The End is Coming

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Rourke eased the dead Mulliner boy’s head to the rocks. Rourke stood up, tired suddenly, more tired than he had been for so long he couldn’t re-member.

He walked the few paces to the stream at the base of the falls, the roar there loud, steady, throbbing, pulsing in his ears. Spray pelted at his face as he dropped to his knees beside the water, dipping his right hand down, moving his fingers slowly in the cold, roaring waters, the blood drift-ing from them—Bill Mulliner’s blood—forming clouds in the water, red.

He heard movement behind him. He knew the source. Rourke closed his eyes, felt the hands—soft, cool—touch at his neck, move across his face.

“You have found them, John—”

“Probably,” Rourke answered, his voice soft, a whisper.

“I’ll take Paul to the Retreat—he can help me to unload the cargo from the aircraft and we can get it to the Retreat—I’ll stay with him until you come back.”

Rourke opened his eyes, hearing the water rush-ing, watching it move, turning his head, still on his knees, looking up at her. “And?”

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