Avalon (54 page)

They came into Glen Clunie and started up the long rise towards the Cairnwell Ski Center. They could see the glittering lights of the ski lodge at the top of the hill, and Jenny said she thought it looked like the night skiing crowd was having a bash. Yet, when they reached the ski center, the parking lot was virtually empty; the restaurant was dark, and the only interior light they saw came from the pub.

“The chairlifts must be out of commission,” remarked James as they drove past. “That’s a tough break. The snow looks perfect.”

They crested the hill and started the steep descent into Glen Beag. The patchy clouds had parted enough to let a bright crescent moon spread a pale sheen of silver on the ice and snow. The road narrowed as it coursed down the shoulder of the mountain, bounded by a steep rock bank to the right, and an abruptly angled drop into total darkness to the left. A low ridge of dirty snow left by the plow marked the edge of the highway.

Approaching the treacherous switchback turn of the Devil’s Elbow, the skin on the back of James’ neck began to twitch. An instant later, Jenny cried, “James! Look! There’s someone down there.”

James was already slowing the Land Rover as, just beyond the beam of the headlights, he glimpsed movement at the side of the road: a figure was toiling up the steep slope.

He slammed on the brakes and pulled over sharply as a woman staggered onto the highway. Dressed in a long, dark coat, she hastened towards them, hands outstretched, her face white in the headlights, half running, half limping; her mouth was open, and she was calling to them.

James threw open the door and started towards her, with Jenny a step behind.

“Help me!” wailed the woman hysterically. “My boyfriend! My boyfriend’s down there. Help me! He’s hurt! Please!”

“What’s happened?” asked James, running to meet her.

“He’s dying!” the young woman shrieked. She was bleeding from a split lip and from a small cut above her eye. “You’ve got to help me save him.”

“We’ll help you,” said Jenny, trying to calm her. “Tell us what’s happened.”

Stepping quickly to the side of the road, James looked over the edge into the ravine below. There was a car near the bottom of the deep gorge; the lights were still on, bathing a narrow slice of the rocky hillside and the black, ice-bordered stream in pale yellow light.

“She’s gone off the road,” said James. “Take her to the ski lodge and call an ambulance.”

“No!” said the woman, clutching wildly at James. “There’s no time. I have to save my boyfriend! Both of you — this way! Hurry!” She turned and fled back down the slope.

Jenny made to follow, but James held her back. “I’ll go down. You go to the lodge and call for help.”

“I’ve got my mobile in my purse,” said Jenny, already darting away.

“There are flares in the box under the rear seat,” he called after her, then turned and started down into the ravine after the woman.

The snow was not deep and served merely to disguise the rocks as James stumbled and slid down the sharp, boulder-strewn slope. It was darker in the shadow of the hillside, and James could barely make out the woman as the flitted down the slope ahead of him, heedless of the ice-slick rocks. “She’ll break her neck,” he murmured, and called for her to take it easy.

As far as he could tell, the car had come off the highway at the turn and plowed straight down the incline. From what he could see in the darkness, the vehicle was on its side at the base of a huge boulder that was perched above the stream a short distance below.

Sliding and sprawling, his dress shoes slipping with every skidding step, James plunged down the sheer slope of the ravine, bashing knees and hands against the half-covered stones. His short jacket split at the seams, and his kilt flew around his legs as he stumbled on. The young woman, with an agility born of desperation, fairly flew over the craggy terrain, reaching the car well ahead of him.

“Hurry!” she screamed, floundering, falling, picking herself up and dashing on.

James, the
fiosachd
tingling and squirming, followed, trying to discern the nature of the warning he was receiving. And then, as he drew near the car, he smelled it: gasoline.

The car’s petrol tank had ruptured, spilling fuel down the hillside. One spark and the car would explode, taking everyone with it.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Stop right where you are!”

Heedless of the danger, the young woman ran on, disappearing around the side of the overturned car. James caught up with her a few seconds later as, standing on a nearby rock, she tried to pry open the caved-in rear door with her fingers.

The stink of petrol fumes was almost overwhelming. No sound came from inside the car.

“Calm down, now,” James said softly. He came to where she was standing and took her arm. “You’d better let me do that.”

He helped her down from her slippery perch, and moved her aside, saying, “The petrol tank is leaking. We’ve got to be very careful, or we’re in for a nasty surprise.” He held her hands, speaking slowly and earnestly. “Now, you just stand here, and let me have a look inside. All right?”

He made to step away, but she clutched at him, holding him back. “Don’t leave me!”

“I’m not going to leave you,” James assured her, gently removing her hands. “I’m just going over here and see if I can get your boyfriend out of the car. All right? Now you stay right here.”

He turned and hurried back to the wreck. The car seemed to be wedged in tightly between two big boulders. He could hear the tick of hot metal and the liquid drip of petrol splashing onto the rocks somewhere at the rear of the vehicle. He tried the door handle, but either the door was locked or the frame was so badly damaged the door was jammed shut.

Raising his foot, he found a toehold on the undercarriage and pulled himself up onto the side of the car. Lying on his stomach, he peered in through the shattered window but saw no one in the front seat. As he squirmed to look in the rear side window, he heard a distinctly familiar metallic click which caused the flesh at the nape of his neck to tingle anew.

Lowering himself off the vehicle, he turned to see the young woman now in absolute control of herself. Dry-eyed, calm, she regarded him with a slight, knowing smile. Her hands were doubled beneath her breasts, and as he turned he saw the moonlight glint on the black metal barrel of a handgun.

Fool
! he thought, inwardly kicking himself. The danger posed by the wrecked car had masked any other threat; the
fiosachd
had tried to warn him, but he’d failed to look any further.

“That’s right,” the woman said. “Stand easy.”

“You’re very good,” James told her. “You had me convinced.”

“It’s a gift,” she replied blithely.

“So what happens now? Robbery? Maybe I should have told you, I don’t have any money.”

The young woman’s lips framed a generous smile, but her eyes remained mirthless and hard. “I know — royalty never carries cash,” she replied. “It’s not your money that I want, Your Highness.”

“What then?”

“I want what anyone wants, really. A little recognition, appreciation, understanding. Is that too much to ask?” She moved a step closer. He caught the glint of auburn hair and saw her face in the half-reflected glow of the headlights and knew he had seen her before — at Hyde Park? Had she been in the crowd that day?

“Call your pretty wife down here. We don’t want her to miss all the fun on her wedding day.”

“No,” James said firmly. “You might as well shoot me now and get it over with. I won’t do it.”

“Shoot you?” The red-haired young woman moved a half step to the side. “You’ve been watching too much cheap television. I have no intention of shooting anyone.”

“You’re the one who killed Donald Rothes,” James said. “You killed Collins, too.”

Her smile widened and she stepped nearer; the wild gleam in her eyes sent a quiver rippling along James’ ribs. “Did you work that out all by yourself?” she said. “Or did Merlin help you?”

“Who are you?” asked James, a sick feeling spreading through his gut.

“Most people call me Moira,” she replied casually. “But you and I both know how misleading names can be.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he asked.

“You can do better than that, surely,” Moira replied. “Do you mean to say that after all these years you don’t remember me?”

“Should I?”

“Don’t be tetchy, dear heart,” she said. “You’ll spoil my good opinion of you.”

“Who are you?” he asked again.

Just then there came a call from the roadside high above. “James… can you hear me?”

“Tell her to come down,” the woman instructed. “Tell her you need her to help you right away. Just get her down here.”

James half turned and put a hand to his mouth. “Stay up there, Jenny!” he shouted. “There’s petrol spilled all over. Don’t come down here!”

The butt of the gun caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, which knocked him to his knees. “You stupid —” she shrieked, her voice echoing like a shot across the glen. She regained possession of herself instantly. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she tutted regretfully. “Now you’ve made it that much harder on yourself — and on your dutiful little wife. I was going to let you buy her life with yours, but now she’ll just have to take her chances.”

“If that’s meant to frighten me, save your breath,” James said. “Jenny’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.” Moira shifted the gun to her left hand. “But, then, you never were much of a romantic — were you, Arthur?”

The sound of the name made the small hairs prick up on his scalp. Into his mind flashed the image of a woman dressed all in black standing on a deserted sea strand, the waves tumbling the pebbles along the shingle. The day was clear, the sky high and bright and windswept, and the woman with the golden hair was pleading for her life.

The wind was blowing her long hair across her face as she spoke, wildly, violently, spitting hate-filled lies at her accusers. Cal was there — and yet it was not Cal, but Cai — and Gavin, and Jenny, and several others, who also were and were
not
the people James knew. They had gathered to hold the woman to judgment for her crimes. A name came to him. “Morgian,” he whispered aloud.

“Yes,” she replied with evident pleasure. “Like you, I’m back. Did your precious Merlin never tell you?” The answer to her question appeared on his face. “No? Oh, what a shame. Not that it would have helped you very much.”

The wind gusted, swirling through the glen, and James imagined he heard the rustling sound of wings as carrion birds gathered. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he hugged himself for warmth. “Look, Morgian… Moira — or whoever you are — whatever it is you’re going to do, I wish you’d hurry up. It’s cold out here. I’m freezing.”

From the highway came another call. “James? Are you all right down there?”

“Stay where you are, Jenny!” he called back. “It’s under control.”

“Help is on the way,” Jenny shouted down to him. Her voice sounded as if it were falling from the top of a mountain. “I called Rhys — they’ll be here any minute.”

“You heard her,” James said. “They’ll be here any minute.”

As he spoke there came the thrumming rumble of a helicopter engine in the distance. “Make that half a minute,” he amended. “In which time this glen is going to be a very busy place.”

“A few more seconds is all I need,” Moira replied sweetly. She slipped a gloved hand into her pocket and drew out a single cigarette. Placing it between her lips, she took a plastic cigarette lighter from the same pocket.

“Don’t — !” James began.

“Worried now, are we?” She flicked the wheel on the lighter, and it sparked to life. The small blue flame guttered in the fitful wind, then took hold. She lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled the smoke out through her mouth.

“Farewell, Arthur,” she said, blowing the tip of the cigarette to red brilliance. “I don’t expect we will meet again — in this lifetime, anyway.” With a practiced flick of her fingers, she sent the cigarette flying.

James watched the glowing tip of the cigarette as it spun through the air towards the back of the car, but the fumes, dispersed by the erratic wind, failed to ignite. The cigarette fell to the snow where it merely sizzled and went out in a wisp of white smoke.

“Well,” said James, climbing quickly to his feet, “I guess things aren’t working out the way you’d planned, are they?”

“We can’t have everything,” Moira replied, her face glacial, her eyes livid with hate. She raised the gun, aimed at James’ chest, and pulled the trigger.

James threw himself forward as the gun fired, the percussive crack loud in the rocky glen. He felt a hard jolt hit his shoulder as he fell, and he was already rolling to his feet as Moira fired again. The second bullet tore through the fabric of his kilt, carving a gash in his hip. He heard the slug smack into the undercarriage of the car with a strangely wooden whack as he dived.

The momentum of his scrambling leap carried him into her; he hit Moira square in the ribs with his shoulder and they both went down. James landed heavily on top of her, and she rolled from side to side, trying to shake him off, while sideswiping his head with the gun barrel. She managed to land one solid blow above his left ear, but James took the blow and grabbed her wrist, forcing her arm over her head. She raked at his eyes with her free hand, and James grabbed that, too, and hung on.

They struggled for a moment, and James became aware of someone shouting from the road high above. It was Jenny, alarmed by the shots. She was calling for him. “Stay there!” he cried.

In the distance, he could hear the thrum of the helicopter, and knew that if he looked back along the glen towards Braemar he might see it now. “It’s over, Moira,” he said. “You might as well give up and save yourself an injury. I’m not letting go of you.”

“Fool!” She spat at him. He felt the heat of her hatred lick him like a flame.

“Give it up. Rhys will be here any second,” he said, and felt her go limp beneath him — as if she had suddenly abandoned all strength. She closed her eyes and stopped breathing.