One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(73)

Bob doesn’t question my decision to halt, but squats beside me. Our impromptu dip in the stream had felt both visceral and spiritual. But once on the other side, Bob had paused long enough to grab huge handfuls of squelching mud and smear it across his glow-in-the-dark fair skin, then rub it into his golden-red hair. I’d followed suit; my coloring might be darker than his, but not by much.

Now I picture us as a pair of badass commandos in some cool action movie, but maybe that’s the hysteria talking.

We wait. I see tents. I smell smoke. I still don’t hear people.

We exchange nervous glances.

Bob points to the right, veering us off trail toward a dark copse of skinny pines. More cover. I nod my understanding, and we creep through the waves of grass to our next destination.

I don’t have a watch, but my internal clock pegs the hour somewhere around late afternoon, early evening. Sun no longer straight up, but several hours till its full descent.

And our impending rescue?

Three hours is still three hours. Especially if we’re being stalked by someone with a high-powered rifle.

Martin . . .

I refuse to think of his last moments. I choose to picture him, Tim, and Patrice, all together again. They are somewhere where the sun is always shining and the grass is green and the breeze is perpetually pleasant. But mostly, they are a family again.

We hit the strip of woods, weave our way through the skinny trees and the low-growing bushes. I’m still listening for voices.

Then, all of sudden: “Who goes there? I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Miggy, thank God! I step forward, hands already in the air. “It’s us. Bob and me. Are you guys all right?”

Miggy appears from behind a moss-covered boulder, holding not a gun, but the red can of bear spray.

“Where is Martin?” he asks.

“Where are Scott and Neil?”

Which leads to our next discussion.



* * *



—

“After you guys left, we tended to Scott’s wound. Coated it in a triple antibiotic ointment, replaced the bandage. But within an hour or two, I could tell he was spiking a fever, while Neil started vomiting.”

Bob and I blink our eyes at Miggy. We’re tucked at the edge of the woods, close enough to the camp where Miggy can survey his kingdom, while also keeping watch on the perimeter. I notice he never loses his grip on the pepper spray and his gaze has taken on the intent alertness I once associated with Nemeth.

“Worse,” Miggy said, “I kept hearing noises in the woods. Something moving. A big something. I ventured away from camp a few times to investigate, but never saw signs of anyone. I did, however, find some recently disturbed bushes, that kind of thing. Then, when I returned to the fire, I noticed the flap to Martin’s tent was open. I knew it hadn’t been open before, so I made my way over.”

Miggy’s voice isn’t so steady. I can’t imagine how that must have felt to him. Approaching the tent, knowing he must peer inside and check for monsters. That his two best friends were depending on him. And he’d already lost another in these woods.

“There wasn’t anything inside,” Miggy says. “I mean, there wasn’t someone inside. But I saw a pile of ripped-open foil pouches, like the kind our dinners come in. Sure enough, in the middle of the tent, a bunch of our missing meals had been returned, the contents shaken out onto the floor. A pile of wasted food.” Miggy grimaces.

I’m still confused, but Bob does the honors.

“Bear bait,” he states.

“Yeah. Which got me tossing the other tents, then tearing around the perimeter. Sure enough, piles of exposed food everywhere.”

My eyes widen. I’m getting it now. The perpetrator who’d originally stolen our food then turned around and used it to sabotage the entire camp. Attract the attention of a grizzly, which, stumbling upon three fire-warmed humans, would’ve considered it quite the buffet.

And the kind of thing that, when discovered by our too-late rescuers, could be chalked up as an unfortunate accident. The type of tragic mistake made by inexperienced hikers left on their own once their guide went for help.

“What time was this?” I ask Miggy.

“I’m not sure. Noon, maybe? I was starting to picture all my favorite lunches. A nice roast beef sandwich, heavy on the horseradish. My mom’s shrimp tacos with sliced avocado and fresh cilantro . . .” Miggy shrugs, his remembered cravings making all of our stomachs growl. “Scott was still feverish, Neil nauseous and incoherent. In the end, I dragged them into our tent, zipped it up tight, and then used a shovel to scoop up as much of the food as possible. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I dug hole at the other end of the lake and dumped it in. I’m thinking bears have a good sense of smell? And if so, I want the beast dining on his unexpected buffet as far away as possible. Though, of course, I couldn’t go too far away, because what if Scott got worse, or Neil vomited again? Or the crazy person returned and hurt them while I was gone?”

Miggy’s voice starts to wind up with a new bout of anxiety and stress. This is not a day any of us would choose to repeat.

“They’re still in there,” he says now. “But I’ve been keeping watch from out here, in case that person returns. Or, you know, a grizzly. I check on them every thirty minutes or so, bringing them water. I’m down to the last instant cold compress for Neil and a handful of ibuprofens for Scott. Help is coming, right? Nemeth and Luciana should be talking to the sheriff right about now and he’ll call search and rescue and the chopper will launch and we’ll be saved. Any moment now. Any moment.”