Running was difficult. Running away was more difficult. Running away in the gathering dark was even more difficult. Running away in the gathering dark from someone with a significantly better knowledge of the area was almost impossible.
Doing all of this while sopping wet and covered in blood was an added challenge Martin could have done without.
The shack had turned out to be in the middle of a swamp, and running in the opposite direction than he’d been brought had brought Martin to the edge of a river that flowed alongside the interstate. The Christina River was clean, as rivers went, which was fortunate even if he didn’t have any open wounds. He’d thought at first to simply walk in the river for a bit, to hopefully throw off his pursuers once they got free of the ghosts—he didn’t know what they were going to do and wasn’t going to waste time trying to find out—but in his haste he’d slipped on a rock and lost his balance, and at that point swimming for a bit had seemed easier than fighting the current. By the time he dragged himself out at a point where the river got shallower and lazier, almost two miles of river from where he’d started, the sun was going down, and Martin was a little annoyed to discover that his shirt was still bloodstained from the knife wound.
He had to get to an airport. Somehow. Wilmington International Airport was probably a good choice, but he wasn’t entirely sure which direction he needed to head. The current had carried him back the way he’d originally come—which was probably not a bad thing, they would be expecting him to continue on towards DC—and he genuinely didn’t know where anything was from here, let alone an airport. He was, at least, on the other side of the water, so he turned his back on the setting sun and started moving. If nothing else, maybe he could make it to the ocean—he had no real clue how big the state of Delaware was, or how close it was to the Atlantic—and at least get his bearings. If all else failed, surely there was a tourist information kiosk somewhere.
Logic said he should probably conserve his energy as much as possible, since he had a long way to go. Panic said he should put as much distance between himself and the Hunters as he could as quickly as possible. The result was that, as soon as he had solid ground under his feet, he started running at a pace that he definitely wouldn’t be able to sustain for long.
He was still reeling a bit from the shock of having met his father’s ghost, but he set that aside to think about later. The list of things he was going to have to think about later—the information he’d got from Max Mustermann, the idea of Julia and Trevor being the Bookmasters, the implications of his hand healing so quickly despite having been stabbed clean through—was getting long. Luckily he’d have a long flight back to England to think over most of them. Instead he could think about things that were immediately important—like that he didn’t have his phone anymore and thus had no way to either call for help or find his way. Or that he didn’t have his bag with him and thus couldn’t even change out of his wet clothes, and if he walked into a shop like this, there would almost certainly be awkward questions.
As he reached to check his pocket and confirm his wallet was still in there, just in case, the realization of what else he’d left in his bag nearly made him miss his step and fall to the ground.
His passport. His fucking passport. Which meant that, even if he had enough money to cover a plane ticket back to London, he wouldn’t be able to board it.
Okay. New plan. He needed to get to the nearest British consulate, or possibly the British Embassy. There was a consulate in New York, the Embassy was in DC, and Martin was aware without really trying to be that he was about equidistant between the two. He would get to civilization, get his bearings, maybe find a pay phone—there were seven hundred forty-four of them in Wilmington, he could surely get to one easily enough, and okay, that had to stop or he was going to spend all his energy too quickly—and then go from there. The Amtrak went through Wilmington, surely he could easily get from there to one of his two options.
He forded a small creek, threaded his way through some trees, and came, unexpectedly, on what looked like a walking trail, or perhaps a bike trail. Regardless, it ran more or less in the direction he needed to go, and while there seemed to be some construction going on up ahead, it didn’t seem to be going on at this time of night, so he was likely to be able to get through the area without too much trouble. Stepping onto the trail, he took a moment to stretch, then started running north.
Naturally, the “construction” in question was building a bridge across the river. Still, there was enough completed that Martin was reasonably certain that, with care, he could make it across. It was the “with care” bit that was going to be tricky. Between the quickly falling darkness and his size, it would be extremely easy to miss his footing and plunge straight into the river, and he had no idea how far up he was, how deep it was, or what lay beneath the surface.
Nothing for it. He had to try.
Martin took a deep breath, slid his hand into his pocket and gave the recorder a reassuring squeeze, and ventured onto the first tentative overtures at a footbridge spanning the river.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared in some ways, and in other ways it was worse. The pylons had been sunk into the riverbed, sturdy and evenly spaced, and the beginnings of the framework had been laid, twin beams running parallel to one another about two meters apart and braced with long crosses between each set of pylons. The trouble was that all of it was narrow, and none of it was close enough that he could do anything but walk across it one foot in front of the other. Slowly, carefully, he began placing his feet as carefully as he could, taking long enough steps to keep from wobbling but not so long he overbalanced. The going was slow, and he was definitely exposed out here. A memory—or was it a memory? Had he ever actually read it, or was the knowledge just there?—surfaced in Martin’s mind, something about lowering your center of gravity, that it might be less dignified to cross a span on your hands and knees or scooting on your butt but was definitely safer.
“Fine time to tell me,” he grumbled to himself, swinging his right foot around to take his next step. “When I’m halfway across the damned river and as likely to fall if I try to get down than if I just keep going.”
The knowledge that he was, in fact, exactly twenty-seven percent of the way across the span popped into his brain with the smuggest tone a soundless thought could possibly have. Martin took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and tried to shut the Ceaseless Watcher out of his mind for five goddamn minutes.
With the aid of a crane that had obviously been left for the next day’s work, Martin was able to successfully navigate the last few meters of the span and make it to the other side, at which point he sank up to his ankles in water. Something told him that he definitely wasn’t supposed to be here, but screw it, it wasn’t the first time he’d broken a law in the name of safety. In a pinch he could claim disorientation from blood loss and at least get taken to a hospital, which ought to be easy enough to escape if he played his cards right and would get him closer to where he needed to go.
He was probably getting way too comfortable with that sort of thing, but it was a bit late to worry about that.
The sun had fully set by now, and the light pollution from the city was too great to see the sky clearly; Martin squinted desperately up at the sky, but he couldn’t pick out the North Star well enough to navigate. Instinct said that he’d wasted way too much time, that if he didn’t hurry and get to an Amtrak station or something, he’d be dead. His best bet was going to be to head towards that glow, which would at least be some kind of urban center and somewhere he could get some help, assuming he didn’t get killed on the way. This looked like prime hunting grounds. He set off towards the glowing horizon as fast as he could, considering the squishy terrain.
Eventually he came to a walkway and managed to haul himself onto it. It led around to a large, glass-walled building, obviously locked up for the night—not a problem, Martin didn’t plan to go in. He was starting to make his way around it, on the theory that he would almost certainly find a road on the other side, when a light suddenly shone itself in his face and a voice shouted, “Hey!”
Martin threw up a hand to shade his eyes instinctively. Running would be the smart option—but where? Back into the wetlands? The person with the light was between him and where he needed to go. He took an uncertain step back as the light drew closer and lowered. Now Martin could see the figure behind it—a barrel-chested man with a shaved head, not quite as tall as he was but probably about as heavy and all of it muscle. He wore a shirt and vest declaring him to work for a security company and a scowl declaring him to not want to put up with this.
“What are you doing here?” the man demanded. His voice was harsh and grating, but also sharp and firm. This was a man who expected to be answered and obeyed, or he would know the reason why. He wasn’t a Hunter—Martin could sense that without even trying—but that didn’t mean he was safe. Plenty of perfectly ordinary people were dangerous in and of themselves.
“J-just, just a bit lost.” Martin tried to sound as nervous as possible. It wasn’t exactly difficult. He was nervous, although he couldn’t have exactly said why.
“Lost,” the man said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “This is a wildlife preserve. And it closed at dusk. How did you get in here?”
Well, didn’t that just figure. Martin crossed his arms over his chest and took a deep breath. “I was just…out for a walk. There’s a trail that goes right to here…” He trailed off, hoping it was convincing.
It wasn’t. “That trail isn’t going to be finished for another year. You’re trespassing. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t call the police on you.”
Somehow, Martin didn’t think I’m trying to save the world and going to jail would be bloody inconvenient was going to be good enough. That left him…well, technically it left him several options still, but he was in a hurry, so he chose the path of least resistance, which he was definitely going to regret later. He reached for the Beholding again. “I don’t know…what’s something you don’t want the police to know about?”
“I’ve got an appointment with a dealer in an hour to pick up some heroin,” the security guard said automatically. His face immediately flushed crimson. “What the hell?”
“Right, well, I’ve got that on tape.” Martin waved the tape recorder at the man, hoping he wouldn’t be able to see clearly enough to know that it was waterlogged, and possibly not even on—certainly Martin hadn’t turned it on, and he didn’t know if whatever was behind them considered this important enough to record. It must have worked, because the man lunged for it; Martin jerked it back. “So here’s the deal. You let me walk out of here, you tell me the way to the Amtrak station, and this stays between us.”
The security guard wavered. Then his gaze sharpened, and he angled the light at Martin’s front. “Is that blood? Did you kill someone?”
Martin cursed inwardly. Of course, he hadn’t thought about that. He didn’t have any visible injuries—the knife wound on his hand wasn’t exactly healed over like it had never happened, he was definitely going to have a nasty scar from it, but it didn’t look like he’d got it that day—so naturally, the guard wasn’t going to believe the blood was his. Fear and anxiety mingled to cloud his judgment, and Martin drew himself up to his full height and fixed the guard with an intent stare. The static crackled in the air and actually made the beam in the torch flicker and dim.
“Do you want to find out if I can?” he growled.
The guard’s face went from crimson to white, and he took a step back; Martin couldn’t even begin to imagine what he looked like—wait, no, he could, he could almost see it in front of him: a dark, shadowy figure suddenly larger, eyes glowing green, with more glowing eyes peering from behind it…okay, no, that couldn’t be right, it—
“No,” the guard whimpered. “No, no, I don’t know anything, please—”
“How do I get to the Amtrak station?” Martin interrupted.
“Through the visitor center and turn left, right on Judy Johnson, left on Market, right on Rosa Parks and it’s across from the park,” the guard said immediately. “Don’t hurt me!”
“Then I suggest you move,” Martin said forcefully. The guard complied, and Martin strode away at as fast a clip as he could.
The sudden surge of adrenaline carried him forward until he had to cross a set of railroad tracks, and then all his energy seemed to desert him at once. Christ, he’d used way too much of himself on that, and he’d given in to the Eye, that wasn’t good either. He hadn’t needed to do that. He could have claimed the blood on his shirt was from a nosebleed, the guy probably would have bought that…he could have even explained the blood loss and resultant disorientation as why he’d somehow stumbled into a wildlife preserve without noticing. He’d had options. But he’d gone for the quick solution, the easy one…well, for a given definition of easy. Whatever he called it, it was the reason that put him further under the thrall of the Ceaseless Watcher. He could almost hear Gerry and Tim’s scolding, Jon’s worried protests, Sasha’s barely disguised curiosity, Melanie’s vitriol…and God only knew how Elias would feel about knowing Martin was binding himself harder and deeper. Smug, probably, which was the last thing he wanted.
He took as deep a breath as he could and forced himself onward.
He was definitely disorientated now. The road wasn’t lit—was he even on the right road?—and he couldn’t see any street signs. He was dizzy, and tired, and his hand was starting to hurt again—not bleed, thankfully, but definitely hurt—which didn’t help his state. He was going to be easy pickings if anyone caught up to him…
The sound of rushing water caught his attention, and Martin stumbled towards it. A minute or two later, he barely managed to catch himself before he toppled straight into the smooth inky blackness that was water at night.
Great. He may not have found the right road yet, but he had, at least, found the river. Surely that would get him closer. Surely.
Martin followed the curve of the river, gasping for breath. Finally, finally, he saw lights up ahead, and slowed down just a bit to make sure he didn’t run out into traffic. As he got closer, though, sudden misgiving struck him. He came to a stop and began patting down his pockets, his movements getting more and more frantic…but no, it was exactly as he’d feared. There was nothing in his pockets but the recorder. He’d lost his wallet somewhere, possibly back in the shack, possibly somewhere in the river. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he officially had nothing—no ID, no money, no proof of who he was, no proof he was even here legally, no way to get home.
Fucking. Fantastic.
“Ahoy there!”
Martin almost leaped out of his skin at the voice. He whirled around quickly, the movement making him lightheaded, and saw a shadow looming a few feet away.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, then almost bit his tongue at the static. He forced the Eye back. Using that any more would almost surely kill him.
“A friend,” said the voice, which—again—sounded almost like home; definitely a British accent rather than an American one. The shadow moved closer and stepped into the light, revealing an older man in a blue raincoat and white pilot’s cap, which shielded his eyes. All Martin could clearly see was his neatly clipped beard and impressive mustache. “I’ve come to help you.”
Martin stood his ground, as best he could when it seemed to be swaying beneath him. “Have you now.”
“Elias sent me.” The figure—man, whatever—clicked on a very small penlight and pointed it towards the river. It just caught on some rough boards, a bit of glass, some very weathered rope, and faded letters Martin couldn’t quite pick out. A boat. “You need a way home, don’t you?”
Elias. Damn the bastard. First he’d known Martin was going to need a statement, and now—wait, hang on, that didn’t make sense. “How—how did he—how long have you been here?”
“Oh, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,” the man said, almost cheerfully. “Elias knew I was here, and when he caught wind that you might be in…a bit of a bind, shall we say? He suggested I come find you. It’s Martin Blackwood, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Martin replied. There didn’t seem to be any real point in lying. He eyed the boat. “I…I don’t have any money with me. Or…”
“Or ID?” the man supplied. “Yes, I know. Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to be checking the boat looking for you.” He beckoned. “Come on. I have the perfect place.”
This was a trap. Of course it was a trap. There was something going on here, and it wasn’t going to be good for Martin. But he was also exhausted and scared, and he needed to get home, so against his better judgment, he followed the man to the boat.
The man opened a hatch and indicated for Martin to climb down a ladder. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay down there until we’re back in England, but don’t worry. It’s not too closed in.” He chuckled comfortably. “You’ll be perfectly safe.”
Martin didn’t even need the Eye to know that was, if not a lie, at least a gross misrepresentation of the situation. But he didn’t get the tight, panicky feeling he always got when the Buried was nearby, so at least that part was the truth.
He took a deep breath and headed down the ladder.
The space was…not exactly large. Martin’s head and shoulders were still above the hole when he stepped off the ladder, meaning that he had to drop down to his hands and knees to be fully into the area. He estimated the dimensions were maybe three meters by three meters by one and a half, giving him enough room to move around—or more accurately crawl around—but not get a lot of exercise. Still, as the man had promised, it wasn’t so enclosed he felt sick or trapped, and there was a comfortable-looking bed. The bed was even right beneath a porthole, rather a large one for a forty-foot dinghy, the lower third of which was underwater but the top part of which gave a good view of the horizon…or would, during daylight.
“I’ll come and get you when we arrive,” the man promised. “Get some rest.” With that, he closed the hatch, leaving Martin, somehow, in even darker darkness than before.
Martin peeled himself out of his still-wet clothes and spread them out to dry. As an afterthought, he pulled the tape recorder back out of his pocket. It lay still and silent in his hand, but it still made him feel at least marginally better. With that, he crawled towards the bed and got into it. It was very comfortable, and soft and warm and dry, and smelled faintly of something that might have been lavender.
He was far from stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. The boat’s captain was almost certainly touched by the Lonely, and the fact that Martin hadn’t been able to compel his name out of him—even though he hadn’t really been trying hard—meant he was likely quite powerful in it. He vaguely remembered that one of Evan’s uncles had a boat or some such, and if Elias had really sent him…well, Elias needed him alive to stop the Unknowing. He had to trust that fact, as bad an idea as that was. Anyway, he’d already been Marked by the Lonely long ago, so it wasn’t like being down here could hurt him all that much. It wouldn’t be easy, but maybe having the tape recorder would help keep the worst of it at bay until they made it back to London (oh, please let them actually be going back to London). Maybe he would take a look around once he’d got a bit of his strength back and was sure the exertion wouldn’t kill him, but for now he decided to accept the ride—he smiled grimly at the thought—Sight unseen.
He pulled the covers up over himself, turned onto his side, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep.