One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(83)

“He made me do it.”

“She sliced open my chest,” Scott provides. “Didn’t warn, didn’t count down, just did it.”

“Is there a good way to slash someone across the chest?” I pose.

“Pus.” Miggy is already making a face. “I don’t want to remember, you don’t want to know. Lots of pus.”

“Very cool,” Neil chimes in. “Afterwards, Scott joined me in the stream. Dropped chest first. Let the icy water work its magic.” Neil sighs happily, a clear testament to the power of glacier runoff.

“I had no idea what I was doing,” I admit with a shrug. “Sliced him open, let the water rinse him out. Then wiped him down with the alcohol—”

“There was some screaming,” Miggy interjects.

“I did not—”

“Total screaming, like a little kid who lost his ice cream cone,” Neil and I back up Miggy’s assessment.

Scott glowers at all of us.

“Then we gooed him up with the ointment, slapped on a bandage, and hey, he almost looks like a real person,” I finish up.

“Lucky me,” Scott grumbles.

Bob reaches out and lays the back of his hand against Scott’s forehead, then his cheeks. “You feel better.”

“Power of ibuprofen.”

“And you?” Bob turns to Neil.

“Down with the death sled! The two-legged walk again.”

Bob leans back slightly.

“Yeah,” I agree. “We’ve been like this all morning. It’s possible we’re officially cracked.”

“Can you walk?” Bob asks Neil quietly.

“Ab-so-lute-ly!” Neil stands boldly. Promptly sways and grabs at the top edge of the root ball, then sits down hard. “I got this.”

Bob doesn’t laugh or speak or sigh heavily. Which finally cuts through my illogical giddiness and brings me crashing back down to earth.

“No travois!” Neil blurts out. “Fuck the travois! I’ll stay here. Hold the line, make my own fucking snare. But no travois! Can’t make me.”

Now Bob regards me seriously. I get it. I just don’t want to understand.

“We’re not safe,” I state quietly.

“We watched Martin get shot to death. Nemeth and Luciana have clearly been ambushed on their way to get help. The chances of them still being alive . . . We stumbled upon something horrible. But also, something that’s been going on a very long time if your assessment of the bodies is correct.”

I nod quietly.

“Whoever’s been doing this, he has to know using this canyon as his hunting grounds is over. Chasing us away with a series of accidents might’ve protected him and his lair. But the moment he fired that first shot at Martin . . . A party of eight disappearing in these woods? Sooner versus later, this area will be swarming with SAR volunteers, forest rangers, county deputies. Even if our hunter isn’t caught, he won’t be able to resume his game anytime soon.”

“Making this his last hurrah,” I murmur.

“Then why hasn’t he attacked yet?” Miggy brings up, his own voice somber.

Bob shrugs. “He’s had a busy twenty-four hours. Maybe he decided to take a short rest before the final blitz. He knows we have an injured party in a litter and are moving slowly. Though by now . . .”

Bob glances at his watch. It’s probably already ten in the morning. Once, I’d barely considered that hour worthy of rise and shine. But in the world of outdoor living, half the morning has already passed. If our hunter has been recuperating, he should be good and ready to strike.

“How far are we from bottom?” I murmur.

“Too far.” Bob glances at Neil, who’s now studying the damp earth.

Miggy speaks up. “We could abandon the trail. Pick a less obvious path.”

“Any hunter knows how to track. Do we look like five people who can cover signs of our passage?”

We get his point.

“Then we hit the main trail,” Scott proposes. “Make a run for it. There are five of us. He can’t take us all.”

“I can bring up the rear,” Neil says, and the fact that he offers it without hesitation, even knowing the likely outcome, makes me blink hard.

“No,” Miggy snaps impatiently. “I’m not doing this again. Fuck these woods! I’ve lost enough. No way, no how, am I going to turn this into some kind of horror movie where if we’re really lucky, one of us plucky souls finally staggers into town to tell the story of the others’ demise. No. No, no, no. No.”

Scott waits a beat. “I believe Miggy is saying no.”

Miggy throws a clump of moss at him. “Fuck no,” he amends.

Neil smiles. “That’s the Miguel we all know and love.”

“If we choose not to make a run for it,” Bob ponders much more sensibly, “then what?”

“We have a rifle,” Miggy says. “And a handgun.”

“Bear spray,” Scott adds.

“Scary dual-edged blade,” I offer.

“Five of us, one of him,” Neil concludes. “Or in my world, fifteen of us, three of him. Either way . . .”

Bob regards us solemnly. “You’re voting to take a stand.”