The Gorge

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Castle found the discarded backpack just after sunrise.

It lay about ten yards off the trail amid scuffled leaves. The bac kpack held an empty cardboard toilet paper tube, a quart-sized zip loc k baggie that held some granola crumbs, and a dog-eared novel by someb ody named Charlaine Harris. Judging from the pastel colors on the cove r, Castle figured the book belonged to the girl. He couldn’t imagine G oodall reading much of anything besides survival manuals and the Bible.

Except his own headlines, he heard The Rook’s voice say in his head.

The zippered section of the backpack contained a sealed condom, a can opener, and a pack of matches from the Bull’s Eye Bar amp; Grill in S tone Mountain, Georgia. Goodall had been careful in his first bomb att ack, leaving few clues despite the heavy concentration of agents assig ned to the case. Some believed if Goodall had been content with that o ne blow for perceived justice and had slipped back into the remote wil ds of the upper Midwest, his identity would still be a mystery. Instea d, he had grown increasingly reckless, and now that he’d been discover ed, he had nothing to lose.

He never had nothing to lose in the first place, said The Rook’s voice.

“Look,” Castle said, feeling stupid for talking to himself. “He le ft this here for me to find. He doesn’t care that I’m after him.”

Oh, he does care. Remember the assessment. Everything’s a cry for attention with him.

“Oh, yeah, if you’re so smart, why did your ass get hauled off by some weird bat-winged creature that doesn’t exist?”

I respect your experience, partner, and you’re about the squarest man I’ve ever met. If I were your shrink, I’d lie down on the couch an d let you do the analyzing, then gladly pay the bill later. But ri ght now you can’t trust your own head. You haven’t had a wink of sleep, you’re delirious, you’re hungry, and three weeks in the wilderness c an do strange things to anybody.

Above, the treetops veered in an autumnal spin of rust, gold, and dying green.

“Fuck,” Castle said. “I’m talking to myself.”

It’s okay to talk to yourself, came The Rook’s voice-that same combination of sidekick pep and college-professor smugness that plagued some behavior science guys and pissed off the SWAT types. After all, this is your show.

“That doesn’t bother me so much,” Castle said. “The thing that bothers me is you’re probably dead.”

You’re probably right.

“What the hell happened to you?”

You know as much as I do.

“That’s a stretch. You’ve got three degrees, as you like to keep reminding me. I’m just a dummy with a narrow set of skills that happen to come in handy if you ever need to kill a man. Oh, and I have clumsy feet.”

They didn’t teach about monsters in college.

“I don’t believe in monsters.”

Audible sigh here. You can’t lie to me. I’m inside your head, remember?

“Reckon so.”

You’ve always believed in monsters.

“What on Earth would the Bama Bomber be doing with a condom?”

Maybe he likes to make funny animal balloon shapes. I’ll bet he does a great poodle.

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

Why should I? I’m probably dead, remember?

Castle peered down the trail. He couldn’t see the river, but he could hear it and sense its power behind the wall of trees. He tossed down the backpack. “I’m talking to myself.”

I don’t know, just postulating a theory here, but I’m betting the monsters only come out at night. So you can relax a little. You have about eleven good hours of daylight left.

“I’ll get him for you.”

No, you’ll get him for you. I’m just a figment of your imagination and therefore have no influence on your behavior.

“Whatever. Just shut the fuck up, will you?”

Castle scolded his tired legs into action and descended to the river.