The trailer was left rattling in the wind. Within the hour, the four of them made the return to Wranglestone.

24

Stars grazed the snowy peaks above Wranglestone, mountains made spears by ice on the tip ready for skewering comets with. Streaming stars that darted now like scores of silver minnow out across the galaxy’s inky waters, if only those peaks didn’t catch them. And the islands of Wranglestone were so small beneath them, it barely seemed possible that a secret as heavy as Timberdark could find a hiding place here. But it was out there somewhere, waiting inside the stilly darkness of a frosted tree house or cabin, and those watchful mountains knew exactly where, if only they had a heart to share it.

They left the Jeep outside Wranglestone’s border, entering the park via the secret tunnel behind the waterfall. Peter had led the group down through the woods to the boathouse, taking care to show them the combination of stepping stones used to cross the river and then, when the watchtower finally came into view, where the lake was. But it was when Peter saw the mountains from the boathouse again that he asked for a moment to be alone. He wandered in among the jumble of canoes left frozen into the ice and, with no sound but the clink of metal weaponry swaying gently on its hooks behind him, stood gazing up at those mountains. And he wondered how very small all life down here must seem to them. His worries no bigger than a pine cone. All of humankind’s troubles nothing but a blip against the vast reach of those eternal peaks. If only his troubles felt that way to him.

Peter took his staff in hand and pointed towards the island of Cabins Creak. “This way.”

“Son,” said the sheriff, jumping down off the boards to join him, “are you sure that’s where we should be looking?”

“I’m not sure of anything.”

“But—”

“But if Selma left something behind for the others to find, then yes, it would be there.”

The sheriff turned round, stretching both arms out ready to catch Teddy the way you might a toddler. Teddy made it on to the ice, pulling the bottom of his jacket back down to straighten it, and slip-slided out on to the lake. But to Peter’s relief, the Ghost Ranger was to wait here. The deer skull appeared to hover above the ground unsupported by a body. The black robe was indistinguishable from the darkness of the boathouse interior. And the Ranger didn’t move. He stationed himself by the back door, tall and immoveable with those two hollow eye sockets watching. He may just as well have been mounted on the wall.

Peter leaned into the sheriff. “Does he really need to be here?”