Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-three
We get a late start in the morning. I slept fitfully, sure I was hearing things around the camp outside the tent, but apart from the deeply unpleasant sound of Allard having diarrhea and what I assume is swearing in French, he is intact and there’s no sign of anyone else when I emerge from the tent.
“Ten,” he growls. “I hope you have figured out the final puzzle.”
At least the sun is shining, albeit in patches; ever-present rain clouds still loom.
He makes coffee for himself on the little stove, but not for me. For this alone I hope he dies a fiery, unpleasantly slow death. I go over to the little creek to get water for my filter system.
There are boot prints in the mud next to the stream.
They could be from hikers who came here before us, but they look pretty fresh.
These prints are large, and with thick tread like military boots.
I stand, looking around slowly. I know it’s the 1982.
We changed the puzzle at Arthur’s Seat, and no one has the real fifth puzzle but me. No one else would know to come here.
I follow the footsteps to the side of the tent, where they fade out in the earth, but the grass going up the steep slope behind the tent is disturbed, as though someone climbed up.
Why not kill Allard in his sleep? But no. The 1982 wouldn’t kill Allard yet, not if he thinks he’ll lead him to the puzzle’s location. And he doesn’t know whether I know it, or Allard.
But once he figures it out, he’ll kill us both.
I decide not to tell Allard as he packs up the campsite. If yesterday was any indication, he’ll refuse to believe it anyway. I’m still groggy from pain, lack of caffeine, and too little sleep, but the sharp tang of fear propels me as we prepare to move on.
“Which way, Dr. Wilder?” Allard says.
I point in a southernly direction, which is the way we need to go around the Munros to get into the small valley.
I look behind us before starting, looking for anything out of place.
Allard growls, “Allez,” in a tone that suggests violence, so I move, leading the way up the trail.
Beyond the clear, still water of the loch looms the jagged edges of the enormous Beinn Dearg Mòr.
In any other circumstance, it would be stunning.
We follow a southwest stream around the base of the Munro.
We’re not far from the mark on the map now, and suddenly I’m desperate to put Allard off the trail.
The idea of him finding the solution is unbearable.
“You know, I’m not sure where we are,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound as confident as I’d wanted. “Maybe it’s that direction.” I point east.
Allard grabs my forearm with both his hands. “This will help you remember.” He yanks down on my arm. I hear—no, feel—a sickening crack in my forearm, and I stare at it, shocked. The pain is sharp, but somehow I know it’s just the start of worse to come when my brain catches up with it.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. The pain fully hits, full and horrible and irreversible. I stumble, panting. My arm flops in a gut-churning, wrong way.
“Want more?” he asks. “Take me to the solution.”
I shake my head, tears rolling down my cheeks. I smother the urge to scream, to wail. How long can I walk around with a broken arm? I suspect the answer is quite a while.
“There were boot prints at the campsite,” I say, hoping it worries him. It’s the only weapon I have. “In the mud. From last night.”
Allard tilts his head to the side. “Old prints, I am sure. No one is hiking out here. I was watching the trail all night.”
He couldn’t have watched the trail, or he wouldn’t have slept—and he obviously missed whoever was creeping around the camp.
I say, “The 1982 is in Scotland.” It’s my ace, and I hope it plays well, that it worries him. “He arrived at the fifth puzzle right after we did.”
Allard grabs my coat to halt me. I jerk back to avoid crashing my broken arm into him. “You know this how?”
I swallow and scramble to come up with an answer. I can’t tell him we told the 1982 to kill him. “Dane received intelligence saying the 1982 left Paris for Edinburgh.” I watch his expression to see if he believes the 1982 has been solving the puzzles.
Allard is silent, but I can see by the way his jaw clenches that he’s decided I’m right. “You did not mention this before.”
I’m pretty sure this is rhetorical. He appears to realize this too, because he shoves me forward.
I don’t speak to him for the next two hours as we make our way along a stream and emerge into the small valley.
It’s only five miles from where we camped, but it feels like five hundred, and we’re both moving slowly.
Every time I look at him, I see a sheen of sweat on his face that isn’t there from exertion.
He’s genuinely not feeling well, and I hope it’s because of the rotten rabbit water.
He’s also, to my gratification, frequently looking over his shoulder at the trail behind us now.
“Thinking about the 1982?” I ask. I shouldn’t poke him, but I can’t help myself.
But it seems he was ready for me. “No. I was thinking how Seaver works for ProtoDark. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“But did you know what work?”
I don’t answer.
“I didn’t think so. Such secrets he kept from you. He does all the deleting. Everyone who loses the Enigma Challenge is wiped from the face of the earth by Dane Seaver.”
I try to hide my surprise, but my silence gives me away. If Dane does the deleting, does that mean he’ll delete me if I lose?
“As you can see,” Allard says into the quiet, “there is much to consider about your boyfriend, isn’t there?”
He laughs at my silence, and we don’t speak again.
There’s nothing but grassy hillside punctuated with boulders. The sun shines hot over our heads. There are breaks of rocks here and there, but nothing that’s an obvious landmark. We skirt the edge of what I know is Loch Beinn Dearg. It empties into a clear stream.
“I need to rest,” I say. I am sluggish. Filtered water from this stream may ease my general dehydration, but I haven’t eaten this morning and my stomach is making goblin noises.
Allard doesn’t answer. I glance back to see that his face is strained and pale. He definitely isn’t feeling well. Good. The sun’s heat likely isn’t helping either.
“You look like you need a rest too,” I add.
“We will stop when I say so,” he snaps. Maybe there’s a little desperation in his tone. I keep going, now scanning the valley ahead for something—anything—that could possibly be here.
“The Fisherfield Forest is considered one of the most remote areas of Scotland,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice from cracking. “Sucks to be sick out here.”
“Quiet!” he hisses before veering sharply away from the stream and the path. He leans over and vomits heavily.
Movement.
It’s slight and distant, far up the direction we came from. Black again, and there are no black-furred animals out there that walk on two legs and suddenly crouch in the grass. Not with boots that leave tread marks in the mud.
Allard stands up and wipes his mouth, shooting me a vicious glare. He leans over and drinks from the stream we’re following. I consider telling him of the rotten rabbit water, but there’s no point now.
Allard says, “Stay there. Move and I will catch you.” His voice lacks his usual belligerence.
He walks up the embankment behind a boulder.
I hear more sounds of him being sick while I keep watch on the trail behind us.
I crouch, hoping whoever it is will show themselves.
I wish I could make a sling out of something for my arm.
There is nothing out here, except the wind, and even that seems to hold still. I watch for so long that I think for sure there’s no one coming. And then I see him. Brown hair. White skin. Tall. Shockingly thin. Black jacket.
The 1982.
Fear streaks down my spine.
He’s much like I remember him from the brief flashes in the train to Barcelona: thin, determined, unsmiling.
There are those wide eyes, visible even from here, and the black garb contrasting with incredibly white skin, like he never spends time in the sun.
And an intense focus that every sense tells me is predatory.
Allard comes out from where he’s been sick around the boulder.
He doesn’t see the 1982 on the trail behind him.
He’s sweating heavily—feverish, I hope. If the 1982 busies himself with Allard first, maybe I’ll try to run.
I should have run while Allard was sick.
This valley connects with the east end of Loch na Sealga; I could keep on the path, and I would eventually circle back to the main trail.
But that’s when I see the stone cross.