Down they went, deeper and deeper into the valley, as if they were descending into an abyss. The silence of the woods hammered against Harlan’s ears. He winced at every twig that snapped or dry leaf that crunched beneath his feet. The Prophet stopped. Harlan hid behind a tree, heart loud as a drum in his chest, certain he’d been made. The Prophet swung his torch from side to side as if searching for something, then started walking again. Down, down, deeper, deeper and still deeper he unknowingly led Harlan. Harlan lost all track of time and distance in the cloying darkness. Despite his fear of being heard, he drew ever closer to the Prophet. If he lost him here, he knew chances were he’d never find him again or his way out of the woods. Suddenly, the light disappeared. Harlan felt a rush of something like vertigo as the world seemed to dissolve around him. Hands outstretched, groping blindly, he took several steps and stumbled to his knees. He crawled through the undergrowth, and after maybe a minute, found himself at the edge of a grassy, bowl-like depression. The Prophet was stood at the bottom of the depression, digging up sods of turf and pilling them neatly to one side.
He’s digging a grave for Ethan, was Harlan’s first thought. But he quickly questioned it. The depression was open to the night sky. Why dig a grave somewhere visible from above when you could just as easily do it under cover of the trees? There was little chance of a helicopter passing overhead. Still, it was an unnecessary risk. Another possibility occurred to him as the Prophet’s spade clanged against something metallic — maybe he’s digging something up. But what? More photos? A corpse? For the same reason, neither possibility struck him as likely.
The Prophet cleared away a square of turf about three feet by three feet, exposing a rusty sheet of metal secured with a chain and padlock. A length of plastic pipe slightly longer than the depth of the turf protruded from the centre of the sheet. What the hell’s that for? wondered Harlan. His heat began to thump wildly against his ribs as the answer came to him — it’s an air-pipe. The metal sheet’s a trapdoor. This is where he keeps them. This is where the fucker keeps his victims. The Prophet unlocked the padlock, and bracing his legs, lifted the inch-thick sheet. It fell back on its hinges with a dull thud. He retrieved his torch and shone it down into a round hole about as wide as his shoulders. Gripping the torch between his teeth, he lowered himself into the hole.
Harlan waited a few seconds, before squirming down the bank to the edge of the hole, which radiated a faint yellowish light. The hole went straight down for about six feet, then turned at a right angle. A string of fairy lights hooked up to a battery illuminated a sandy-floored narrow tunnel whose regular angled rock walls bore the marks of pickaxes. This was obviously an entrance to some kind of disused mine or cave system that’d caused the ground to subside. The hole smelt of musty earth with a faint, underlying coppery scent that impelled Harlan to climb into it. The tunnel descended gently, curving to the left. Taking out his knife, stooping to avoid hitting his head, Harlan hurried forward. He was less concerned about being heard now than he was by what the object of his pursuit might be doing. The Prophet had already gotten rid of anything incriminating at the caravan. More than likely he was going to do the same down here too.
As Harlan advanced, the underlying smell grew heavier, thicker. It was a smell he knew only too well, one that always made his throat tight. The tunnel flared suddenly into a cave whose outermost fringes were shrouded in darkness. He stood motionless, ears straining. Not a sound.
The cave was natural. It had jagged walls. Gnarled roots poked through its ceiling. The fragments of rock they’d dislodged were scattered over the uneven floor. Oh Christ, please don’t let it be Ethan, thought Harlan, as the smell drew him towards the far side of the cave, where the darkness was as impenetrable as the walls. Stomach like a clenched fist, he switched on his torch. Its beam illuminated a dirty tarp wrapped like a chrysalis around something. Kneeling, he peeled away the tarp and saw what he’d known he would — a corpse. A tiny breath of relief escaped him. It wasn’t Ethan. The corpse was months, perhaps even years old. It was rotted down almost to a skeleton. Parchment-like shreds of skin encased its bones. Its stomach and eye sockets were hollow. Its mouth hung open in a grotesque parody of a smile. Wisps of boyishly short blonde hair still clung to its skull. From its size, Harlan estimated the body to be that of a child of between seven and ten years old. He wondered why it hadn’t been buried. He could think of only one reason: the Prophet kept it here as a kind of trophy. He’d read case-studies of killers who kept parts or even the whole of their victims’ bodies, using them to re-live their crimes over and over again. But he’d never encountered it himself.
Harlan’s face creased up so that his features seemed to turn in on themselves, leaving only his blazing eyes staring out. Even in death, the child hadn’t been allowed to rest. The same feeling that’d rushed over him as he tortured Jones swelled inside him again. The same only much, much stronger. He didn’t resist it. He allowed it to pick him up and carry him back to the fairy lights, which ended at a tunnel opening braced with timbers. Ducking into it, he hurried onward. As the tunnel wound deeper into the earth, its ceiling lowered until he was stooped almost double. He came to a split in the tunnel. One branch angled rightwards and down. The other turned to the left, climbing gently. He paused, trying to decide which way to go. After a moment, he moved to the right, urged on by an inner voice that said, keep going deeper, deeper!
The air got thicker and harder to breathe. Sweat stung Harlan’s eyes. After several minutes, he heard something that caused him to pause. The sound came again. It was a faint clink, like a chain rattling. He switched off his torch and felt his way forward. His nostrils flared at a foul smell. Not a smell of death, but a smell of life festering in its own filth. The walls closed in to a gap just wide enough for him to turn sideways and squeeze through. After a short distance, they widened again and the pale electric glow of more fairy lights shimmered up ahead. Barely daring to breathe, he advanced to the edge of a roughly circular cave about fifteen feet in diameter.
The cave’s floor was littered with empty soup and soft-drink cans, water bottles, crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers. In one corner stood a metal bucket brimful with human waste. In the opposite corner was a mouldering mattress with a young boy sat on it, knees drawn up against his chin, arms wrapped around the blades of his shins. The boy’s legs and feet were bare. A chain led from a medieval-looking shackle on one of his ankles to a hoop bolted to the wall. A ragged blanket was wrapped around his narrow shoulders. His grimy, pinch-cheeked face, lank hair and the fear flowing from his trapped eyes gave him the look of some small, helpless animal. Harlan recognised him instantly, even though he no longer looked much like his picture in the newspaper. The boy was Jamie Sutton. The Prophet was sat on a deckchair in the centre of the cave, facing Jamie, his back to Harlan. His hands were clasped at his chin as if in prayer.
Harlan padded towards the Prophet. He raised a finger to his lips as Jamie’s eyes flicked at him. Ten feet. His heart hammered so loudly he was certain the Prophet must hear it. Five feet. A bead of sweat dripped from his chin and exploded on the floor. Gasping, the Prophet started to stand and turn. With the speed of a striking snake, Harlan sprang at him, wrapping an arm around his throat. With his other arm, he locked in the choke-hold. The Prophet rammed his head back against Harlan’s face, bringing a stream of blood from his nose. Tucking his head down, Harlan cranked his arm tighter against the Prophet’s Adam’s apple. His breath grating like sandpaper in his lungs, the Prophet staggered around, flinging ineffective elbows at Harlan. Finally, his arms dropped to his sides and his legs began to buckle. In a last-ditch attempt to dislodge Harlan, he flung himself backward. As Harlan slammed into the sandy floor, pain crackled up his spine and all his breath was driven from him. But still he clung on grimly, wrapping his legs around the Prophet’s midriff to prevent him from twisting free. The Prophet rolled onto his front, and exerting what strength remained in his powerful, thickset body, managed to rise to his hands and knees. Arms burning, Harlan squeezed and squeezed. Suddenly unconsciousness stole the Prophet’s resistance away. He collapsed. But Harlan continued to squeeze, driven on by the force of what was inside. It was only Ethan’s face flashing through his mind that stopped him from crushing the Prophet’s windpipe.