Had he been a weaker man, he would have wept.
21
THURSDAY EVENING, MAY 18
U.S. Forest Service Ranger Station and Helitack Unit
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
The saboteur who watched the rangers’ helicopters had never had such an important role to play. This provided a certain level of excitement, but not anxiety. Nicky’s instructions had been explicit, the hours of training had been rigorous, and every contingency except failure had been considered. There was no thought of failure.
Nicky Parrish would not, the saboteur knew, consider for a moment that his trust — never given to anyone else before — was misplaced. Nor would Nicky be thinking of his helper — Nicky must concentrate on other matters. Nicky would simply know that his orders were being carried out — he would know. The way he always knew things. He would know that his little Moth had obeyed.
The intruder loved this nickname — this Nick name. The first time they had met, Nicky had said, “You are drawn to my light, aren’t you, little moth? That’s what I shall call you. From now on, you are my Moth.”
No one who had met the Moth at work or socially would have ever said, “Here is a servant.” That was one part of the delight the Moth took in serving Nicky. Nicky had immediately discerned the Moth’s desire to serve. The Moth was, in fact, the perfect servant, and to be the perfect servant, one must serve the perfect master.
And together, they were making history. Nicky, who had always acted alone, had deemed his servant worthy of this honor.
Just thinking of this heightened the Moth’s sense of anticipation. Perhaps later, during one of their dormant times, the Moth would write a poem about it. But for now, there was work to do — and unmindful of the darkness and the danger, of the rain and the cold — the Moth waited and watched, and eventually saw that the perfect moment for action had arrived.
It was not difficult to cause problems, little hitches in other people’s plans, if you knew what you were doing.
The Moth knew.
The people in the ranger station were careful with the forest, where they expected trouble, but not with the helicopters. Not on rainy nights, when the clouds were covering the mountains — nights when there was little to do. They did not look at these machines, nor walk out into the cold rain. All but one of them watched television — an old movie, made long before there were computers, served up by the ranger station’s satellite dish.
Perhaps the world outdoors was no longer exciting to the helicopter crews and forest workers — perhaps the sky and the forest were their offices, and the television and all things interior were more interesting to them.
Or perhaps it was just the rain that lulled them.
They should be thankful for it, really. The Moth had trained for many possible scenarios, including ones in which the five people in the small building with the satellite dish on it must be killed. But the rain would allow them to live. The rain masked sounds, made visibility poor.
One man in the station looked out at the rain from time to time. Wishing it away. He was the one who had been with Nicky. It was a little puzzling that he should be here. But that was not important. Nicky, who knew everything, had said that a few of them might see God and live.
The Moth went to work. Within moments, the Alouette and the Bell 212 had small, disabling problems. They could be repaired.
Just not in time.
J.C. went back to the window and stared out into the darkness. He did not talk to the others; it only made the waiting worse. So he pretended to be watching the rain — pretended, because he didn’t see the rain at all. He saw a horrible thing rise from a crude grave and beg for an embrace; he saw coyotes dancing on marionette strings held by a puppet master in a tree. He closed his eyes against these terrors, but to his dismay, he saw them more clearly.
How did David and Ben stand it? He had helped them before, but it had never been this bad. He had seen decayed remains before this, and had thought he would be prepared — but the bodies they had found before were suicides, or people who had wandered and died lost, or who had fallen while hiking alone. Not pleasant, and he had always felt sorry for them, but — but it was not like this.
He knew a hatred for Nicholas Parrish that he could taste in his mouth like bile.
Up there, in the meadow where they had found her, he hadn’t felt this way; he had stayed cool, had kept it together. Even carrying her body through the rain with Andy, he had been all right. It didn’t start to get to him until they were at the plane, after the pilot said they’d have to leave. And it wasn’t until he was here, at his own station, safe and warm, that he started to come apart.
He would show the Helitack crew where to find the group in the second meadow, and then he would take a couple of weeks off. He had the time coming to him. Maybe he’d even see a shrink. The idea didn’t bother him. If you needed help, get help.
David had told him that often enough. He had said that it would be weirder to do that kind of work and never be affected by it.
There were specialists who dealt with counseling people who had worked these cases. He’d ask David for the name of one of them.
He gave a sudden start — involuntarily brought his hand to his throat, as if holding a sound back — as if holding himself back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something moving in the darkness — or did he? Jesus, he was jumpy! Beneath his hand, his pulse raced. He tried to stare past the rain-splattered window. No, nothing out there.
Was there?
He couldn’t keep standing here. His legs weren’t going to hold him. God damn.
No, he couldn’t live like this — cowering and jumping at shadows. He was going to face it — that was the only way for now. He was going to walk out there and look around — reassure himself. He turned away from the window. He put on his parka, and when his hands shook as he tried to fasten the snaps, he shoved them into his pockets until he opened the door. He stepped out into the rain, peered into the darkness.
Nothing.
The cool air felt good, calmed him, until—
There! In the trees!
But . . . no, nothing.
Nothing.
The door suddenly opened behind him and he heard himself make a small sound of fright.
“J.C.? What’s the matter, man?”
One of the pilots.
“Just needed some air,” he said, not too steadily.
“Come inside,” the pilot coaxed.
J.C. stared out into the rain.
“Come on inside, man.” The pilot paused, then added, “They’ll be okay. Just camping out in the rain. We’ll pick them up first thing tomorrow. Come on in — nothing you can do tonight.”
He followed the pilot in, ignoring the uneasy glances the others exchanged. He made his way to his closet and took out another set of clothes. He went into the bathroom and stripped to take a shower. His third one tonight, and the others were probably already talking about it, but he didn’t give a shit. He could still smell the stink of that body on him and he needed to get clean.
He scrubbed until his skin was raw, let the water beat down on him, rinsed his mouth, his nose. He stood there letting the sound and feel of the water drown out everything else, until it just got too cold to stand it any longer. He toweled off and changed clothes again, then stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t know the man who stared back at him, even though he recognized the face.
He didn’t want to go to sleep. Not with this shit running around in his head. He was spooked when he was wide awake — what the fuck would happen in his dreams?
Yes, he would get help.
But until then, what the hell could he do?
22