried to savor the meal
. He
devoured
his share of the
food s
o fast he barely bothered to sit down for it.
I was onl
y half finished before he was done
eating
, had broken ca
mp
,
and was standing over me pacing impatiently.

             
The behavior he was exhibiting
at this point
was worrisome on several levels. I didn’t know whether to trust his judgment now. I
continued to possess a
burning need to
find Henderson but I was
no longer
convinced Con was
rational
enough to
help me
accomplish the goal. In addition, I was
extremely
concerned about his real motivation in helping me achieve my purpose.

             
If, as I suspected, he
was hatching some kind of scheme,
how did I fit into it?