One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(64)

I can’t circle the entire boulder, as it abuts a curved rock of equal size. I try exploring the pebbled path instead, realizing belatedly I should have first checked for signs of boot prints. Then again, I’m not sure this kind of surface would retain any. The loose stones shift so much beneath my feet, I feel like I’m swimming as much as I’m walking.

I make it fifty feet along the path before hitting a pile of rocks that require me to clamber up again. I try another direction but meet the same fate.

Fifteen more minutes of aimless wandering and that’s that. Sure, there are these makeshift corridors that would allow someone to traverse between the boulders and be less visible. But none of the paths get very far before forcing the person to return topside.

Scott or I should have been able to spot a stranger appearing or disappearing among the rock piles like some dusty gopher. Not to mention Martin racing in from the north, or Miggy and Bob closing ranks from the south.

Meaning Scott was lying? Meaning he had to be our perpetrator after all?

I don’t like it. What does he have to gain? He already won the girl. Even if his buddies feel put out by the new happy couple, I can’t see their disapproval being something worth killing over.

I wind my way back to the original boulder, very thirsty now. And hot. My lips are cracked, my fancy wicking shirt glued to my back. I don’t want to be a hiker anymore. I want a hotel room and a hot bath and pitchers of water and a greasy cheeseburger topped with crisp dill pickles. And not necessarily in that order.

I look up, squinting against the sun. I can just make out my hand, coated in fine particles of dust. Feel the grime down my arms, streaking my legs, powdering my hair.

Just like that, it comes to me. I’ve been looking up and to the side. What about down? Where already, I’m a near-perfect match for the sand beneath my feet?

I heft off my pack. Then, crouching low, I start an awkward duck walk, peering along the bases of the rocks around me. My knees have just started screaming when I see it. Where Neil’s crime scene meets the other, more massive boulders. A black opening, not quite two feet tall. Like the narrow mouth of a subterranean cave.

I stick my arm forward. Then I remember snakes and snatch my hand back. I dig around in my pant-leg pocket for the pencil flashlight instead. I aim the thin beam into the dark space. The light illuminates an endless well of space.

Deep breath in. Anything coiled and forked-tongued comes popping out of that opening, I’m going to personally hunt Nemeth down and kill him. Assuming I don’t die of fright first.

I scoot forward on my hands and knees, wincing against the rock shards digging painfully into my flesh. I’m close enough now that I can feel a waft of cool air from the opening. That seems encouraging. I sniff experimentally. Smells like dirt, which is better than other options. Where’s Daisy when I need her?

Another deep breath. I have no choice now but to flatten out and stick my head and shoulders in. I squeeze my eyes shut. Count to three. Thrust forward.

Forcing my eyes open, I see it’s an underground cavern of sorts. Or maybe cavern is the wrong word. More like a cave-sized air pocket formed eons ago as these boulders collapsed. It’s deeper than I expected, maybe five to six feet tall, and surprisingly wide.

I hesitate. This space is plenty big enough to house a person. A perfect underground hunting den, where an opportunistic predator could lie in wait, then scramble up to attack before dropping back down to obscurity.

Scott could’ve been telling the truth after all.

I should enter and explore. Check for signs of human passage.

I don’t want to go in there. And not just because of snakes. But because nothing good comes from exploring underground tombs. Everyone knows that.

My only other option is to fetch Bob and Martin. I already know Marty won’t come, and Bob . . . Well, the space isn’t that small, but neither is it that big.

No guts, no glory, I tell myself.

I turn around and scoot backward, feetfirst into the opening. Then I allow myself to fall into the abyss.



* * *



—

I hit the ground with a puff of dirt that promptly makes me cough. I wield my flashlight like a weapon, stabbing first that dark corner, then that one, that one, that one. A spinning circle of lighted jabs.

When nothing leaps, bites, or rattles, I finally release a shaky breath. I’m here. I’m alive. Fuck, how am I getting back up?

I stare at the opening overhead. Not five or six feet up; more like eight.

Another shaky breath. I’m here now. Might as well tend to the matters at hand.

Using my flashlight, I turn my attention to the space around me. The floor isn’t really flat, but a sandy mound of dirt and pebbles that have collected in the crevices between the jumbled rocks. It shifts beneath my feet, which makes it a challenge to walk.

This time, I check for boot impressions before taking a step. There’s a depression very close to me, then another and another. The soil is too loose to hold something as distinct as tread patterns, but from a layperson’s perspective, it certainly looks like someone has been moving around in here.

I take a first tentative step, sliding to one side, before I find a more solid base, probably a larger rock beneath the shifting sand. I make it to the wall, where I feel the craggy edge of a bus-sized boulder. Did it break free from the cliff face a millennium ago? Was it delivered here by glaciers? Tossed by a giant?