One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(68)

I was never one for haunted houses, and this is starting to feel an awful lot like that.

I lead the way back up to a section of massive boulders, staying low as I scurry my way across. I don’t have to look at Bob to know he’s doing the same. Of course, a guy of his size still remains a considerable target. We reach the end, jump down into one of the dusty corridors. The rocks here aren’t tall enough to shield us completely, but it still feels better than being topside.

This section is wide enough that we could easily walk side by side, but Bob remains behind me. Covering my back? If I’m being honest, I understand Bob fibbing about his true profession. As lies go, it’s not the biggest I’ve ever heard. At heart, he seems to be a good guy with a natural protective instinct. Which explains his actions now, as he stalks behind me like my own personal guardian Sasquatch.

We’re approaching the base of the cliff, where we’ll have to scamper up a steep rock pile to make the final, open-air traverse to Martin’s cave. I come to a halt, preparing to climb, then I feel it. A kiss of cold wind against the back of my neck, causing me to shiver.

I turn around, frowning. Bob draws up short as well. There are four or five particularly large boulders that form a jumbled pile behind us. Like the rest of their craggy brethren, they’re tilted this way and that, a compact grouping at first glance, but the more I look, the more gaps appear between the stones. I pause before a particularly tall, narrow crack. Cool air wafts out.

Definitely there’s a void inside this rock pile. But this opening is far too skinny for human access, and I say that being a particularly skinny human.

“What?” Bob asks.

“Hold up your hand.”

He does as I instruct, nodding as he registers the breeze. I continue to study the opening. What is it that’s bothering me? What am I not seeing?

Then I do. It’s not the opening. It’s the enormous boulder itself. What appears to be a giant slab protrusion along the side of the rock . . . isn’t. I can just make out a fine line of cracks all around it. This piece isn’t connected to anything. It’s a free-standing, five-foot-high, four-foot-wide section. In shape and dimensions, it’s a door. A stone door.

I gaze up at Bob, then gesture to what I’ve found, tracing the edges of the slab with my fingertips. I don’t speak a word and neither does he. Because, having found the door, we now have to worry about what’s behind it.

Bob thins his lips. To open or not to open, that is the question. Except it’s not really much of a debate. Both of us are seekers. Of course we have to know what’s on the other side.

He shrugs out of his pack. I follow suit. He digs around in his gear until he emerges with fresh can of bear repellent, holding it up for my attention. It’s as good a weapon for self-defense as any. I have my knife attached to my belt, but I’m not that confident or bloodthirsty, so I retrieve my own canister of high-octane pepper spray.

We nod at each other. Then, as if we’ve been partners forever, I take up position to the right of the opening, where I can pepper spray first, question later, while Bob takes on the door, clutching the edge with both hands and preparing to slide it left.

The slab should be incredibly heavy, nearly impossible to move. Instead, it pops to the side so quickly, Bob nearly tumbles to the ground.

Which is when we make our second discovery. The gateway isn’t chiseled stone after all, but some Styrofoam-like substance, painted and covered with a thin layer of pebbles and sand to make it both look and feel genuine.

Man-made. Placed here with purpose. Hiding this chamber.

We stare at a jagged gap that’s now appeared between the rocks. More cool air wafts out, and with it, a faint odor. Musty. Earthy. Fetid.

The bear spray rattles in my hand.

“I’ll go,” Bob says.

A guy with a good heart, but there’s no way he’s fitting into an opening that at four-feet high, is even tinier than the dimensions of the fake door.

I smile. I once more take out my pen flashlight.

“Tell me there are no snakes.”

“There are no snakes.”

“All right. I can do this.”

I don’t give myself another moment to think about it. I duck my head and go.





CHAPTER 27





Later, this is how I will tell the story: Once, while searching fearlessly for a missing young man, I entered a crawl space underneath a jumble of boulders. It was tough going. No smoothly carved tunnel, but a series of opportunistic gaps that enabled me to work my way forward piece by piece. I forged bravely on for what felt like forever but was probably more like ten minutes.

Until suddenly the space opened up. Enough that I could straighten to my full height with plenty of clearance, and wave my flashlight over the entire room. Which I did, bit by bit, until finally . . .

Later, this is how I will tell the story. Assuming I survive long enough to speak of it again.



* * *



—

By the time I stumble back out into the light of day, I’m no longer shaking. There are no tears on my cheeks, or bile in my throat.

Inside me, there’s a scream building but it can’t come out. To make a sound would be to jar myself back to consciousness. To speak words would be to give voice to something I can’t bear to be real.

Instead, I stare at Bob. I stare and stare and stare. I think of Marty and his silent surrender. I wish it for myself.