Danny drove north-east along Jack Warner Parkway for a few miles looking for somewhere to pull over. He eventually turned right into Sherwood Avenue and drove to the top of the hill, where he parked, making sure the car wasn’t visible from any of the houses he had passed on the way.
Sherwood was a quiet cul-de-sac with only four or five bungalows on one side of the street and a patch of tall woodland on the other. There were no street lamps. The only light came from small electric storm lamps that swayed back and forth in the picket-fenced porches.
It was 12.30 a.m. and all curtains were drawn. Danny killed the engine and sat in silence for a few moments, watching the road behind in his rear-view mirror to make certain no one had followed him. When he was sure he was alone, Danny got out of the car and made his way round to the boot. Inside was a dark-blue checked duffel bag and a slim leather case that measured roughly four feet in length, and eighteen inches wide. Danny lifted out the narrow case and locked the car.
The air was cool and fresh: a faint hint of the river mixed in with the aroma of pine from the adjacent trees. Danny crossed to the other side of the road and climbed over a low barrier into the shelter of the shrubs that were scattered in large clumps under the canopy of the trees. If anyone did happen to glance out of their window, Danny would be well hidden.
Following the line of the road he walked quickly back down the hill through the trees until he was standing on the corner of Sherwood and Jack Warner Parkway, making sure he would not be visible to any passing motorists.
At this time of night there was little traffic, but a faint rumbling sound in the distance made him stop. The long shadows of the trees swept along the road as a large freight truck passed – its headlamps blazing – on into the dark night.
The two-lane County Road 88 ran parallel with Jack Warner Parkway, separated by a flat central reservation of dried grass. When he was sure there was nothing else coming, Danny sprinted across and disappeared into the tall spindly pine trees that ran along the eastern banks of the Black Warrior River.
The ground underneath the sprawling canopy was covered with rotting leaves and fallen pine needles. It wasn’t long before Danny was standing on the shore of the great river. Moonlight reflected off the slick black surface as the current pulled it silently along its wide, meandering course.
In the far distance the lights of a bridge twinkled through the darkness and danced around on the swirling surface of the water. On the western bank – about half a mile from where he was standing – there was the dim outline of a large shed or boathouse.
Danny took a few paces back and, using his bare hands, began to clear a patch of ground. He had only just started scraping away the leaf-cover when he heard something crashing through the branches of the tree overhead. There was a loud shrieking sound and he dived forward, fumbling for his gun. He realised with dismay that he had left it in the glove compartment.
Danny twisted round just in time to see a black, misshapen form splash into the river just yards from the shore. His heart was thumping hard. Whatever it was struggled and thrashed around battling for its life.
‘Jesus Christ, scared the shit out of me,’ he muttered as he got back to his feet.
A large black raven was being carried away by the current, its waterlogged wings unable to break free from the Black Warrior’s icy grip.
After only a few minutes the sound of thrashing gradually diminished until – eventually – all that could be heard was the rush of the dark river. The Morrigan’s return had been a brief one.
Danny looked up at the clear night sky and wondered if the raven’s death was an omen. If everything was going to plan then Sean would soon be boarding a plane to fly back home. Danny would follow on as soon as possible and together they would sort out the mess. But what if the FBI had gone back on their word and Sean was now languishing in jail somewhere in Alabama?
He returned to clearing the patch of ground.
When he finished Danny placed the leather case he’d taken from the car in the shallow hole and covered it with leaves. Next he looked around for some reference points, then stood for a few moments to make sure he had them fixed in his mind. He then turned, and – following the course of the river – walked along its shore, counting in his head the exact number of steps he was taking. The length of his stride was slightly exaggerated and would give him only a rough estimate of the distance, but that was all Danny needed. He had only been walking for five minutes when he stopped and looked across to the other bank. Directly opposite was the boathouse: 720 paces, just under half a mile – perfect.
When Danny got back to the car it suddenly occurred to him that he had nowhere to stay the night.