CHAPTER 51 “I’m sorry.”
Bowie had seen something move. A hunched, gray shape running in fits and starts against the darker gray of the night. And it was no ghost, unless ghosts trampled through the brush as loudly as living beings.
One of the torchbearers accompanying the advancing priest had heard this too, and clearly wished to investigate. Bowie hoped he would. He’d be more comfortable knowing the supposed ghost had been laid permanently to rest.
Bowie lay behind a clump of acacia near the southern edge of camp, trying not to squirm. After shedding his civilized clothing—and making other adjustments to his appearance—he’d taken a cue from the Kronks and applied shark fat liberally over his body. He couldn’t decide which was worse—the insects or the stench.
The torchbearer drew a lon
