October skies

Grace shrugged. The Parks Service had gravelled over a century-old logging camp to build the Blue Valley camp site. They’d even dammed the Tahoe river to produce a scenic lake alongside it. She knew exactly what they’d want to do with this place.

‘Grace, give me a chance to find out who these people were, to find out their stories.’

Her wind-worn face creased with suspicion. ‘You want the scoop?’

Julian offered her a guilty smile. ‘Well, yes.’

She said nothing.

‘Please. We’ll be so very, very careful. I promise you.’

She could already see the gift shop in the very centre, several ‘how-it-must-have-looked’ dioramas dotted around, and to one side, a children’s play area floored with that safety rubber tarmac… and for guest convenience electricity outlets embedded in the trunks of the surrounding trees…

She pursed her lips.

… And discarded Snickers wrappers for miles around this place.

‘I’m a researcher, Grace. I used to work for the BBC. It’s what I do best. I can give faces and voices to the people who lie here, before this place gets trampled.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Look,’ he said, taking a deep breath, ‘what do you think a FOX news team would do with this? If there’s even a hint that these people ended up like the Donner Party, that’s all they’ll focus on. And the likes of the National Enquirer? It’ll just be a sensational story about cannibalism, that’s it. Give me a week, maybe two, and I’ll find out who they were, their dreams, what drove them west, how they ended up trapped here.’

‘Two weeks?’

‘No more. It’s sat here for what? A hundred and fifty years? Is two more weeks’ rest going to do any harm?’

She pulled a face he couldn’t read as she reached for her crumpled packet of cigarettes and eased out another.

‘We’ll not be up here all that time, either. Just today, and maybe come back for another day in a week or two. We’ll let Rose get all the footage she wants, and I’ll try and see if I can unearth any personal effects-’

Grace looked at him sharply.

‘Gently, ever so carefully,’ he said, throwing his hands up in surrender.

‘I don’t want you pulling this place apart,’ she said sternly.

Julian put on his best pleading, beseeching face — a family dog begging beside a laden dinner table.

‘All right,’ she said gruffly as she lit up. ‘You got two weeks.’

CHAPTER 4

Friday

Sierra Nevada Mountains, California

During the morning Rose diligently filmed the site from all angles. She had Julian doing a variety of walk-through shots. She set up the camera in the clearing, filming him and Grace emerging from the tree line and pretending to act surprised at their discovery.

Julian was impressed by how dutifully compliant Grace was. A stern-faced schoolmarmish lady who didn’t seem the type to suffer this kind of foolishness gladly, she generously played along. By mid-morning Rose felt she had enough in the can and started taking high-resolution close-up shots of some of the exposed remains.

As they explored the site, delicately wiping away the veil of moss and peat, it was becoming clear that there was a lot hidden beneath; timbers that had once upon a time made up wagons had not fared well; now rotten, black and jagged like decayed teeth. However, nestling amongst these fragile skeletons of wood, they were beginning to discover a multitude of personal effects that had been preserved surprisingly well.

In the last hour Julian had unearthed a stash of ceramic items — crockery, much of it still in one piece, stored as it was in barrels of cornmeal. They found the rusted metal remains of a long-barrelled musket, which Grace called a Kentucky rifle, and the remnants of several wooden tool boxes, one complete with a suite of carpentry tools, their metal blades dull with corrosion.

Nestling at the bottom of a shallow ditch, surrounded by jagged ribs of wood that protruded from the ground like the long gnarled fingers of a clawing hand, Julian found something he’d hoped he’d find.

He squatted in the ditch, teasing the wet peat-like soil aside. His fingers traced around the edge of his find: a small tin chest, black and pitted with rust and decay, but incredibly, still firmly sealed. He found a latch at the front; no longer functioning, of course. Time, moisture and the elements had turned it into one solid nugget of flaking, oxidised metal. He pulled out a pen-knife and probed the latch with the tip of the blade. It began to crumble.

‘What have you got there?’ said Grace, standing over him.

Julian lurched. ‘Jesus… I didn’t see you there.’ He pointed at the chest. ‘The whole thing’s still sealed. It’s incredible.’

She stepped down into the ditch beside him and looked around at the ribs of wood protruding from the ground around them. ‘Seems they built some kinda shelter out of each of the wagons.’

‘They knew they were going nowhere.’

Grace nodded. ‘And that’s when they turned on their wagons and pulled them to pieces. They must’ve been stuck here for a long, long while.’

A thought occurred to him. ‘No bodies so far, Grace. Why do you think that is?’