Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [28]
GLIMS HOLM
4 MI.
That was it, the name of the cottage they’d mentioned in the pub. He grunted with satisfaction. Four miles. It would take maybe two hours if he took it easy. He set off, his newly purchased walking shoes crunching on the gravel, the keen edge of the wind in his face. But he was well bundled against the cold, and he had a good seven hours of daylight.
For the first mile or so, the trail remained on solid ground, following a faint elevation that extended into the Mire. D’Agosta breathed deeply, surprised and more than a little pleased that all his traipsing around these past few days seemed to have left him a bit stronger, despite his weariness and the ache of his injury. The trail was well marked, with long, narrow pieces of granite stuck into the ground like pikes to guide the way.
Deeper into the Mire the trail itself grew fainter, but the markers were still visible for hundreds of yards; at each one he paused, searched the landscape ahead, located the next, and continued on. Even though the ground seemed relatively flat and open, as he proceeded he realized there were many folds and gentle rises that made it difficult and deceptive to get the lay of the land and maintain a straight course.
As eleven o’clock neared, the trail began to descend, ever so slightly, toward lower, more boggy moorlands. In the vast distance on his right, he could see a dark line that, according to his map, marked the border of the Inish Marshes. The air became still, the wind dying to nothing, the mists collecting in the hollows and rising in tendrils over dark bogs. The sky darkened and clouds rolled in.
Hell, thought D’Agosta, looking upward. That damn Scottish drizzle was starting. Again.
He soldiered on. Suddenly the drizzle was interrupted by a terrific gust of wind. He heard it coming before it arrived—a humming noise across the moors, the heather flattened in its wake—and then it buffeted him, flapping his raincoat and tugging at his hat. And now heavier drops of rain began to patter over the ground. The mists that had settled in the low areas seemed to jump out and become clouds tumbling across the moors, or maybe the leaden sky itself had lowered to the ground.
D’Agosta checked his watch. Almost noon.
He stopped to rest on a boulder. There had been no more signs for Glims Holm, but he figured he’d gone at least three miles. One more to go. He searched the landscape ahead; he could see nothing that might be a distant cottage. Another gust of wind swept across him, the cold raindrops stinging his face.
Son of a bitch. He heaved himself up, checked his map, but it was pretty much useless as there weren’t any distinct landmarks visible by which he could measure his progress.
Ridiculous that someone lived way out here. They were clearly more than “touched”—they must be stark raving mad. And this was a fool’s errand: no way in hell Pendergast could have gotten as far as the cottage.
The rain continued, hard and steady. It kept growing darker, to the point that it almost felt as if night were coming on. The trail became fainter, the bogs pressing in on either side, and in places the trail crossed watery areas on corduroys or lines of flat stones. With the mists, rain, and darkness, D’Agosta began finding it difficult to locate each next cairn, peering into the murk for a long time before spying it.
How much farther? He checked his watch. Twelve thirty. He’d been walking two and a half hours. He should be practically on top of the cottage. But ahead he could see only gray moorlands emerging helter-skelter from mist and rain.
He hoped to hell he would find someone at the cottage and that there would be a fire going and hot coffee, or at least tea. He was starting to feel a cold, penetrating chill as the water worked its way into his clothing. This had been a mistake; the ache of the injury was now joined by the