Using the torch, he lit a small fire on the ground. Carefully, he extinguished the torch, emptied the bone, and packed it again. He lit the reconstituted torch, extinguished the fire on the ground, and set off toward the stream.
When he reached it, he built another fire on the bank and waded into the water, holding the spear up. There were indeed fish here. They were long and fast and looked absolutely delicious.
Sam stabbed down with the spear. Time after time, he missed. They were too fast.
He even bent and put his hands in the water and waited and tried to grab one. He was hungry enough to rip its head off. He imaged himself skewering it with a stick, holding it over the fire, and ripping strips of meat off and feasting on it.
The thought made his mouth water.
The sun set on that dream.
When it disappeared over the tree line, he stormed out of the creek, picked up the torch, and began hiking back to his camp.
When he reached it, he found the fire nearly dead, only a rubble of embers smoldering.
He covered the dying fire with twigs and branches from the forest and feasted from the stream that he knew: earthworms from beneath the stones near his camp. He would run out of those at some point, but tomorrow was another day. Today, he had made a lot of progress. He had woken at death’s door and would lay his head down with food in his belly and a fire burning before him. That was progress, such as it was in the Triassic.
Soon, it became clear that the fire wouldn’t survive the night. The rain extinguished it, the sheets smothering it like a blanket.
That sucked. Sam should have thought of that. But what could he do? The light monsoon was a late afternoon tradition on this part of Pangea.
He made a note to gather some dry wood in the cave to start again tomorrow. That was the key to survival—doing better tomorrow than you did today. Getting up every day and improving.
When the smoke of the fire was gone, and the moonlight bathed the rock expanse, night was complete, and with it came the thoughts of what he had left behind. The first memory was of hugging Adeline in that incarceration room. He wondered where she was now. Had she given up on him yet? It didn’t matter. He would either die here or make it home. Losing his ability to see her and Ryan made him realize how much he missed them. For a moment, he was back in that Absolom chamber, staring through the glass, seeing them peering out at him.
In that moment, his world had been ripped apart in more ways than one.
But now, here in the past, a different set of eyes stared at Sam. They belonged to an old man. He stood at the tree line, in the rain, his long hair stringy and gray, his beard thick and matted. A wide scar ran down the left side of his face. He smiled, revealing crooked, broken teeth. He wore the same tank top as Sam—the kind issued by the Absolom departure facility.
The other prisoner had finally found him.
Sam’s heart beat faster. He gripped the stick.
The man stepped forward, into the clearing. His ratty tank top was stained with blood. He had killed before. Sam studied the man, the gleam in his eyes, the smile on his lips, and knew, with almost certainty, that he was here to kill again.
THIRTY
Adeline stared into Elliott’s eyes as her hand moved down to the small pocket in her dress. Her fingers were wrapping around the mobile phone when Elliott smiled. “There’s no service down here.” He studied her. “Which is good. We need to talk, and we don’t want anyone who can hack a mobile phone to be listening.”
He waited.
“Do you know anyone like that?”
Adeline swallowed. “I want to leave.”
Elliott smiled, a silent denial of her request.
A single thought ran through her mind: if she could keep him talking, that would buy her time, maybe enough time for Daniele to come looking for her.
Elliott’s tone was almost casual when he spoke. “You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you, my dear?”
“Habit of what?”
“Sneaking around people’s houses. Looking for their secrets.”
Adeline felt herself begin to shake.
“Constance called me. She’s worried about you.”
“She’s…”
“Not the killer.”
“She has a room. With pictures. From the past.”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Who are they?”
“People from Connie’s past. People she’s trying to track down.”
“Why?”
“It’s private. And it’s not what you think it is.”
Elliott motioned to the screen, to the video where Daniele was walking down the street. At the end of the loop, it paused on a frame where she was looking up at the camera.