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Page 72.

A small idea formed in his mind. What, in this enigmatic silence, could he make of her actions? Whether she was an enemy agent, or a friendly victim in the wrong place at the worst moment, she must be going someplace—assuming she did not lie dead, face down in some cold green stream among deadly rocks dressed in moss.

If she was meant to be dead, her assailants would have killed her after they got the package from her.

That meant she was (or they were) going somewhere. To do that, they needed transportation. That meant either land or air. So the key was to find a road—preferably a town with a telephone maybe. It was his only hope.

He passed through a beautiful gorge in which three small waterfalls poured over rocks and brush to land in a miller's pond and then flow away in a stream strong and loud enough to drive the mill wheels of past centuries.

Hiking on, he walked through stony gorges clad in dark green.

Here it was, as the sign proclaimed, Gorge du Loup, or Wolf Gorge.

He trekked between two high cliffs so close together he almost had to go sideways. The walls were fuzzy with moss and lichens. A rough-hewn flight of stairs—of wood and packed earth—led up to a fabulous lookout place. In previous centuries, hunters had pursued the wolves here during dire winters, and shot some, while others got away to prey on livestock and children. Those had been tough times.

In some places, the same overgrown, ivied sort of landscape suggested long-ago construction of castles or walls or buried towers, but it was an illusory and elusive blending of nature and human making. In this otherworldly atmosphere, it was unclear where the fairy world of dragons and elves, of little people and fairies, gave way to the silent passage of scheming humans and predatory animals hunting for prey.

At one point, he thought he saw human figures in the shadows ahead. Darkness was growing in the hidden crevices, and his eyes played tricks on him. Was that Hannah's slender figure way ahead? Did she turn to look at him with a pale face and terrified eyes, before whirling and running out of sight?

Or was he hallucinating?

He stopped to listen, not once but many times, and heard only bird song, gurgling water, and wind sighing above in high branches.

Twenty or so minutes after passing the Schiessentümpel, he followed the twisting forest paths upward to high ground.

He saw the tightly gathered rooftops of a small settlement in the distance. Could he make it before total darkness set in? If he didn't, he'd have to stop. Maybe she would be stopped somewhere as well, waiting for daybreak.

He had nothing else to go on. As they had said to each other, "It's all we've got." Meaning each other. But now, just the memory of each other. He felt grief welling up as he hurried forward. He stifled a sob, and stamped his feet angrily. How was it possible that everything could go so wrong? Fuck all, he was going to march through thick and thin until he got answers. And march he did.

It was a pleasant walk. Up he went, climbing to the left or to the right among boulders hidden in forest. Everything was green and mossy, or covered with green-yellow lichens with traces of rusty red. Luckily this happened to be a sunny day without the usual drizzle coming eastward from far away on the English Channel—that same Atlantic Ocean prevailing wind known as a Western Maritime—which brought regular downpours of rain in London and across the British Isles.

Then, at some point, he heard Hannah's voice. It was just a snatch of conversation on the wind, but the tone and quality of it were unmistakably Hannah's.

He froze, with his heart beating in his neck. He was terrified of the truth. As much as he wanted to see her and talk to her and beg her to tell him what was going on—the idea of what she might tell him frightened him more than anything. Only the thought of her coming to harm was even more scary, so he followed the sound of her voice.

He could not make out the words, but she yelled something. He could not even tell whether she was scared or happy or what. Probably not happy. Not likely.

He heard a man's voice—a yell—then silence.

Rick held his stick before him like a spear or rifle as he advanced. For thousands of years, under various circumstances—war or hunting—men of different cultures and times had walked in this region just as he now was. He patted the backpack to feel the heavy gun there. Then he raised the stick onto one shoulder, ready to use as a quarter staff in a fight.

As he rounded the fern-shrouded corner, he came upon a breath-taking sight. A valley lay before him, spreading in a panorama. He glimpsed a road passing below—maybe the CR118, having made a long curve.

A row of figures trudged on the shoulder of the road. He could not make out who or what they might be.

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