One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(61)

I reward his honesty with my own. “Because I don’t know how to live any other way.”

He nods thoughtfully. He sees me. I see him. But mostly, I long for a detective in Boston.

Nemeth never says yes. He simply turns and hands the rifle to Bob. Then he takes in Luciana and quivering Daisy.

“How long till you’re ready?”

“Twenty minutes.”

He regards the rest of us. “Hope for the best, plan for the worst. That means start rationing your remaining snacks right now. Then look for the chopper come nightfall.”

We nod. I’m feeling shaky and queasy and far less brave than I want to be. Secrets and lies I understand. But this, alone in the wilderness. Off the grid. Out of touch. Food gone, companion injured, whole party under attack by person or persons unknown.

I’m used to being the hunter.

Never before have I been the prey.





CHAPTER 24





The camp feels different the moment Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy depart. With their tents whisked away, the leadership grouping has been reduced to two, while my shelter now sits alone, a sad little blue dome. I think I should move it closer to the others, except I have no idea how to do such a thing. And I’m still not sure that’s a good idea. So far, I’ve caught all five of my remaining companions in at least one lie. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

I head back to the low-burning fire as the sun rises and warms the air around us. Neil looks exhausted and gray. Miggy wrung out. Scott depressed. He keeps rubbing at his chest and wincing each time he does so.

Bob and Martin are in front of their tents, talking in low voices. No doubt planning their new search strategy for the day. Or really, Martin is dictating next steps, and Bob, his paid employee, is nodding along.

The question is, what will I do? Remain at the campsite with the boys, or head back to the cliff face with Marty and Bob?

I take the collapsible buckets and refill them at the lake while I war with my inner demons. When I return, Bob and Martin are zipping up their packs.

They look at me in wordless inquiry. I sigh heavily. Luciana has left a small pile of chemical cold packs, which she pillaged from our collective gear. Now I pick up the top one, crunch it into activation, then offer it to Neil for his head. Next I turn to Scott.

“Remove your shirt, please.”

This earns me a round of a stares. Scott hesitates, then gingerly raises his arms and pulls off his faded cotton top. As I suspected, the glued edges of his chest wounds have turned an angry red.

“Shit,” Miggy mutters.

Scott touches the swollen flesh, grimaces. “Kinda figured. Still doing better than the other guy.” He gestures to Neil, who smiles at the comparison.

“Cold compresses for him.” I point at Neil. “Ibuprofen for you.” I point at Scott. “Which makes you head medic.” I point at Miggy.

“You’re going to go with them?” Miggy asks me.

“Sadly, yes. Anything else you three need?”

They glance at one another, then shake their heads. “I have granola bars. We’ll be okay for a bit,” Scott says.

Given the hiking distance to the canyon wall, Martin, Bob, and I will be gone for ten to twelve hours. More than a bit, but no one corrects him. We’ll also be splitting up our party, without any means of communication. Another not-so-smart move that no one is acknowledging.

Bob steps forward, holds out a red canister to Miggy. Bear counterassault spray.

“Just in case,” he says, and we all know he isn’t referring to bears.

A final strained moment. We who are about to die salute you.

I have too many memories in my mind. As always, Paul leads the pack. The man who ten years ago lifted me out of the gutter and tried to give me the world. The man I had to leave because even love feels like prison to me.

Except I couldn’t quite let go. Until one phone call later, he’s in the liquor store, trying to talk me out of my latest mistake as a kid walks in, pulls out a gun, and everything goes wrong at once.

Paul, who tried to save me.

Paul, who clutched at his bloody stomach and whispered his wife’s name with his dying breath.

I know too much of ghosts. Of past mistakes and better intentions. The drive to get things right the second time around, regardless of the cost. And the way such obsession can make each and every subsequent decision that much worse.

We are all haunted here. Heaven help us.

Martin shoulders his pack, stares at Bob and me pointedly. I give the three friends one last bolstering smile.

We who are about to die, we who are about to die, we who are about to die . . .

Miggy gives me a thumbs-up. Something about the gesture makes me shiver.

Then I turn and follow Marty and Bob out of the campsite.



* * *



—

Two days of strenuous hiking hasn’t made me magically faster or stronger. Adrenaline, on the other hand, coursing through me in alternating waves of terror and anxiety, has my legs pumping and my muscles firing. Everything still hurts, but I’m too wired to care. My mind is blasting ahead to the canyon wall. Attempt the climb up to retrieve the green fabric? Head to the mysterious cave where Daisy picked up a scent trail? So little time left; how to make the most of it?

Marty isn’t talking, but I don’t care about him anymore. This whole thing has become something bigger than discovering Tim’s body. Something more sinister.