October Skies (47 page)

How much do I give this guy for free?

‘Well, this is a little awkward, Mr Shepherd—’

‘William.’

‘William . . . I’m sitting on a historical tale I believe to be worth a lot of money.’ Julian sighed. ‘Look, I’m crap at talking money, but—’

Shepherd smiled. ‘But, you’re a journalist, you’ve worked hard to unearth the details and you’re not that keen on giving it all away for nothing. I can understand that.’

‘Yeah, that’s about it.’ Julian shrugged.

‘Except now there’s something of a topical link into this story, eh?’ Shepherd added, with a wry smile.

‘You could say that.’

Julian remained poker-faced, but his mind was racing to catch up with the situation. More information on this man was coming to him, bits and pieces he’d unintentionally picked up from the background noise of daily news. William Shepherd, the independent Mormon candidate from Utah. The preacher, the businessman, the voice of common sense broadcast twice a week to tens of millions of the faithful, and a voice that broadly appealed to Christians from many other churches, the one and only candidate untainted by corruption and sleaze. And the guy who all of a sudden in recent weeks had started looking like a real contender.

‘I imagine your concern is how your great-great-grandfather conducted himself?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a concern. In this ridiculous business we call politics, public perception is everything.’ He sighed. ‘If my great-great-grandfather went and ate someone in order to survive . . . well, I think my campaign manager, Duncan, would have a hissy fit.’

Julian appreciated his candour - and his sense of humour.

‘I can imagine.’

‘So I’m sure you can see,’ Shepherd continued, ‘I have a very cynical, vested interest in how my ancestor behaved.’ He reached for the teapot and topped them both up. ‘You could imagine, for instance, how much mileage the Republicans and the Democrats would get out of something that resembled another Donner Party incident, eh?’

‘Yes. I can see how that would bugger things up for you.’

Shepherd looked at him, anxiously raising an eyebrow.

‘And? Did he?’

Julian shook his head. ‘No. There was no cannibalism . . . at all.’

Shepherd closed his eyes and sighed with relief.

‘I’m sure you understand how important that is? It’s such a taboo word and any kind of association with it . . . ?’

Julian understood.

‘Politics is an awful game, one I genuinely detest. In some ways I’m not looking forward to the prospect that I might just win this election and have to play the political game in office for four years. But I’m doing it because someone has to. Someone has to show our people that there’s another way, that they don’t have to vote for one of two groups of corrupt sons-of-bitches. To be honest, it might be a relief not to make it to the White House.’ Shepherd sighed and laughed gently. ‘But don’t tell my backers that, eh? They’re bankrolling my campaign to win and nothing less will do for them.’

‘I can put your mind to rest,’ said Julian. ‘Your ancestor comes across in the journal as a very good man. But,’ he said, choosing his next words carefully, ‘some very . . . twisted . . . things happened up there. Really very dark, unsettling stuff. All of it revolved around Preston. I’ll be honest with you: whilst you personally may benefit from how Benjamin Lambert conducted himself, the Mormon faith may take a hit from Preston’s behaviour. ’

Shepherd pursed his lips, deep in thought. ‘Yes . . . but I believe from the little I’ve been able to research on the man that he abandoned the Church of the Latter Day Saints to follow his own path. He took his followers into a wilderness, literally and spiritually.’

Julian took his glasses off and wiped them. ‘Yes, very much so,’ he said. ‘Lambert’s description depicts a man tormented by something, by horrendous visions, capable of anything - even murder and mutilation. I’ve had a criminal psychologist examine the journal and without getting into a long-winded profile’ - Julian smiled edgily - ‘there’s something of the Charles Manson about him.’

‘Lord. Really?’

‘The psychologist’s phrase was a messianic narcissistic sociopath. Bit of a mouthful.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps it’s just easier to say that he lost it. Went quite mad out there.’

‘Yes,’ Shepherd replied quietly, his eyes focused out of the window and on the mountains. ‘So, Mr Cooke, what do you plan to do with this story?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t. I had plans for a documentary, but at the moment that’s not looking so good. Perhaps a book.’

‘Well,’ said Shepherd, his gaze returning to the room, to Julian, ‘you’ve certainly got my attention, and,’ he added with a candid smile, ‘I’m a man known to have quite a bit of money. Perhaps we can help each other out here?’

 

‘I still can’t believe you did that,’ Rose said, shaking her head angrily, ‘after all the care we’ve taken to keep this to ourselves, to keep this story under our hats, and you go and invite along some guy who might be the next President of the United States!’

She swung the hire car left, onto the road leading out of town and up into the woods. ‘Not only that, this guy’s a media owner. He’s the God-squad version of Rupert Murdoch. And here he is in Blue Valley, skulking around anonymously like some sort of Howard Hughes. Doesn’t his keen interest in this strike you as odd at all?’

Julian shrugged. ‘It’s understandable, given his position. Think of it: in a country where a blob of semen in the wrong place can get you impeached, don’t you think Shepherd is going to be somewhat cautious about a potential ancestral skeleton in the closet?’

‘He wants to stage-manage our story, that’s what he wants, Jules. He wants to be sure it’s got a spin on it that makes him look good.’

Julian shrugged. ‘Then there’s not a lot he needs to do, is there? Benjamin Lambert seems to have behaved like a gent.’

‘What if he wants to back-pedal the Mormon angle? What if he wants us to gloss over Preston being a psychotic nut?’

‘We won’t.’

Rose pursed her lips. ‘Yeah?’

She dropped a gear as the car wound its way slowly around a hairpin turn, taking them up a steep single-lane road that hugged the contours of a rock-strewn gulch.

‘I’ve got a question for you, Jules.’

‘What?’

‘What if we find something up there that turns things around?’

‘Eh?’

‘What if we find something that points to Lambert being responsible for those killings?’

The morning sun shone down through the tops of the Douglas firs lining the side of the road, dappling the windscreen with splashes of light and shade.

‘Oh, come on, Rose. You’re not still chewing over the Rag Man angle, are you?’

‘I’m considering it. Lambert survived, we know that. But he came out of those mountains a . . . a haunted man.’

‘Of course he did. But I mean, wouldn’t you be changed by that sort of an experience? Traumatised, even?’

‘I suppose. It’s just . . .’

‘What?’

Rose pursed her lips. ‘Well, what if the story was very different?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if, I don’t know . . . what if Lambert killed those people, but simply decided to leave a fictional account behind?’

‘What? On the off chance it might be discovered a hundred and fifty years later?’

‘Very funny, smart-arse. No, on the off chance he might be rescued by some other settlers or trappers and need something to corroborate his tale.’

Julian made a face. ‘Possibly.’

‘Come on, don’t you think it’s odd that Lambert chose to write it all up in so much detail? Surely he would have invested more of his effort in surviving, rather than writing? Unless, of course, he had something to hide.’

‘He was a writer, Rose, remember; that’s what he wanted to do.’ He squinted out of the passenger-side window at the flickering sunlight. ‘In some ways, just like an embedded journalist in Afghanistan. You don’t stop documenting what you’re seeing, hearing, feeling when the bullets start flying . . . that’s when you really start.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

They drove on in silence for a while, both of them drinking in the splendour of the mountainside and the wooded valley below - scenery that demanded their attention with every twist and turn of the road. Ten minutes later the car rounded a corner and the tarmac gave way to a potholed, gravel track that the bouncy Japanese suspension began to struggle with. A roadside sign announced the National Parks campsite was not much further.

‘But what if . . . ?’ She abandoned the thought unfinished and unformed.

‘What if, what?’

The track curved to the right and a moment later a wooden board above them welcomed them to Blue Valley Camp. Beyond they saw the parking lot, two cars parked apart from each other. One of them Rose recognised as Grace’s, and sitting in the front, she spotted her reading a paper, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the warmth of her car heater. The sound of tyres on gravel caught her attention and she perked up, offering Rose a smile as she parked their car snugly beside hers.

‘The unsinkable Molly Brown,’ Julian muttered under his breath, waving at her as he unplugged his seat belt.

‘What?’

‘Never mind. It’s just a line from a movie.’

Rose snorted. ‘Geek,’ she replied, looking over her shoulder at the other car. ‘Is that . . . ?’

Julian followed her gaze. It was a cream-coloured Lincoln Navigator with shaded windows. ‘It looks like the kind of car a President-in-waiting might drive. Hmm?’

They let themselves out and joined Grace on the gravel as she opened the boot of her battered Jeep.

‘Morning, Grace,’ said Rose, savouring the crisp, cool mountain air and exhaling a plume of steam.

Grace squinted up at the deep blue sky. It was patched with a smattering of combed-out clouds painted a dazzling vanilla by the rising sun. ‘Lovely mornin’ it is too.’ She sucked in the air and blew it out. ‘Snow should’a come before the end of the month. I reckon it’s more than due. That’s definitely a sky readying for the winter.’

‘Hey, Grace.’ Julian waved at her.

‘Hey, Mr Cooke,’ the old woman replied with a cordial nod and a wave, then shot a quick, questioning glance at Rose. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Grace shrugged.

‘So, we set off now, we’ll be there mid-afternoon,’ she announced, pulling her backpack out of the boot of her Jeep. ‘You two tourists good to go?’

Julian pointed towards the Lincoln. ‘We’ve got someone coming along with us.’

Grace turned to look as the driver and passenger doors opened and a couple of men climbed out, both hauling back-packs of camping equipment out after them.

‘I thought it was going to be just Shepherd,’ Rose muttered.

Julian pulled a face. ‘As a matter of fact, so did I.’

Their feet crunched across the gravel towards them.

‘Mr Cooke,’ Shepherd called out, ‘I should have mentioned that I’d have company with me.’ He closed the gap between them. ‘This is Agent Barns. I recently qualified for a free Fed of my own. Apparently, when you hit a certain poll rating, you automatically trigger FBI protection.’ He grimaced at the man. ‘Barns has been my shadow for the last week.’

Agent Barns nodded politely to Julian, Rose and Grace and automatically produced his ID for them. ‘You can call me Agent Barns or Carl. I’m easy with either. I’ll try and keep out of your way - just keeping an eye out for Mr Shepherd, is all,’ he explained matter-of-factly.

Grace studied Shepherd with suspicion. ‘Anyone tell you, you look a lot like that guy from Utah running for . . .’ Her words trailed away quickly as her eyes widened with growing recognition.

‘Yup.’ Julian nodded. ‘He’s exactly who you think he is.’

Shepherd extended his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.’

Her jaw fell open.

‘Mr Shepherd, Mr Barns,’ said Julian, ‘this is Grace Simms, the National Parks ranger who’s going to take us out, and this is Rose Whitely, my business partner and cameraman.’

A brief exchange of clumsy handshakes filled the silence, and then Julian turned to Grace, still thrown by their guest.

‘Shall we make a move then, Grace?’

She stirred. ‘Okay, yes . . . you folks all ready to go?’

They nodded.

‘Mr Shepherd?’

He smiled warmly. ‘Ready when you are, Grace.’

‘Right then,’ she said, her voice finding its back-to-business gruffness, ‘it’s about a six- to eight-hour hike up into the peaks from here. We’ll stop halfway for a brief rest, and then press on. That should get us to where we want to go by about three in the afternoon. That gives us a couple of hours of daylight to set up camp.’ She turned around and pointed to a worn footpath that led through the deserted camp site and up into the lowest apron of trees running down to the edge of the camping area.