“Yeah, mastermind,” she said now. “It would mean stopping.”
But Coe had a point. The snow was falling as thickly as ever, with a thoroughness bordering on the sociopathic. Around them, traffic had eased to almost nothing, either because of the smaller roads they’d turned onto, or because not everybody, Shirley’s commentary notwithstanding, was a fucking idiot. And here they were on a B-road which might as well have been way further down the alphabet: bare empty fields either side.
River peered at the map on his knee with a key-ring torch. “I meant in terms of shelter.”
“I’m hungry,” said Shirley.
Coe muttered something under his breath.
River said, “Did we pass a turning a little way back? On the right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, so if we’re where I think we are, we’re about halfway between the two nearest towns.”
“What’s that in miles?”
“About four either way.”
“Crap on a cupcake,” Shirley said. “Four miles? We can’t stop here.”
A sudden light dazzled all three: a dip in the road, and a monstrous truck heading the opposite way. Without slowing it blasted past, rocking them in their tracks, leaving the car shaking like a rabbit in a predator’s wake.
“Christ!” said Coe.
“Fuck!” said River.
“Is there a McDonald’s nearby?” said Shirley.
When his heart was back to normal, River said, “They don’t mark them on the map yet. But I’m pretty confident there isn’t.”
“Did anyone bring food?”
“You’ve eaten it all.”
“Have you checked the glove box?”
“I’m not going into Ho’s glove box,” River said. “Not without protection.”
“Just open it. There might be chocolate.”
So he opened it and there were, in fact, gloves in there. But nothing else.
“He probably thinks it’s a law,” Shirley said.
Coe said, “Here’s a layby.”
“We’re not seriously stopping?”
They seriously were.
Coe killed the engine. “We were going three miles an hour,” he said. “We’re nearly doing more than that now.”
They weren’t alone, though it took a moment to register this. Another car a few yards in front; a bigger shape in front of that, which would be a lorry. The lack of streetlights, and the falling snow, cast everything in otherworldly shapes, and the only immediate noise was each other: rustling in winter clothing.
Beyond that, just the muffled sound of a smothered world.
River had a single bar on his phone.
He stepped out, struck by the extra effort everything took in the snow. Partly the cold, partly the differences in depth and distance that the covering provided.
Lamb answered on the first ring.
“Let me guess. You’re lost.”
“We know where we are,” said River. “We just can’t see any of it.”
“Every time I think I’ve plumbed the depths of your cackhandedness, you go ahead and surprise me.” River heard a striking match. “Still got your going-away present?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Shoot yourself in the head. Then Shirley. Then the mad monk.”
“Definitely the order I’d choose,” River said. “Has Louisa called?”
Lamb hesitated. “No.”
“Because we can’t get closer. Not tonight.”
“How far away are you?”
“Best guess, four miles.”
“You can’t walk it?”
“Not in this.”
He heard an inhalation. Lamb could hold a lungful longer than anyone he’d known. In any other context, it might show how healthy he was.
Lamb said, “Either she was dead before you set off, or she just went dark. So there’s only a fifty percent chance things are any different now.”
Which comforted River as much as statistics ever did. “I’m wondering if we’re doing the right thing. Whether we should have alerted the Park.”
“Last time Harkness went on a rampage, they swept up after him. For all we know, he’s still on their tab.”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes but nothing.” Lamb exhaled, and River could almost smell his smoky breath. “Cats don’t care, the tooth fairy takes backhanders from dentists, and the Park does not have your best interests at heart. Sorry to crush your illusions.”
“I still think we might have made the wrong play.”
“Which is why you’re the one freezing your knackers off, while I’m dickbraining your efforts from a cosy chair,” said Lamb. “That’s like masterminding,” he added, “but with idiots. And oh, yeah, Ho was asking how his car is.”
“We let Shirley drive,” River said. “How does he think it is?”
He pretended he’d lost the signal, but stood for another moment in the freezing cold before climbing back into the car. It had been his choice to come, he reminded himself. Not the first time that a decision made in an angry moment had felt less sensible when the mercury dropped. Which he could live with, mostly, except this time it was Louisa who might end up paying the bill. Or might already have done. And he was four miles distant from knowing which.
The snow was maybe tapering off, but that might be wishful thinking.
Frank said, “So, that went well.”
“She hit Cyril with a monkey wrench.”
“Did I ask for details? I needed a kid in a ditch. Three of you and a car, and you couldn’t manage that much.”
Anton had thought: Yeah, and where were you?, but didn’t think it wise to say it out loud.
Fact was, they’d focused on the wrong target. When the woman appeared, she’d made it clear she was dangerous by dropping Cyril. That got their attention. The kid, meanwhile, had legged it. It had been dark: no streetlights. Two minutes’ start, and it was like the night had swallowed him whole. Following footprints in the snow sounded easy enough, but this was pitch black, and soon they were in a wood. They weren’t fucking Apaches.
And while that was going on, Frank the Legend had been nowhere, so Anton wasn’t thrilled to hear him explain how they’d screwed up.
They were back in the barn. Would still be out there, ploughing on, but Cyril had keeled over, complaining about flashing lights, of which there weren’t any. Lars, team medic, had held up fingers. Cyril proved good at spotting when the answer was three, but he might have been guessing. People usually held up three fingers: Anton had no clue why.
Frank said, “If I’d known you needed help, I’d have come along. But I figured you were professional enough to deal with a teenager.”
Anton said, “Yes, and you want to be careful messing about in the snow, your age.”
“You say something?”
“If we’d had guns, it would have been over before the woman arrived.”
Frank said, “Yeah, but it would have made the whole accidental death scenario less plausible.”
And how plausible is it looking now, Anton wondered.
Frank said, “Fuck it. It is what it is. So okay, boots on. Weather like this, there’s a chance the kid hasn’t cleared the area yet. If he’s gone to ground, he’ll have headed somewhere familiar. That gives us three possibles.” He pulled a page from a tiny red notebook, tore it in two, and passed one half to Lars, the other to Anton. “He worked for a firm called Paul’s Pantry, owner one Paul Ronson. Lars, check it out. And the place where he stayed with his family. Anton, that’s you. And Cyril . . . Have a fucking lie down. You look like a local.”