The Flicker Men (34 page)

Above me, I heard the fence rattle again. Something trying to get up and over. I prayed the fence held. Or that the hill itself was an obstacle.

When I was a boy, my grandparents had owned a huge dog, an Irish setter that I'd played with in the backyard. Out in the yard, it was no contest; four legs were faster than two. But going down the stairs to the basement was another story. And I'd learned this strange truth: going down a steep slope, four-legged creatures were no faster than humans. Sometimes they were slower.

I climbed over a small boulder and sprinted along the streambed until I burst through a thick mass of foliage, pushing it aside with my arms. A final drop of three feet to the sand, and I blinked and came to rest, looking all around, and was suddenly out on the edge of the tide flats—a vast and glossy plane of dark, sandy mud.

My feet made deep gouges on the smooth surface. I was out.

Hours from now there'd be ten feet of water where I stood, but for the moment the shallow seafloor spread out before me, the bed of an inlet exposed to the air. In the distance across the mud, a green bank rose into a tree-lined hill, the reciprocal image of the hill I'd just come down. I set off toward the other side.

*   *   *

The inlet was a half mile across, a narrow lowland between hills where the ocean insinuated itself at high tide.

Runnels of water connected shallow pools, and I was mindful of my step as I picked my way across the slippery muck. I splashed across a series of runoff streams—some deeper than others, wider than others, crisscrossing each other in complex patterns made anew at each low tide. I had to choose my path carefully, or find myself wading knee-deep in cold water, fighting a current. The water was freezing. The sea-salt smell overpowering.

I trudged along the edge of a particularly deep stream, searching for a place where it widened and flattened, so that I might cross, and that was when I saw the footprints. Funneled to this place by the same geography—a single set of smallish prints gouging their way across the silty bottom.

I looked close. They'd filled in with water and had lost their definition, but I judged them about the right size. A woman's prints or a small man's. They could have been a minute old or an hour, but up ahead, nothing moved. I saw no one. The tide plain was empty.

I crossed the stream where the footprints had crossed and followed the tracks for another hundred yards until they came to a place where the sand leveled out, and a wandering trickle of seawater had smoothed the flats as clean as an eraser. I continued on until a sound caught my attention. Something behind me.

I turned, and at that moment, in the distance, the hound burst free from the tree line and leaped onto the flats, bounding across the mud. Its rear legs kicked up huge rooster tails of sand with each long, loping stride—white puffs of steam rising from where its front legs made contact with the wet muck. If it had been no faster than a man while descending the slope, then this terrain here was what it was made for. It would reach me quickly.

I turned and ran. Up ahead, several streams converged, and I didn't have time to find a safe crossing. I waded out into the flowing water—up to my knees at first, then my hips, the current pushing me downstream. The cold took my breath away. Like a vice around my chest, squeezing my heart. I pressed on fifteen feet more, then twenty, halfway across—until the water hit my shoulders, saltwater stinging my wounds like fire, and I felt the bottom fall away, and my head went under—and then I was swimming. The cold water a shock against my face. An involuntary gasp, and the salt taste is something you never forget, once you've been in the ocean, and each time brings it back.

I swam for my life. The current was strong, draining the endless upland tide pools, and it sucked me along, threatening to take me out to sea. I wondered if it had happened that way to Mercy.
Was she out there now, lost in the deeps? Or had she found safe crossing?

My shoes kicked bottom, sliding past rocks, and I lunged and swam harder, until my feet were suddenly under me, and I waded forward. When I reached the other side, I dragged myself out of the water and collapsed, hands scraping painfully against the rough sand as I pulled myself up the bank. My body shook with cold and exhaustion. When I turned to look, my heart stopped.

Across the stream stood the hound. It stood perfectly still, steam rising from its damp coat. It leveled me with a predatory glare.

But it did not cross.

I stared at it.

Its mouth pulled back from long, curving teeth.

“Don't like the cold?” I said. My voice cracked when I spoke.

It growled low in its throat and stepped to the water's edge. Its pale front leg made a hissing noise as it entered the water—a cloud of white steam. The beast stepped back.

Some things are more than they seem
, Mercy had said. Whatever this hound was, it didn't like the sea.

Best not to tempt it, though, I decided. I climbed slowly to my feet, no sudden movements, while its eyes bore into me.

I backed slowly away as it watched. Suddenly, the hound's ears perked up. As if they'd picked up a sound that only it could hear. It froze. A moment later, it turned and bolted, heading back in the direction it had come, sand flying from its feet.

I turned and sprinted for the slope.

*   *   *

The overgrowth was thick and green and without a trail. I broke my way up the slope for the first twenty yards, until the low brush thinned out and the trees began in earnest. Beyond there, the slope steepened, a muddy, slippery, leaf-covered rise, so I climbed at an angle, grasping at the trunks of trees as I went. It was a difficult climb, but two hours later, I reached the top, and the land flattened into a gentle woods, which continued to thin. Another half mile, and I came to a clearing of mowed grass, and then a park with a swing set and monkey bars. Civilization. I almost fell to my knees, but the thought of having to get up again stopped me.

Afternoon had come to the uplands, and the park was empty. I crossed quickly.

At the edge of the park, a road.

And beyond there, a town. Lights glowed up ahead.

I smoothed my hair and checked my clothes, hoping, at least, not to attract stares. My button-down shirt was gone, and my blue T-shirt was frayed. My khakis sported matching rips at the knees. Looking down at myself, I was suddenly thankful for the swim, because at least the worst of the blood and filth was rinsed away. I was still dirty and stained, but it was a diluted, washed-out kind of dirty that might only attract attention if the person made more than a cursory glance.

Beyond the park, a house-lined side street led me toward a main stretch of road—markets and restaurants and knickknack shops. People coming and going. Places selling real estate and ice cream and custom clothing.

I kept my eyes peeled as I walked the main drag, looking for a familiar face. Could either of them have made it this far?

If Brighton knew I'd crossed the canal, he might not be far behind. With my current position hemmed in on two sides by water, there weren't many places I could be.

Farther on, the main drag began to slope, and I got a view of the street as it descended toward the water and an enormous wharf. This was a tourist town, and the waterfront was its lifeblood. A hundred yards ahead, amid the walkers and the shoppers, I saw a woman with wet blonde hair. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look, but she was gone. It could have been Mercy or just wishful thinking. I picked up my pace, wanting to be sure.

A few minutes later, as I got closer, I saw a familiar vehicle pull onto the main road from one of the side streets.

There are plenty of vehicles like that
, I told myself
.

White Range Rover. The same kind that Brighton's men had shoved me into on the day that Satvik died. The driver of the vehicle had a phone to his ear while he scanned the crowds. He was midthirties, dark hair. I didn't recognize his face, but that could mean anything.

I ducked into a shop and let the Range Rover pass. Bead necklaces and knickknacks; I tried to look interested. When the vehicle had gone, I stepped back out into the crowd, moving as quickly as I could without attracting attention.

I found the alley that the blonde woman had ducked into, but she was nowhere to be seen. I passed through to another street, closer now to the water and the wharf. I walked slowly, scanning the traffic.

Up ahead, I saw her. Still wet from the crossing. It was Mercy. A wave of relief washed over me. Her arms were crossed in front of her, and she looked cold. But she was alive; she'd made it.

Now that I'd seen her, I considered letting her go.

Maybe it was enough. We'd both gotten free. I could slink away.
And go where? Do what?
I thought of the article on Satvik's death. A car accident, it had said.

In the street traffic up ahead, I saw the vehicle had circled around again. Same driver. Same cell phone to his ear. On her current course, Mercy would walk right past him.

I walked casually through the crowd, keeping my face turned away from the street until I came up behind her and put my arm over her shoulder. She startled at first but recovered quickly, opening her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

“They're close.”

“Where?” She did not turn her head, but her eyes darted through the crowd.

“Up ahead, in traffic.” I slowed our gait. We were passing a broad cement staircase that led down toward the wharf.

It was then that I noticed her limp.

“You're hurt,” I said. “How bad.”

Her eyes were distant. Her face pale.

“I'll survive.”

“Turn here,” I said, guiding her by the shoulder.

We took stairs down toward the water as the Rover passed by. At the bottom of the stairs, we found ourselves at a ticket booth. I looked at the sign.

“Two, please.”

Reaching into my pocket for my wallet, I felt my phone, now wet and dead. Mercy slid a wad of wet bills through the window. Moments later, we crossed through the turnstile and followed a narrow walkway leading down to the ferry. A line of cars trailed all the way up the hill, but the walk-ons had no line.

Once aboard, we climbed the stairs to the passenger level and made our way to a booth by the windows. We sat.

Electric lights and the hum of the engines.

I looked out through the glass toward the entrance ramp, waiting to see Brighton's face among those who boarded. Or maybe the driver's face. If he'd seen us and followed, there'd be no escaping him here. No place to go.

But no face appeared in the walkway.

Mercy laid her head on my shoulder. She was wet and exhausted and cold. I wrapped my arm around her. Her pant leg was torn. One shoe stained red. She saw me looking, so she raised the tattered material. She had a gash on her calf.

“It's not too bad,” I said.

She shook her head. “It came from the hound. It's worse than it looks.”

“What was that thing?”

“One of their hunters.”

“Where is Vickers?”

“She made it to her car.”

“She got away?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

She was silent for a moment. “I saw it. She was hurt, but she made it to her car.”

“Hennig is—”

“Hennig is dead.”

She closed her eyes.

Suddenly, the engine noise grew louder. Boat workers threw off the lines, and the ferry started moving. And just like that, we were off. No one new could enter the boat. The great wooden pylons slid by the window, seagulls alighting.

For the moment at least, we were safe.

I took a long breath and released it.

As my adrenaline eased back, exhaustion hit me. A bone-weary fatigue. I felt the rough texture of my clothes, still cold and damp. My pants stiff with salt. A coarseness that I knew wouldn't leave until they'd been washed in fresh water. I felt myself begin to shake. I clenched the muscles in my arms and legs, willing myself to stop.

“How did you get away?” she asked.

We were alone in this part of the ship, near the back. It was still an hour before the evening commute, and the crowd was thin. There were a dozen people on the entire level, none of them close.

“I killed Boaz,” I said.

She lifted her head from my shoulder, and her eyes searched my face. “You killed him.”

Maybe she expected insistence. I was too tired for that. I simply looked at her.

“How?” She asked.

“I hit him.”

“Hit him.”

“With a piece of steel.”

She said nothing for a long time after that. She put her damp head on my shoulder again and turned her face toward the window.

The ship eased away from the shoreline heading for deeper water. The lights of the town spread out all along the shore.

“You hit him,” she said finally. “That's all.”

Again I said nothing. Waves splashed against the side of the boat as we sliced through the water. We were traveling at eight knots, I guessed. Maybe ten. Not fast by powerboat standards, but faster than many small sailboats could go. It is counterintuitive that a longer waterline produces a faster sailing vessel. It seems that a longer waterline should mean more drag, more friction, a slower boat. But this isn't true at all.

Whitecaps frothed in the wind, and the ship heaved as it encountered the first big waves.

“They die,” I said. “Same as us.”

“Not the same,” she said.

I told her about the pipe in the darkness and the shiv of steel. I told her about Boaz's pulped skull, like a shattered jar of jelly. “I didn't stop until he was dead.”

She nodded, as if she finally understood. “The pipe kept him confined.”

“He was coming out, and I hit him.”

I leaned back in the seat. I didn't want to talk anymore. The exhaustion was bone deep. I turned away from the window and let the familiar rhythm of the ship overtake me. It was the first time I'd been out on the water in many years, I realized. The first time since my father died. The ship rocked against the waves.