One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(47)

Oh, the stories they’d tell after this. A bachelor party that would forever live in infamy.

There, a glimpse of green on that top ledge, where no green should be.

I get out my whistle, preparing to blow in triumph, when:

A different whistle sounds. Shrill. Three times in rapid succession. The universal signal for help. The sound bounces off the canyon wall, echoing all around me. But by the third shriek, I’m pretty sure it’s coming from the northwest, where Martin and Neil had set out.

I grab some of the smaller rocks at my feet and quickly build a cairn on a larger boulder to mark this location.

The whistle again. One. Two. Three.

Followed by the sound of a male voice, booming down the canyon.

“Help, help, help. Someone, we need help.”

I forget about snakes and race toward them.





CHAPTER 18





I am gasping for breath by the time I find them. I spot Scott first, standing up on a huge boulder, waving his arms frantically with a bright orange whistle pursed between his lips. I have a moment of confusion—Scott was supposed to be headed in the opposite direction with Miggy. How the hell did he end up here? And how did he cross from south to north without me seeing him?

Then I spot the blood. So much blood, splattered across the rocks.

For a split second, my restless mind hopscotches across too many memories at once. Paul, on the ground, staring up at me with an apologetic smile as he bleeds out. A shot-up gangster I barely know, resting his head on my lap while gasping out his last words. A young boy, a teenage girl, a new mom. The progression of their images from official missing photos to unofficial death masks dances across my vision.

I am more than a finder of lost people. I am a repository of final moments, with too many of them having been seared into me.

“Water,” Scott’s babbling. “Do you have water? He needs water.”

I blink my eyes, focus on the matter at hand.

Scott is standing over Neil’s body. The young man’s face is covered in blood, his spiky brown hair matted at one side, his eyes closed. He moans. First sign that he’s still alive.

I scamper onto the rock beside Scott, dropping my pack and grabbing my thermos. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I found him like this. I’d been with Miggy, but he, um, he suggested I might want to talk to Neil.”

I yank my bandana off my face, soaking it with water. My hands are shaking so badly I splash it all over the boulder. I start dabbing at Neil’s face, looking for signs of the core wound.

“Keep blowing the whistle,” I instruct Scott. “We need more help.”

Just then, Neil’s eyes fly open. He stares right at me as I recoil sharply.

“Shhh,” I murmur. “You’re okay now.”

He’s lying at an awkward angle, having fallen with his pack still on. Maybe he stumbled and whacked his head. I want the explanation to be that innocent, even as I already doubt it. I already noticed smears of red on the stones around us. As if Neil staggered around, shaking his bleeding head—fighting off an attacker—before collapsing.

Neil blinks at me several times, clearly trying to get his bearings.

“What . . . what happened?” he asks. He licks at his chapped lips. I grab my water bottle and pour some liquid straight into his mouth. He swallows gratefully.

“We were going to ask you that.”

“?‘We’?” For the first time, he notices Scott. Something tightens in Neil’s face, then disappears before I have a chance to grasp it.

“Scott found you. He called for help.”

On cue, Scott sounds the whistle again. I can hear more sounds bouncing around the canyon. Rocks sliding, footsteps pounding. The cavalry arriving. I hope.

Neil winces at the sharp noise, raising a hand to his head. I grab it before he can touch the sticky mess.

“Not yet. I’m still trying to inventory the damage. What hurts worse?”

“My head. The . . . back of my skull.” Neil shudders slightly. “Jesus.”

“Can you move your limbs?”

He lifts his arms and legs. Then, before I can warn him not to, he twists his neck from side to side.

I can see the back of his cranium now. Definitely the source of the carnage. I give up on the bandana and pour the last of my water straight onto his hair. As a bloody river flows away, I can make out an ugly gash up high. Probably a couple of inches long. Probably in need of stitches, or at least superglue. Though how you crazy-glue someone’s head, I have no idea.

A rush of heat and gasping breath, then Martin bursts upon us. I don’t look up, intent on delicately probing the wound. Neil grimaces but holds steady as I examine the damage.

“What the hell . . .” Martin draws up short as he spies Neil, blood and more blood.

“Head versus rock,” I announce. “The rock won.”

Beneath my fingers, Neil laughs faintly. Or maybe hysterically?

“What happened, son? You trip and fall?” Martin squats down in front of Neil, peering at the young man’s face.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I was staring at an opening. Trying to decide if I should investigate. Then I heard something. A noise. I turned . . . I don’t know. Here I am.”