Page 31 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

They were threading their way on a narrow filament of a mountain trail high above the valley’s northern edge.

The Corridor, Driver said, was higher in the east than the west. This translated to an altitude in the valley of about thirteen thousand feet.

Sticking to mountain passes instead of the valley floor put them at an even greater altitude.

For the first two days, all John did was pop diuretics, drink water, pee, put one foot in front of the other, and pray his brains didn’t leak out of his ears.

By the third day, he was better, but he still mostly watched his feet and tried not to look at his watch.

So, it was a real surprise when, near the end of that day, he blinked up from what felt like a cold-induced coma just in time not to send Driver, who had his binos out, hurtling off the path.

“Whoa,” Driver said, catching his elbow. “Watch out for that first step, there. It’s a doozy.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s wrong?” Well, that’s what he wanted to say only his lips wouldn’t cooperate and everything came out mushy, like he was talking through a mouthful of oatmeal: Wash shrong?

“I don’t know. It’s just…” Driver squinted then pointed due east. “Wouldn’t have seen them if the sun wasn’t behind us.”

Them? That woke him up. Since ditching the van, they’d seen no one at all.

He shaded his eyes. “ Sheersly? ” Cupping a gloved hand to his mouth, he exhaled, warmed his lips, and tried again.

“Seriously? Where?” Tossing a look over the mountains directly ahead, he thought he saw a few specks that might be people. “Heading down into the valley?”

“No, that’s what’s weird…Wait.” Driver cursed. “Just lost…oh, nope, now I got them. They went around a flank is all. Get your binos out. You’ll see movement.”

“Got ‘em.” Squinting, he feathered the focus until the specks resolved into a caravan of four yaks, their backs piled high with bundles, and two men, one at the front and one at the rear. All he could make out clearly were the men’s long winter coats and ushankas .

The hats conjured up images of Dr. Zhivago , cold Kremlin winters, and, paradoxically, a fair number of Wisconsin hunters who, John thought, might burn theirs if anyone pointed out that the Russians dreamt up the design first.

“Okay. So, it’s a couple of guys and their yaks.” He thought a moment then added, “Actually, kind of a lot of yaks. Nomads, right?”

“Yeah, Kyrgyz.” Driver glassed the men again. “And it’s damned unusual is what I’m saying. Not only the number of yaks, but that these guys are on the move at all. It’s the wrong time of year.”

“Oh.” He still didn’t see the problem. “So?”

“ So, they don’t overwinter in the mountains. They don’t go into the mountains at all, if they can help it. They spend the winter in the valley, sometimes in yurts, sometimes in houses. They’ll move if they have to, but that’s rare. And the one thing they really don’t do is go higher.”

“Well,” John said, “maybe they have to go higher before they can go lower.” He remembered Scout trips like that: just when he thought the end might be coming up, the trail surprised him by taking a sharp corkscrew up a slope.

“Possibly,” Driver said.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Because I’m not. Where would they be going?

There’s nothing north of here but mountains and then you’re in Tajikistan.

East and you’re on the shore of Lake Chaqmaqtin before you hit China.

It’s a mystery.” Driver was glassing the valley now.

“Yeah, make that a mystery and a half. Take a look roundabout ten o’clock to the left of the mountains across the river. ”

“Okay,” he said, glassed the foothills. “What am I looking…ah.”

“You see them?”

“Yup.” He played with the focus, and the valley pulled together into a virtually featureless expanse: a pancake-flat swath of land, bisected by the sinuous white coils of a river, frozen solid.

Inching his view from the river and then further south toward the foothills, John spotted both a cluster of low stone houses grouped around a larger, rectangular structure and then several flashes of red.

When he sharpened the focus, the red flashes resolved into tiny figures in long swirling tunics and headdresses.

As he watched, another figure, also in red but with a tall white headdress, labored out of the large rectangle with what might be two buckets, one in each hand, and something around the waist. He squinted. “Is that a baby?”

“Probably. The ones in red are unmarried girls,” Driver said. “Married women wear a white headdress. But that’s not what I’m driving at. You see the problem?”

“Obviously not. If it’s that the guys with the yaks are headed away from the village, so what? Maybe they’re going to another clan or whatever.”

“Up? They’re going to climb up out of the valley where everyone lives in winter so they can climb down again, instead of just hoofing a straight line?”

“Okay, okay.” The cold made him cranky. Stamping his feet, he hugged himself. “Since I’m clearly not seeing it, why don’t you just tell me so we can get moving again?”

“It’s where that clan’s chosen to camp,” Driver said. “In winter, they move into the foothills to catch most of the light.”

“Which those people have. So?”

“Those guys with the yaks? They’re going in the wrong direction. They’re heading east but on the north side of the valley.”

“Meaning? Maybe it’s like a broken clock.” At Driver’s blank look: “Right twice a day?”

“Remind me never to tell you anything ever again,” Driver said, stowing his binoculars.

“Bet you won’t be able to help yourself.” When Driver didn’t reply, he said, “Okay, I’m sorry. Really, I am. Tell me why this bothers you.”

“Pretty obvious. You don’t think it’s a little weird that those men are headed, with a ton of supplies, into the mountains? There’s nothing but more mountains that way. Think about how long it’s taken us to make it this far.”

“Well, it would’ve been faster if we’d just gone down into the valley.”

Driver made a dismissive gesture. “Then think about how many people or settlements we’ve seen on the way.” He paused. “That would be virtually zero, in case you lost count.”

He finally saw what Driver was, well, driving at. “Begging the question.”

“Exactly.” Driver nodded. “Just where are those guys going?”