The disc appeared again, bouncing, retreating.
I whispered, "Camera. Maybe she's still alive."
I wanted to run forward, and he knew it. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he whispered softly but very quickly: "We still don't know what it means. Can't give ourselves away. Backup would be great. One last try to reach Whitworth. Any closer and it's too risky."
Out came the phone. He punched numbers, shook his head, turned off the machine. "Okay, slow and quiet. Even if it feels like we'll never get there. If you need to tell me something, tap my shoulder, but don't talk unless it's an emergency."
Onward.
The disc reappeared, vanished. Circling the same spot to the left.
Focused on what? I yearned to know, didn't want to know.
I stayed close behind Milo, matching my steps to his.
Our footfalls seemed louder, much too loud.
Walking hurt and silence fed the pain. The world was silent.
Silent movie.
Images flooded my head: herky-jerky action, corseted women, men with walrus mustaches, mugging outrageously over a plinkety-manic piano score. White-lettered captions, framed ornately: "So it's carving you want, sir? I'll show you carving."
Stop, stupid. Keep focused.
Fifty yards from the mountain. Forty, thirty, twenty.
Milo stopped. Pointed.
The white disc had appeared again, this time with a tail-a big white sperm sliding along the rock, wriggling away.
Still no sounds. We reached the mountain. Cold rock fringed with low, dry shrubs, larger stones.
Holding the rifle in front of him, Milo began edging to the left. The nine-millimeter was heavy in my hand.
The disc materialized overhead. White and creamy, bouncing, lingering, bouncing. Gone.
Now a sound.
Low, insistent.
Flash. Whir. Click.
On. Off.
No human struggle. No voices. Just the mechanics of work.
We moved along the mountain undetected, got to within twenty yards before I saw it.
A high, ragged rock formation-an outcropping of sharp-edged boulders, sprouting like stalagmites from the base of the parent range. Clumped and overlapping, ten to fifteen feet high, pushed out twenty feet.
Natural shield. Outdoor studio.
The sound of the camera grew louder. We crept closer, hugging the rock. New sounds. Low, unintelligible speech.
Milo stopped, pointed, hooked his arm, indicating the far end of the boulders. The wall had acquired convexity, continuing in a smooth, unbroken semicircle. No breaks in sight, meaning entry had to be at the far north.
He pointed again and we edged forward inch by inch, bracing ourselves with palms against the rock. The wall curved radically, killing visibility, transforming every step into a leap of faith.
Twelve steps. Milo stopped again.
Something jutted out from the rock. Square, bulky, metallic.
Rear end of a vehicle. From the other side of the granite,flash, whir. Mumbles. Laughter.
We edged to the vehicle's rear tires, squatted, swallowed breath.
Chrome letters: Ford. Explorer. Black or dark blue. Sand spray streaked the rear fender. No license plate. A partially shredded bumper sticker commanded: ENGAGE IN RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS.
One-third of the vehicle extended past the rock walls, the rest nosed inside. Milo straightened and peered through the rear window. Shook his head: tinted. Crouching again, he secured his grip on the rifle, moved around the Explorer's driver's side. Waited. Pointing his rifle at whatever was in front of him.
I joined him. The two of us remained pressed against the truck.
Partial view of the clearing. Plenty of light now, from a spotlight on a pole. An orange extension cord connected the lamp to a gray battery pack. The bulb was aimed downward, well short of the fifteen-foot walls that created the staging area.
Forty-foot stage, roughly circular, set on flat gray earth rimmed by the high, seamed rock. A few boulders were scattered in the corners, like sprinkles of pebbles where the mountain had given way.
Natural amphitheater. Derrick Crimmins had probably discovered it as a youth, driving out with his brother to stage God knew what.
The good old days, when he'd designed sets for his stepmother, acquired a taste for production.
Tonight, he'd gone minimalist. Nothing in the clearing but the single light, a tackle box, and several videocassettes off to the side. Three white plastic folding chairs.
The chair to the left was off by itself, twenty feet from its neighbors. On it sat a young, brown-skinned, plain-faced girl, arms and legs bound by thick twine, dark hair tied in pigtails. Pink baby-doll pajamas were her sole costume. A pink spot of blush on each cheek, red lipstick on a frozen mouth. A wide leather belt secured her to the chair, cinching her cruelly at the waist, pushing her rib cage forward. Not a belt-a hospital restraint, the same kind they used at Starkweather.
Her head hung to the right. Livid bruises splotched her face and breasts, and dried blood snaked from her nose down to her chin. A shiny red rubber ball was jammed into her mouth, creating a nauseating cartoon of gee-whiz amazement. Her eyes refused to go along with it: open, immobile, mad with terror.
Staring straight ahead. Refusing to look at what was going on to her left.
The center chair held another woman captive: older, middle-aged, wearing a pale green housedress torn down the middle. The rip was fresh, fuzzed by threads, exposing white underwear, loose pale flesh, blue veins. Auburn hair. The same kind of bruises and scratches as the girl's. One eye purple and swollen shut. Red ball in her mouth, too.
Her other eye undamaged, but also closed.
The gun jammed against her left temple was small and square-edged and chrome-plated.
Next to her, in the right-hand chair, sat Ardis Peake, holding the weapon. From our vantage, only half his body was visible. Long white fingers around the trigger. He had on his Starkweather khakis. White sneakers that looked brand-new. Big sneakers. Oversized feet.
Tormenting the auburn-haired woman, but showing no sign he enjoyed it. His eyes were closed, too.
Beyond enjoyment into reverie?
The man holding the video camera prodded him. Handheld camera, compact, dull black, not much larger than a hardcover book. It sprayed a beam of creamy-white light.
Peake didn't budge, and the cameraman gave him a sharper prod. Peake opened his eyes, rolled them, licked his lips. The cameraman got right in front of him, capturing each movement. Whir. Peake slumped again. The cameraman let the camera drop to his side. The lens tilted upward and the beam climbed, hitting the upper edges of the rock and projecting the eye-dot onto the mountainside. The cameraman shifted and the dot-eye died.
Milo's jaw bunched. He edged around to get a fuller view. I stayed with him.
No one else in the clearing. The cameraman kept his back to us.
Tall, narrow, with a small, white, round, shaved head that glowed with sweat. Black silk shirt, buccaneer sleeves rolled to the elbows, black jeans, dusty black boots with thick rubber soles. Some kind of designer label ran diagonally across the right patch pocket of the jeans. From the left patch dangled the butt of another chrome automatic.
Milo and I sidled farther. Froze as gravel spat under us. No reaction from the cameraman. Too busy mumbling and cursing and prodding Peake.
Manipulating Peake.
Sitting Peake up straighter. Poking Peake's face, trying to mold expression. Adjusting the gun in Peake's hand.
Adhering to Peake's hand.
Strips of transparent tape bound the weapon to Peake's spindly fingers. Peake's arm was held unnaturally rigid by a tripod that had been rigged to support the limb. Tape around the arm.
Forced pose.
Milo narrowed his eyes, raised his rifle, aimed, then stopped as the cameraman moved suddenly.
Half-turning, touching something.
A tight, downslanting line that cut through night-space.
Nylon fishing filament, so thin it was virtually invisible from this distance.