The Middle of Somewhere(73)

Her throat closed and a wave of nausea flooded her. “I think it’s too late. I—”

“Too late?” He grabbed her shoulder. “Liz, we must look!”

He was right. All she’d seen was an arm. And a foot. But she didn’t want to look. Because she already knew.

Linda appeared behind Dante. “What’s the matter?”

Dante undid his hip belt and dropped his pack. “Someone’s lying in the river.”

Linda gasped and turned to Liz, who pointed downstream. Dante headed off. Liz ditched her pack and jogged to catch up to him. As they picked their way down the boulder-strewn embankment, Liz kept an eye out for movement in the woods to her left.

Liz directed Dante. “A little farther downstream.”

They rounded a small stand of pines and stopped short. There was a hiker in a blue shirt, a few yards from shore, face down in the water. His pack lay twisted off one shoulder, as if it had come off, or been torn off, when he fell. It was a silver-and-red Osprey. Brensen’s. Liz’s heart raced and she shivered. Brensen’s free arm—the one she had seen from the bridge—lay draped over a log, bent at an unnatural angle.

Dante took a step forward. “Dios mio! Brensen! Brensen!” The actor lay unmoving. “He looks dead!”

“I know!”

“Should we make certain?”

Liz nodded, then regretted it. Her legs felt encased in hard plastic as she stepped across the rocks and squatted on a flat stone near Brensen’s head. She took a deep breath and shook his shoulder. Water splashed over the toe of her boot.

A fly landed on the nape of Brensen’s neck and climbed over a fold in his shirt. A white smear of sunscreen coated the edge of his ear. Precaution for the long run.

She balked at turning him over and exposing his face. Instead, she reached for the wrist that lay on the log. The skin was paler than the moon. Her fingers found the spot between wrist bone and tendon, but could not find a pulse. His skin felt cold, but so were her fingers. She closed her eyes and swayed, as if she were on the bridge. Behind her, she heard Linda sobbing.

Paul appeared and knelt beside her. “Jesus Christ. What the hell happened here?”

“He’s dead.” A hoarse whisper was all she could manage.

“It certainly appears that way. Are you okay?”

She swallowed, afraid if she spoke she would burst into tears.

Paul regarded her steadily, but she could see he was rattled, too. “Let’s just get him out of the river, okay?”

She nodded, took a deep breath and steeled herself.

“Here, help me turn him over.”

It wasn’t that simple.

Paul straddled two rocks and struggled to lift one end of Brensen’s pack out of the river, but could only raise it a few inches. “I think his arm is caught on something.” He sat back on his haunches. “Dante! Can you give us a hand?”

Dante crossed to them, and he and Liz raised the waterlogged pack. Paul, grimacing, pulled on Brensen’s shoulder with one hand, and reached underneath to free the arm, the frigid water rising to his armpit. Liz glimpsed Brensen’s face. A rough gash sliced diagonally across his forehead, the edges ragged. His nose was broken and bruised, his lips bloodless. She looked away.

The arm broke free and flipped out of the water, hitting Paul in the face. Paul stumbled, splashing water everywhere, then regained his balance. Liz and Dante yanked the pack out of the way, and dragged it to shore.

Paul crouched with Brensen’s torso propped against his knee. The dead man’s chin had fallen onto his chest, as if he were napping on a bus. Paul stared at Linda, his jaw set. “I don’t suppose we can leave the poor bastard where he is.”

She wiped her nose with her sleeve and shook her head.

“He’s soaked. It’ll take all of us.”

Her face crumpled. “Paul, I don’t know if I can.”

“Darling, you can. I know you can.”

The men lifted Brensen by the shoulders and each woman hoisted a leg. Even with four of them, they had trouble negotiating the slick rocks and rushing current. Dante refused to look at the corpse and tripped twice, bringing everyone to a halt. They finally deposited Brensen on the sparse grass between the river and the trail. Liz’s breath hitched in her chest as she went to Brensen’s pack, unsnapped his towel and laid it across his face. They stood over him without speaking for a moment. Linda was hunched, crying. Paul pulled her to him and led her away to where they had left their packs. Dante dropped to his knees next to Brensen, clasped his hands to his chest and murmured a prayer. The sight of this simple, honest gesture overwhelmed Liz, but she couldn’t leave. Instead she gazed ahead at the bridge and the river, the image swimming before her. The rushing of the water droned in her head.