Blood Guilt (25 page)

“Come on then!” snarled
the Prophet, echoing Robert Reed’s last words.

When Harlan heard that,
he knew. If he attempted to tackle the Prophet, one of them was going to die.
Either way, that wouldn’t help Ethan. But if it was himself, the Prophet might
have time to break free and recapture Jamie. No matter what, he couldn’t allow
that to happen. Better to call in the police, let them deal with him. Besides,
the Prophet was already facing life in prison. So, unlike Jones, he had nothing
to gain by hiding the truth.

Holding the chair up
like a shield, in case the Prophet threw the knife at him, Harlan backed out of
the cave. Once he was inside the tunnel, he dropped the chair, and limped to
the boy. It felt like there was a nail lodged in the wound, pushing deeper into
his hipbone with every step. A look of relief came into Jamie’s eyes when he
saw Harlan. But the anxiety returned to them as Harlan pulled up his
sweatshirt. The wound was about two inches long, its clean edges yawning apart
to a width of about half an inch. Dark red blood seeped steadily from it.
Already his left trouser leg was soaked down to the knee. He pulled off his
sweatshirt and cut it into two strips. One he folded into a thick pad and
pressed against the wound. The other he tied tightly over the pad.

“Let’s get the hell out
of here,” Harlan said to Jamie, taking back the torch.

Moving as fast as he
could bear to, Harlan made his way back along the tunnel. When he came to the
T-junction, he paused, shining his torch into the left-hand tunnel. “Ethan!” he
shouted. His voice echoed back at him, but there was no other response. Still,
he hesitated to continue, wondering if he had the strength to check out the
tunnel. The tremors in his legs and the waves of dizziness crashing over him
told him he didn’t. Jamie tugged at his hand, urging him to take the tunnel
that led to the first cave. Heaving a painful sigh, Harlan allowed himself to
be pulled along. Clearly knowing the way out, Jamie moved ahead of Harlan,
pausing every few paces to glance back, his eyes shining like saucers in the
torchlight. Harlan’s left leg dragged ever more heavily. Several times he
staggered and almost fell. But when they reached the cave, and his nostrils
caught the stench of the corpse, some hidden reserve of strength welled up
inside him. Picking up his pace, he waved Jamie onwards. Beyond the cave, a
cool draught of night air blew in from the tunnel’s entrance, soothing his
feverishly hot face. He gulped down lungfuls of it. 

When they reached the
hole, Jamie scrambled out of it as if the Devil was nipping at his heels.
Harlan dragged himself up after him and grasped the trapdoor. As he strained to
lift it, pain exploded like a grenade in his hip. His grip on the metal sheet
started to slip, but Jamie rushed forward to help. Between them, they managed
to flip it shut. Harlan locked the padlock and fell breathless on the ground.
He lay on his back, shivering like grass in the wind. Above him, the stars swam
in and out of focus. After a moment, fighting nausea, he struggled to his feet
and looked at the encircling trees. It was only then that the realisation hit
him that he was lost. Without the Prophet’s guidance, he had little or no
chance of finding his way to the caravan. He was going to have to go back down
into the tunnels, tackle the Prophet and force him to lead them there. It was
either that or risk wandering in circles in the woods until he fell unconscious
from the pain or loss of blood. Heart heavy as a lump of lead, he looked at the
trapdoor. Jamie tugged at his arm again. “Do you know the way to the caravan?”
Harlan asked him hopefully.

Jamie nodded. Briefly
closing his eyes with relief, Harlan handed him the torch and gestured for him
to lead the way. They clambered up the grassy bank and entered the deeper darkness
beneath the leaf canopy. Occasionally, Jamie paused, shining the torch this way
and that, before continuing onwards. Even though the night was cool, sweat
poured off Harlan. At shortening intervals, he was forced to lean, panting,
against a tree and wring out the makeshift bandage like a wet dishcloth. The
blood leaking from him was no longer blood it was molten lava, scorching its
way down his leg and squelching in his shoe. Every step now was pure agony. He
stared at his feet, thinking,
one foot in front of the other
.
One
foot in front of the other
.
Keep moving
.
Keep moving or die.

After about twenty
minutes, although it seemed more like twenty hours to Harlan, they emerged into
the clearing to the left of the caravan. The car was only a couple of hundred
yards up the dirt track, but it might as well have been a hundred miles away.
As Harlan tried to move, the world went blurry with the pain. For a moment he
stood swaying on the edge of unconsciousness. Then he saw Jamie’s face. The boy
was staring at the caravan as if transfixed, mouth working mutely, tears
streaming down his cheeks. The sight pulled Harlan back from the brink. His
gaze moved beyond the boy to the Landrover. He took the Prophet’s keys out of
his pocket. There was an ignition key amongst the bunch. There was a risk that
in using the Landrover he would contaminate physical evidence, but he didn’t
see any other choice. Jamie blinked as Harlan tapped his shoulder and pointed
to the vehicle.

With Jamie supporting
Harlan by the elbow as best he could, they moved torturously slowly towards the
Landrover. The key fitted. Harlan hauled himself behind the wheel, groaning
with relief as he took his weight off his injured hip. He glanced at the
backseat while Jamie ran around to the front passenger door. There was a
pharmacy prescription bag sealed with a label on it. He picked it up and read
the label. ‘Mary Webster. 1831 Wilmslow Road, Parrs Wood, Manchester’. A faint
ripple of surprise passed through him. He’d assumed the Prophet would out of practical
and psychological necessity be a loner, but that obviously wasn’t the case. Who
was Mary Webster? he wondered. The Prophet’s wife? His partner in crime? Was he
one half of a murderous duo cast in the mould of Brady and Hindley? It was
possible, of course, but unlikely. More probably it was his mother. Whoever she
was, she was in for a big shock when the police came to batter down her door
and tear her home apart. She’d be in for an even bigger shock, one she’d likely
never recover from, when she learnt what they were searching for. And so the
trail of devastated lives would continue on and on with no apparent end.

Exhaling a burning
breath, Harlan reversed onto the track and slammed the gear-stick into first.
Even cushioned by the four-by-four’s suspension, every bump in the dirt was
like a twist of a torturer’s rack, squeezing more nausea up from the pit of his
stomach. Halfway to the main road, he braked, threw open his door and vomited.
There wasn’t much to bring up. He’d eaten little other than doughnuts for days.
Finally, they made it to the road. Harlan checked his phone. There was a
signal. He called Jim.

“What is it?” his
ex-partner asked brusquely. “Things are kind of crazy here right–”

“I’ve got him,”
interrupted Harlan, his voice was low and hoarse with agonised exhaustion.

“Got who? Are you
alright? You sound terrible.”

“The guy who snatched
Jack Holland. I found Jamie Sutton as well. He’s alive.”

There was a moment of
silence, as if Jim was struggling to take in what he’d heard. Then he said,
“Where are you?”

As Harlan described as
best he could where they were, he examined the blood soaked makeshift bandage.
“And send an ambulance. I’ve been…” His voice slurred off. Without him even
realising it, his eyes slid shut and his head nodded. Suddenly he was with Tom
at the park, pushing him on a swing. Tom was laughing, kicking his feet high,
his thick brown hair blowing in the wind. A perfectly happy scene, but
something about it made Harlan uneasy. More than that, it made him angry. So
angry he wanted to scream and claw at it, tear it to shreds.

“Harlan, are you still
there? Talk to me?”

Jim’s voice jerked
Harlan away from Tom. With difficulty, he lifted his head. “Hurry, Jim.”

“Someone’s already on
the way. Don’t hang up, Harlan. Stay on the line with me until they get there.”

“I’ll try.” Harlan
seemed to hear his own voice from a distance. He leant his head against the
window. The pain wasn’t so bad anymore. He knew that probably wasn’t a good
sign.

“We’ve got a helicopter
up. Can you see it?”

Harlan rolled his eyes
glassily at the sky. “No.”

“Keep looking. Tell me
when you do.”

Harlan gazed up at the
stars. His eyes drifted as he wondered dimly about how Jamie knew the path
through the woods. The answer seemed obvious. The boy had been moved from the
cave to the caravan enough times that he could find his way between the two
even in the dark. But for what purpose? From Jamie’s reaction to the caravan,
the answer to that also seemed chillingly obvious.

He looked at Jamie. The
boy was sat hunched down, hands clasped in his lap. Even after everything
that’d just happened, he met Harlan’s gaze warily. “Did that man, the one from
the cave, take you to see someone else at the caravan?” Harlan hated to ask the
question, but he had to know.

Jamie nodded.

“Was it a man?”

Jamie shrugged.

“Were you blindfolded?”

Tears shimmered in
Jamie’s eyes as he shook his head.

“Did the person wear a
mask?”

Another nod.

“Did…did…” Harlan stumbled
over his words. The world was turning grey at the fringes. Merciful blackness
beckoned.
Just one or two more questions
, he told himself
, then you
can let go
. “Did this person take photos of you?”

Jamie shook his head
and gestured in the air. Harlan wrinkled his brow, not understanding. Then
realisation hit him. “They drew you.”

Jamie nodded. The tears
finally spilled over.

“It’s okay,” said
Harlan, barely murmuring the words. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

But it wasn’t going to
be okay. Never. Ever. Harlan returned his gaze to the stars. One was brighter
than the others. It hadn’t been there before. He watched it moving nearer. He
heard a distant sound. Whump, whump, whump, like a pounding heart. Then his
eyelids slammed down and it felt like when Kane hit him with the bat, only this
time he was falling into warm, dark water.

Chapter
16

Harlan remembered being
stretchered to the ambulance, flashing lights, the wail of the siren. He
remembered being wheeled into the hospital, a nurse cutting away his clothes,
doctors crowding around talking about blood loss and X-rays, shining lights in
his eyes. He remembered a voice. “Harlan, can you hear me?” it’d asked. “Blink
if you can.” He’d blinked. Another – or was it the same? – voice had said
something about exploratory surgery. He even remembered being lifted onto the
operating table. But all of it was hazy and remote as a dream. And the whole
time, one train of thought kept running through in his brain:
I need to talk
to Eve
.
I need to hear her voice
.
I need her to be here
.
I
need her
.
I need her
...

The next thing Harlan
remembered was waking up to find himself lying in a hospital bed in a single
room, hooked up to an oxygen mask, an IV bag and a cardiac monitor. A female
doctor was stood at the end of his bed, reading his medical notes. Her face
blurred in and out before his drug-clouded eyes. He felt floaty, disconnected.
Noticing he was awake, the doctor asked, “Mr Miller, how do you feel? Any pain?”

“None,” Harlan croaked
through the mask. “No bullshit, Doc, how am I doing?”

“You’re doing fine.
There was a perforation to your small intestine that required stitching. But
otherwise you’ve been very lucky. The knife missed your femoral artery by
millimetres. If it had hit it, you’d have bled to death.”

“How long have I been
out?”

“Not long. You came out
of surgery about an hour ago.”

Where’s Jamie?
Harlan
meant to ask the question out loud, but his mind was already slipping away from
him, drifting back into unconsciousness. Sometime later, it might’ve been hours
or only minutes, a familiar voice reached through the ether and pulled him into
wakefulness. He cracked his eyelids open and squinted up at Jim’s grizzled
face. The oxygen mask and cardiac monitor were gone, but the IV remained. There
was a faint throbbing in his lower abdomen. His mouth was drier than sand. He
gestured to a jug of water and Jim poured him a cup. After sipping from it, he
asked, “Where’s Jamie?”

“On another ward, being
treated for shock, malnutrition and Christ knows what else. Poor little
bugger.”

“Has he spoken yet?”

“Just a few words.
Enough to let us know what you did for him.”

“So you found that
son-of-a-bitch I left chained up in the caves.”

Jim nodded. “How did
you find your way down there?”

Harlan gave Jim the
story from arriving at the caravan to rescuing Jamie – he figured Jones
would’ve filled the police in on the earlier events. Then he asked, “What about
Jones?”