Nodding, Dave shut his door as carefully as Billy had closed his. With that, the partners started after their quarry, Billy setting the pace at a moderate jog.
When they got around the hairpin and reached the Honda, Billy paused, touching the roof of the car as if to assert his victory in the long chase. He glanced briefly inside the car, then flicked away from it, gazing in the direction in which Larry and the kid had disappeared.
"It's a trail, all right," he observed, pointing into the woods.
Following Billy's gaze, Dave saw a narrow dirt path lacing off between the trees. Many yards away, the path angled to the right; Dave peered into the quadrant into which the trail extended, but the view there was occluded by thick trunks and deadfall.
"Let's hoof it," said Billy, starting for the path. "Even if they're takin' their sweet time, they're probably pretty far ahead of us by now."
As Dave trotted along behind him, Billy looked over his shoulder, placed a finger over his lips to call for silence. Just as Billy turned away, a twig cracked under Dave's feet; Billy shot his head around and repeated his gesture more insistently, this time fairly beating the finger against his lips.
Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, watching his every step, Dave followed Billy into the woods. The trail turned out to be about as straight as the road which had led to it; it rippled through the trees, curling around trunks and knolls and boulders, flexing this way and that with all the linear directness of a swatter-dodging housefly's course through a room.
When he wasn't watching the ground ahead for potentially noisy debris, Dave gazed into the woods, looking for Larry and the kid. Anxiously, he cast about for a glimpse of the kid's white shirt or red sweatpants; either the two refugees were truly distant, or the trees and twining trail concealed them, for Dave couldn't spy a trace of the pair.
Trusting that the psychic and his companion were somewhere ahead, even though they weren't in sight, Dave and Billy forged onward. The narrow rut led them further into the woods, up hills and through gullies, around heaps of moss-blanketed rubble. Twice, the partners had to scramble over trees which had fallen across the path; they hopped over several little creeks, streams which had been starved by the dry spell between the winter thaw and spring rains.
Finally, unexpectedly, the trail gave way to a clearing. After climbing up a steep slope, Dave and Billy emerged at the rim of a great open space, a surprising vastness in which blue sky replaced tangled limbs overhead.
Some distance from the rim, about thirty yards from the end of the trail, a huge formation of rock shouldered into the space. Broad and blunt as the surfacing hump of a whale, the formation straddled the clearing, spanning it like a wall from side to side. The mass of rock was pale gray and beige, but the bright sunshine washed it white as beach-sand along the top; though cracks and separations were visible, the stone appeared generally smooth, worn edgeless like a pebble from a riverbed. While it was difficult to gauge the dimensions from the clearing's fringe, the ridge didn't seem to be very high, didn't look as if it rose further than ten or twelve feet at its thickest point; still, it was an imposing and monolithic object.
Though he'd been panting as he'd clambered up the slope and into the clearing, Dave caught his breath when he saw the stony crest sprawling before him. For a moment, he was dumbstruck; he'd imagined that the woods would continue uninterrupted for acres, that he and Billy would hike for miles without seeing anything of interest...and yet, there it was, something massive, something significant...something that looked like a destination.
Dave stared at the great table of stone, wondering at its enormity, its relevance; then, abruptly, something stirred in his memory, kicked like an infant testing its womb. Frowning, Dave probed at the odd activity, groped for its source, strained to define it. Briefly, the agitation stilled, and he thought that it was gone for good...and then, there was another kick, and he knew.
Suddenly, he knew where he was.
"Wolf's Rock," he whispered. "That's Wolf's Rock."
"You know this place?" asked Billy, keeping his voice low.
"Uh-huh," said Dave. "Haven't been here for years, but my dad brought me out here a few times when I was a kid."
"What is it?" asked Billy. "Just a big rock?"
"Yeah. It's full of little caves and crannies and stuff. I remember climbing around all through it."
"Huh," grunted Billy, staring pensively at the formation. "Well, let's go see what the hell Larry's doing here. Maybe he's spelunking or something."
With Billy in the lead, the partners ran across the clearing to the right side of the great mound; it tapered to the ground there, slid down in a drift of boulders.
After signaling Dave to stay quiet, Billy boosted himself onto a fat boulder. Nimbly, he hopped onto the next stepping-stone, a flat-topped block which butted against the side of the massif. From the block, he strolled easily onto a ledge, then moved up a short, slight incline toward the surface of the formation; though he didn't need to lean into the climb, he crouched, kept his head low, advanced slowly.
Keeping his eye on his comrade, Dave followed Billy's route and hoisted himself onto the first boulder. When he'd reached the second step, the block, he paused, for Billy had gained the summit; the wiry guy perched at the top of the slope, hunched like a wary cat, slowly turning his head in a scan of the site.
Nervously, Dave waited, eyes fixed on his vigilant friend. At last, Billy gave the go-ahead, waved without looking back; he stood straight and stepped away from the bank, moving out of sight as Dave clambered up behind him.
Hastily, Dave scooted over the lip of the formation; gazing over the broad plateau, he could see no one but Billy, standing a few yards away.
Dave walked over to stand beside his partner, silently joined him in examining the surroundings. The cap of the mound was quite flat, spread out smoothly with only a few minor bumps or distensions; the even surface had plenty of cracks, though, lots of fissures of varying width that marred its perfection. Some of the fissures were no more than hairlines, tiny fractures in the stone, while others were clefts wide enough for a man to fit through.
The plateau stretched for quite a distance from the edge nearest the partners. Its breadth cut the whole way across the large clearing, sprawled from one tree line to the other. Its length appeared to be even greater; from the flank where Dave and Billy stood, the table of stone fanned out to a faraway terminus, what looked like a drop-off with no trees beyond it. Dave thought that the slab seemed about as long as a football field, though the drop-off may have enhanced his impression of its size.
Neck stiff, eyes alertly shifting back and forth, Billy began to walk; with Dave at his side and a little behind him, he took a few steps, then stopped. Head cocked slightly, he listened for a moment; Dave did the same, but all that he could hear was the low whisper of the wind.
Stopping and listening every few steps, Billy and Dave continued to walk further out onto the plateau. Cautiously, silently, they inched along, stepping over the thinner, veiny fissures, navigating around the wider gashes in the rock. As they skirted the larger cracks, they carefully peered into them; some dropped to a visible floor of earth or stone, but a few enfolded darkness which hinted at greater depths.
After some minutes of halting progress, Billy discontinued the practice of pausing at frequent intervals. He was still stiffly alert, and he maintained a slow pace, but he didn't stop after every few feet that he covered. Moving in an arc from the edge of the formation, he preceded Dave toward the middle, led the way in the general direction of the center of the great flat.
As the partners gradually advanced, Dave continued to listen and scan the terrain; he neither heard nor saw a trace of another human being aside from Billy and himself. In the absence of a signal, of a clear or subtle indication of Larry's location, Dave concentrated harder, focused all of his senses with greater intensity on the search...all the while wondering if Larry was even in the vicinity, if he'd somehow managed to elu
de him already.
Long minutes passed. Dave and Billy drew nearer to the center of the plateau, and still there was only the breeze and the sun and the rock.
Then, abruptly, Billy Bristol stopped walking. Dave was so absorbed in the hunt that he almost collided with the guy, caught himself with a stumble.
"What...," started Dave, and then Billy shot a hand in the air, demanding silence. Frowning, Dave moved to stand alongside his friend; he stared at him, trying to figure out why he'd stopped.
Billy's head was again cocked in a listening attitude; his eyes were unfocused, rolled up and to one side. He was perfectly still except for the slight flutter of his sandy hair in the breeze.
Desperately curious, Dave gazed over the slab, looking for something that might have attracted Billy's interest; he saw nothing new. He listened carefully, straining to eke a new sound from the murmuring wind; he heard nothing.
Billy continued to stand there as if mesmerized. After another minute, Dave could wait no longer; failing to detect whatever had entranced his friend, he nudged Billy's arm.
"What is it?" he whispered. "Did you hear something?"
Still listening, Billy slowly nodded.
"So what is it?" pressed Dave.
"There it is again," whispered Billy, and Dave heard it...a faint rustling, a scraping. It wasn't the sound of tree limbs rasping in the breeze; it could have been the sound of an animal...or a person.
Dave looked around and listened intently, struggling to pinpoint the source of the noise; it seemed to be coming from somewhere up ahead, but it was so dim that he could define no more than a general direction. He inspected the next reach of the plateau, but couldn't decide on a likely point of origin; there were many fissures ahead, some rather wide, and he supposed that the sound could have been coming from one of them...but it was impossible to specify which one, or if indeed the sound was rising from any of them.
Wordlessly, Billy Bristol moved forward; head still cocked, he wandered to the left, took five steps and stopped. Dave followed and paused to listen...and the rustling seemed nearer. It indeed seemed to be coming from the stone, from within the stone.
With painstaking slowness, the partners proceeded. They took several more steps, then stopped and listened again...and the sounds were still louder, still closer. There was a rustling, a scuffing, a faint crack; as he focused on them, Dave became more confident that their source was indeed one of the wide rifts just a few yards away.
The partners slowly approached the nearest fissure; even before Billy glanced into it and shook his head, Dave could tell that the sounds weren't coming from that first gash. As Billy crept on to the next one, Dave looked inside anyway...and indeed, the space was empty, just ragged rock walls and a dirt floor.
A few feet away, to the right, there was another, wider fissure. This, too, was vacant; Dave and Billy inched up to it, shot hasty glances downward, saw nothing but stone and shadows.
Straightening, Billy paused then, eyed the other crevices in the area. He listened; at last, he headed for another wide fissure several yards ahead. Cautiously, he padded toward it, then halted at its edge.
Frowning, listening, Dave came up beside his partner; though the noises were near, very near, he couldn't be sure that they were rising from the cleft by which he now stood. There was more rustling, another cracking noise, and they seemed to be down in the immediate trough...but there were other cuts in the stone just a few feet away, and he thought that one of them could just as easily be the source of the sounds.
Abruptly, the noises ceased. Billy looked as if he'd been about to steal a glance into the trench, but he didn't budge for a moment. Head bowed, he hovered there, but the noises didn't resume; he threw a sideways glance at Dave, then returned his gaze to the gap before him.
Another moment passed. Billy inched closer to the edge, tipped slightly forward. Still, the silence was unbroken.
Dave held his breath.
Billy bobbed his head toward the crevice...then hesitated. He looked around, glanced at Dave, then returned to a stance of tense readiness. Hair stirring in the breeze, he slowly leaned forward.
Finally, he darted his head out over the fissure.
He jerked his eyes along the length of the gap, then ducked back.
Anxiously, Dave gaped at his comrade. Billy looked limp, a little shaken; Dave moved toward him, eyes bulging with concern and curiosity.
Billy met his partner's gaze...and shook his head.
Dave started to breathe again.
Billy rolled his eyes and produced a sheepish smirk. Hands on his hips, he paused for a moment, seemed to be collecting himself; then, he started for another fissure.
The plateau was still silent when the partners drew up to the next rift. Billy leaned toward it, hung there for just an instant; he seemed more relaxed than he'd been at the last fissure, not as tense as he'd looked when the sounds had cut off just as he'd been about to peek.
The silence continued. Billy tipped forward and dipped his eyes into the trench. His head slid to the left, following the course of the depression.
Then, he stopped moving. With his face turned completely away from Dave, he froze, locked into the pose like a mannequin.
Puzzled, Dave stared at his partner, wondered what he'd seen. The noises hadn't resumed, so Dave doubted that anything was moving in the fissure; he felt sure that the cleft must be vacant, and he couldn't figure out what would be interesting enough to command Billy's attention so totally.
After only a moment, the suspense had become too much for Dave to bear. Frowning, he bowed over the trench, lowered his gaze into its depths; he panned his eyes along the length of the socket, seeking the spot at which Billy was staring.
He didn't have to search for long. His vision was quickly snagged by the sight; he couldn't miss it.
He couldn't stop himself from gasping, either.
Bright white. There was bright white in the rift...and red.
And more red.
A body. There was a body in the rift...and blood.
The kid.
It was the kid. He was sprawled over rocks and dirt at the bottom of the fissure.
Most of his face was gone; his skull had been crushed like a melon. Dave only recognized him because of the clothes, though the sweatpants had been soaked purple and the white T-shirt was stained crimson.
The shirt was bloody as an ignored and tragic flag of surrender; the rocks upon which the boy lay were bloody. The stone walls of the trough were smeared and streaked with blood.
The kid's arms and legs were contorted, twisted to unnatural angles. One of his arms bent in the wrong direction at the elbow; his feet were turned inward, almost backward.
The head was by far the worst of it. Whenever Dave looked at it, he felt sick to the stomach; he thought that he would vomit, and so he looked away...but his eyes were drawn back to it. It was horrible, and he couldn't stand to look at it...yet he found himself transfixed, gripped by fear and disbelief and morbid fascination.
For a moment, he just stared, stunned and repulsed, thoughtless and frozen. The discovery was too big, too gruesome, too incredible to allow any but the simplest reaction at first.
Then, he began to understand.
The kid was dead. The kid had been with Larry Smith.
The kid was horribly mutilated. The kid had been with Larry Smith.
The kid had been murdered.
The kid had been with Larry Smith.
The conclusion was inescapable; it settled over Dave like a heavy tarpaulin, a vast canvas shutting out the light. He rebelled against it, kicked and flailed, scrambled for a way out...but he knew that he was trapped.
The kid was dead. Most of his face was gone.
The kid had been with Larry Smith.
With Larry Smith.
He'd never guessed. Never, not even for an instant, had he imagined; through all the craziness, all the lies, he'd trusted in a fundamental decency, a basic goodness in the object of
his obsession. Larry had angered him, confused him, surprised him, misled him, but this...Dave had seen no hint of this.
Everything had changed. One peep over the edge, a glance into one rift among dozens, and everything had changed.
Most of the face was gone.
Dave's stomach tightened and he felt as if he would be sick. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he finally wrenched his eyes from the cleft, from the red and white and red. Jamming his eyes shut, he stumbled two steps back from the cavity's edge; he'd been lightheaded through much of the day, but now he felt terribly dizzy...and he didn't want to fall into the cut beside the...
The face.
Glistening.
Someone touched his shoulder. Reflexively, he flung his eyes open and jerked away...but it was only Billy Bristol.
"Let's go," Billy whispered urgently. He was grave, more serious than Dave had ever seen him; his eyes were wide and wild, darting about, burning Dave and then swooping right and left. "We've gotta' get outta' here."
Dave swayed, gripped his head with both hands. The truth of Billy's words hit him; he'd been so stunned that the realization had come slowly, but Billy had ignited the last burst of understanding.
It was suddenly clear: they were both in great danger. They were alone and unarmed; they stood out in the open, near the center of a huge plateau.
Most of the face was gone.
"I mean it," whispered Billy, shaking Dave by the shoulder. "We've gotta' go now. This is deep shit, man."
Swallowing hard, battling to control his twisting gut, Dave nodded.
"Straight down the middle," directed Billy, pointing toward the distant lip where the formation dropped into the clearing. "Jump off and get to the trail. No matter what, don't stop. This is deep shit, man."
Gut writhing, heart hammering, Dave nodded.
Without another word, Billy spun and sprinted off; still reeling, Dave took a deep breath and followed. He was dizzy, he was shell-shocked, he was nauseous...but now, he was also afraid, scared enough to force himself to go.
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