In a Place of Darkness

58

Maasaw Airfield (100 miles NE of Flagstaff, Arizona) — 16:57

Even with the air-conditioning on, the tiny Cessna was like a winged oven as it banked into a turn. Barely a cloud in the sky, but the plane’s shadow raced across the parched landscape below — all shades of beige and pale brown, with the occasional tuft of green.

They’d followed the road for the last fifteen minutes of the flight up from Flagstaff, and only seen three vehicles the whole time.

Number four was parked at the side of a tiny airstrip: a big, filthy, jacked-up, silver, double-cab pickup truck with a light-bar on the roof and a big green-and-gold shield on both front doors.

A figure leaned back against it, arms folded.

How the hell they weren’t melting in this heat was anyone’s guess.

The pilot’s low drawl crackled over Angus’s headset: ‘All right, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll shortly be landing in Buttfuck, USA, please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened, and your tray tables are in the upright and locked position.’

Ha bloody ha.

As if there was room for any of that back here — squeezed into the plane’s two rear seats, trying not to squash Dr Fife against the bulkhead, because these things seemed to be designed for schoolchildren.

Of course, Special Agent Marshall had taken the front seat, next to the pilot, even though he was nowhere near as big as Angus — playing power games. Because let’s face it: the man was an arsehole in a black suit and white shirt, short-back-and-sides, sunglasses, and shiny black shoes.

The Cessna sank lower and lower, shadow racing up to meet them as it wheeched across clumps of cactus and the occasional scruffy bush. Then the wheels touched down, kicking up a huge plume of orange dust. The engines howled and the wheels bumped along the runway, slowing to a walking pace, before stopping entirely — the motor idling, but not turning off.

Maasaw Airfield didn’t have anything as fancy as a control tower or a hangar, just an old Portakabin that looked as if it was about to collapse from heat exhaustion.

‘Thank you for flying FBI Airways, I hope your flight’s been a pleasant one, and don’t forget to tip your stewardess.’

Special Agent Marshall took off his headset, popped his door, and hopped out.

Heat barged into the four-seater plane.

The pilot flipped Marshall’s seat forward, as if this was a housing-estate hatchback. ‘Everybody out.’

Angus struggled free from the tight space, stepping down onto gritty sand. Blinking as heat-haze rippled the middle distance, sparking sweat across his top lip, making his shirt sticky. And he’d only been here for fifteen seconds. ‘Jesus Cake-Baking Christ, it’s hot.’

Everything smelled of scorched dirt and burnt pepper.

‘Little help?’ Dr Fife crouched in the doorway, arms out, because there were no steps on this thing and a wee moment of humiliation was better than going flat on your face.

Angus lowered him to the ground. ‘How can it be this hot?’

Dr Fife glowered. ‘Something funny, Agent?’

And when Angus turned, there was Marshall smirking at them from behind his sunglasses. ‘Just thinkin’ ’bout this thing my wife said last night.’ He snapped his fingers and aimed a finger-gun at Angus. ‘Get the bags, yeah?’ Then wandered off, across the dusty runway, towards the pickup truck.

Arsehole and a half.

‘Hmmph.’ Dr Fife lowered his voice, cranking up a faux-hillbilly accent. ‘“Juss thinkin’ ’bout this thing ma wife done sayed.”’ A sniff. ‘Bet it was about the size of his tiny dick.’

‘Ignore him.’ Angus popped open the little hatch on the side of the plane, and pulled out a pair of wheelie suitcases.

Halfway to the car, Marshall stopped, turned, and cupped his hands into a loudhailer. ‘YOU LADIES COMING, OR WHAT?’

A sniff from Dr Fife. ‘Gonna be a long couple of weeks.’ Staying right where he was.

Because some people deserved to be antagonized.

Angus dipped back into the hold for the final wheelie case, two large holdalls, Dr Fife’s photocopier-sized travelling trunk, a couple of rifle bags, and a cardboard box that clinked like a trip home from the off-licence. Stacking it all into a pile at the side of the runway.

He clunked the hatch closed again as a ding-buzz sounded deep in his pocket. It was far too hot for text messages, but he checked anyway.

ELLIE:

Well, maybe not too hot for one little reply.

He got as far as...

...before ‘HEY, ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER, DANNY DEVITO: MOVE YOUR ASSES! WE’RE ON A CLOCK HERE!’ cut through the superheated air.

SEND.

Dr Fife frowned. ‘See, if there comes a time when we gotta choose: save his ass, or let him die? I’m gonna let him die.’ Then marched off, kicking up dust with his platform cowboy boots.

Angus gathered up all the luggage he could carry in one go and shambled off towards the pickup truck.

Soon as he’d stepped off the runway, the Cessna’s engines roared, sending a storm of dust and grit howling out behind the plane as it taxied away. Turning at the end of the runway and accelerating back again. Bobbing up into the air, showing off the strange collection of wires, antennas, microphones, and gimbal cameras mounted on the underside.

It did a circuit of the airstrip — no doubt to a running commentary from Captain ‘Hilarious’ about stowing your luggage in the overhead compartments — waggled its wings twice, then headed off into the wild blue yonder.

Angus followed Dr Fife to the pickup truck, heaving the luggage into the loading bay. Turned out those gold-and-green crests had ‘RANGER’ and ‘HOPI POLICE ~ HOPI TRIBE’ on them.

The ranger in question was nearly as big as Angus, and every bit as broad across the shoulders. Her short-sleeved uniform was either dark green or faded-after-too-many-washes black, with three golden chevrons on both well-muscled arms. A thick utility belt with a massive gun at her hip. Her long black hair was pulled back in a formidable bun, mirrored shades hiding her eyes. Heart-shaped face. Serious mouth.

She took off the shades, revealing a pair of brown eyes that turned up at the corners. She looked Angus up and down. ‘Yup.’ Then did the same thing with Dr Fife. ‘You the serial-killer guy?’

‘I try to be. This is my associate, Detective Constable MacVicar on loan from bonny Scotland, but you can call him “Angus”.’ Dr Fife stuck his chest out. ‘On my business cards it says “Dr Fife”, but—’

Angus gave him a wee kick on the ankle before he could launch into that stupid ‘you can’t call me “John” or “Jo”’ speech of his.

Dr Fife cleared his throat and stuck a hand out instead. ‘Jonathan.’

She shook it, her hand completely engulfing his, like a mountain lion’s paw. ‘Smith. Hakidonmuya Smith. And before you ask, it means “She Who Rips The Balls Off Sexist Assholes”.’

Speaking of which...

The passenger window buzzed down and Special Agent Marshall popped his elbow out onto the sill — wrist extended so he could tap his watch. ‘Save the chitchat for the car, Ranger. Wanna get there before the light goes.’

He didn’t wait for a response, just buzzed the window up again.

Might have to promote him from ‘bellend’ to ‘wanker’, as Monster Munch would say.

Dr Fife stuck his hands into his pockets and kicked a stone off into the scrub. ‘What we looking at, Ranger Smith?’

‘Ever seen a man been skinned alive?’

A smile. ‘Twice.’

‘Then you’re gonna feel right at home.’ She slipped her shades back on. ‘Welcome to Second Mesa.’ She marched around to the driver’s side and climbed in behind the wheel.

Soon as her door clunked shut, Dr Fife’s smile turned into a grin. ‘We like her.’

Angus did a slow turn, one hand shielding his eyes, squinting out at the vast, flat desert, and the scrub, and the horizon rippling in the heat. A lone buzzard circled high above, searching for the dead.

The plane wasn’t even a speck in the punishing sky.

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Long way from Oldcastle.’

‘That was kinda the point.’ Dr Fife swept a hand towards the dusty truck, making a big dramatic pantomime gesture. ‘Come, DC MacVicar, mystery, adventure, and exciting dead bodies await!’ Then he clambered into the back — which wasn’t all that dignified, given how high the suspension was jacked up — leaving Angus alone. Outside. In the boiling afternoon.

High overhead that buzzard cried, sharp and lonely.

A bead of sweat trickled its way down Angus’s back.

‘Yeah... This was definitely a mistake.’ But he collected the last few bags anyway, and heaved them into the pickup’s load bay.

Because it was too late to back out now.

And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this time?

After all, it couldn’t be anywhere near as dangerous as hunting down the Fortnight Killer.

...

Right?