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Valentine searched the woods with his hard ears. The wind was smothering whatever sounds the Reaper made-if it was in fact running and not just trying to lure him into the woods.
Deciding on handiness over firepower, Valentine slung his rifle. Drawing his pistol and sword, he tucked the blade under his arm and began stalking into the woods with the pistol in a solid, two-handed "teacup" grip, searching more with his ears than his eyes.
His footfalls sounded like land mines detonating to his nervous ears. Of course, anyone venturing into thick woods after a Reaper would be a madman not to be nervous.
Motion out of the corner of his eye-
Valentine swung, the red fluorescent dot on the pistol's foresight tracking through wooded night to . . .
A chittering raccoon, blinking at him from a tree branch.
Valentine lowered the pistol barrel.
In a cheap horror movie, this would be the moment for the Reaper to come up behind. Valentine turned a full circle. The woods were empty.
A half hour later he'd traced the tracks to an old road running along the bank of the Ohio River above the flood line. Above what was technically the flood line, that is; the road showed evidence of having survived at least one flood. The Reaper could have continued on to the river or headed down the road in either direction. It might even have stashed a bicycle somewhere-a Reaper could reach a fantastic speed on two wheels.
Now all that was left was the grim accounting. Perhaps the Reaper had grabbed some poor sentry and terrified him into giving an estimate of their reduced strength once Bloom had departed. There'd be a name to report missing and fear in the camp.
Such a loss would be worse to take than an ambush or a fire-fight, where at least the men could feel like they shot back. A single man's death after so many weeks without a casualty worse than a broken ankle would loom all the larger over dinner conversation.
It took three hours for word to come back to the alarmed operations center: all in-fort personnel present and accounted for, from the most distant sentry to the cook stocking potatoes in one of the basements against the winter.
One other person had caught a good look at the Reaper, and Valentine and Lambert heard the story from a shaken-up mechanic named Cleland, brought in by Frat, who'd found him in crouched on the unpleasant side of a board over a pit toilet and helped him out. Cleland was up late winterproofing a pump, went to the cookhouse for a hot sandwich and coffee, and saw a tall figure standing silhouetted against one of the security lights.
"Just looked like he was trying to keep warm, wrapped up. Didn't notice how tall he was right off as I was headin' up the hill, you know."
Valentine's nose noted that Cleland hadn't done the most thorough job cleaning up before giving his report.
"Standing in the light?" Valentine asked.
"Turned toward it, more like. I saw something in its hand."
"He needed light," Lambert said, looking at Valentine. "It's a dark night."
"Could you see what it was?" Valentine asked.
"Piece of paper, maybe. It shoved whatever it was into its cloak when it heard me. Damn thing looked right at me. Yellow eyes. Nobody ever told me how bright they were. A man doesn't forget that. Don't think I ever will."
"What then?"
"I ran like the devil. Or like the devil was after me, more like. Dodged through the transport-lot and jumped into the old latrine."
"You can go, Cleland," Lambert said. "Get a drink if you like at the hospital. Medicinal bourbon."
"What do you think?" Lambert asked Valentine after Cleland left.
Valentine looked at the alert report. "They found a garbage can overturned by the cookhouse. Could be raccoons again."
"A Reaper snuck onto the base to go through our garbage? Not even the garbage at headquarters; a can full of greasy wax paper and coffee grounds?"
Valentine had the same uncomfortable feeling he'd had on his first trip into the Kurian Zone, when he learned that one of his charges had been leaving information for Kurian trackers.
"A message drop," Valentine said.
"Possibly. People go to the canteen at all hours. It's a good spot. Almost everyone's there once a day."
"That means-it could be anyone."
