One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(70)

“We need to go,” I plead urgently. “Get back to base camp. We don’t want to be trapped here.” And by here, I don’t just mean the cliff face and surrounding boulder field. I mean in this cave, where if someone appeared right now with a rifle, there’d be no place for us to go, nowhere for us to run.

But Marty isn’t reaching for his pack. “Do you think one of the bodies belongs to Tim? My son was shot and killed?”

“I don’t know. Without any clothing or gear to go by . . .” I shrug helplessly. “Look, the rescue chopper will arrive in a matter of hours. Once back in town, we can summon experts. A good forensic anthropologist and DNA test later, you’ll have all the information you need.”

“I’d know,” Martin states. “Take me to see them. Right now. I’ll know if one of the bodies belongs to my son. A parent always knows his child.”

The look on his face would’ve broken my heart if I didn’t want so badly to slap him.

“Martin, we’ve stumbled upon a killer’s hunting grounds. For now, forget identifying your son. We need to save our own skin. Let alone Miggy, Scott, and Neil. They’re sitting all alone back at camp, two of them partially incapacitated and none of them with a clue about the real danger. We need to move.”

The first crack of lightning flashes across the canyon, making me jump, followed immediately by a boom of thunder and sheets of rain.

“Fuck!” I have an explosion of my own, turning wildly to Bob for support. “Let’s leave anyway. We can use the storm to cover our retreat.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“I want to see the bodies—”

“I’m not taking you and you’ll never find them without me. So shut up and let’s go!”

I head for the cave entrance. I’m shaking again. From nerves, horror, the building electricity of the storm. From an overwhelming sense of panic and doom. I just know we have to get out of here, and we have to do it right now.

I’m almost to the opening when Martin grabs my arm. His eyes are too bright. I recognize the look from his previous altercation with Nemeth. He’s beyond the reach of reason, a man who’s lost so much, the only dream he has left involves a pile of bones.

“I’ll pay you.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Anything you want. My house, my car. You said you don’t have a home. Take mine. Take all of it. I’ll give you everything. Just show me . . . You have to show me . . .”

“Tomorrow,” I attempt to placate him, as arguing isn’t working. “We’ll return tomorrow. With more help.”

“Now, I need to go now.”

“It’s raining and I’m clumsy enough on dry rocks. You’ve seen me hike, Martin. You know I’m a disaster.”

Behind Martin, Bob is slowly advancing, an intent look on his face. He’s clearly planning something. I have no idea what, but I hope it involves knocking Martin over the head, then dragging his unconscious body out of here.

Martin clutches both my shoulders, his hazel eyes fixated on me. Grief. It’s etched deep into his features. He is drowning in it, drunk upon it, crazed with it. I understand, but we don’t have time.

I try to twist away, shrug out of his grip. While lightning cracks and more thunder booms.

Except Martin is suddenly staggering back, and rain splatters across my cheek within the shelter of the cave. Then the thunder roars again and rock shards explode from the rock wall beside me, driving into my skin. Bob screams at me to get down. Martin clutches at his chest where a red stain is now blooming across his shoulder.

Blood. Gunfire. Bullets.

The facts finally penetrate my shocked brain.

We didn’t get out in time. And now the hunter is here.





CHAPTER 28





Shit, shit, shit.” Bob is dragging Martin away from the opening. Belatedly I scramble after them. More thunder, so loud and close the entire cave seems to shake with the concussive boom. This storm is definitely bigger than yesterday’s. I don’t know whether to be terrified at its wild power or grateful for its protective cover. For now, I crawl over to where Bob has Martin on the ground, ripping away the man’s shirt.

I swipe at the moisture on my face. My fingers come back stained with blood. Martin’s. All over me.

I gag, then recover. I will not think of liquor stores or dark alleys. One horror at a time, and this one is hard enough.

“First aid kit,” Bob snaps at me.

I dig frantically through my pack, producing the small mesh bag packed by Josh.

“Not good enough. My pack. White box. Grab it.”

I go plowing through Bob’s belongings. Sure enough, front pouch, a hard rectangular kit, much more robust than what I have. I hand that over, then remember Luciana’s explanation on the first aid uses for feminine hygiene products. I return to my pack, never so happy to whip out a tampon and a maxi pad.

Bob is already nodding at me. “Good idea. But first I need you to open up the medical box and remove the antiseptic wipes and plastic gloves. I’m too filthy to be handling an open wound.”

My attention bounces to Bob’s massive hands, which are coated with a mix of red gore and black dirt. He’s right: First things first.

Martin isn’t screaming or moaning. His breathing is ragged, shock kicking in. But his face . . . He doesn’t look scared or anguished. He looks furious; his gaze is fixed on the cave entrance. As if he can see the sniper across the way. As if he’s already planning on killing the hunter with his bare hands, for daring to come between him and his son.