One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(74)

Miggy stands, paces back and forth in sheer agitation, then plants himself on the tree stump again, staring at the trembling can of bear spray. He’s breaking. Given his afternoon, I can’t blame him.

He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Then, glancing up: “So, where’s Martin?”



* * *



—

I let Bob do the talking. I’m not sure I can handle revisiting the details just yet. Bob keeps it simple, though that doesn’t make it any less horrible.

“What do you mean there’s eight bodies in this canyon? Murder victims? Hunted? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Bob raises a calming hand. He gets to the sniper, Martin’s initial wound, then the man’s choice to bound off into the boulder field, leading the hunter’s attention away from the two of us.

“There’s some freak show with a high-powered rifle waiting to kill us? Jesus Christ. He could be here right now, any moment. Fuck!”

Miggy is back on his feet. Forget pacing. He’s bent over, head at his knees as if to keep himself from passing out. Bob doesn’t say anything. I find, hearing the story of our day out loud, I’m starting to hyperventilate myself. Returning to Martin, then trying to save him, then finally fleeing in the opposite direction from him.

Those hadn’t been moments for thinking. Those had been moments for doing. And doing is a cushion of sorts. Now, all action stripped away, I am forced to confront what happened, what I’d seen, what we’d lost.

I pace a small circle and will myself to hold it together. Miggy is losing it enough for all of us. Not to mention it sounds like Neil and Scott are in even worse shape, and we’re still hours from sunset and, oh yes, our hunter friend should be arriving at any time, is maybe even stalking us as we speak, creeping his way from tree to tree, rifle butt pressed tight against his shoulder.

I pace six more loops before I hear a very real sound from behind me and whirl in fresh alarm.

It’s Scott, standing at the edge of the camp, his pale face covered in sweat. “Neil’s vomiting again,” he says. “We gotta get him out of here.”



* * *



—

Bob goes to check on Neil. I remain with Miggy, who’s staring at the ground. Scott has taken a seat on a dead tree. He doesn’t look good at all, but he’s clearly trying to pull it together for his friend.

“I heard you,” he says now. “I heard you guys talking. Some guy has been killing people up here, and we . . . found it?”

“I think Daisy did yesterday. But having the remains so deep beneath the rock pile confused her.” Though I’m not sure why that would be an issue, given all her experience working mounds of rubble.

“I don’t think we can stay here,” Scott murmurs.

I nod, worrying about the same thing. “Do you think Neil can travel?”

“If we load him back into the travois,” Scott says, “and all take turns carrying.”

I give Scott a look. Like he’s capable of carrying anything right now. But he raises a good point. We have the travois, and it’s better than nothing.

“We leave the gear,” Miggy fills in now. “The tents, even a low-burning campfire with the cooking pot on top.”

“A false target.” I nod slowly. “Trying to keep his focus here, while we sneak away.”

“We could even fill the sleeping bags. You know, pretend we’re kids again, leaving behind clothing dummies for our parents to find while we sneak out of the house.” Scott smiles wryly.

“Where do we go?” I ask. “We can’t get Neil, or you”—I gesture toward Scott—“all the way down the mountain. Especially not before nightfall.”

“What if we made it just one mile?” Miggy speaks up thoughtfully. “Back to the river at the base of the last, hard climb that brought us into this canyon? That area’s not as exposed as this, making it more defensible. It has a readily available source of water, while being close enough we’d see the choppers when they arrived. We could signal them with our flashlights.”

“I don’t think that ravine’s wide enough for a chopper to land,” I counter.

Scott uses the hem of his shirt to blot the moisture from his face. “Doesn’t have to,” he provides. “They can lower down a stretcher, not to mention rescuers. Harder, but doable. And yeah, the smaller area . . . Position ourselves with a dirt embankment or a grove of trees at our backs and we could at least see the threat coming.”

“We have a rifle,” Miggy adds. “Not to mention half a dozen cans of bear-grade pepper spray. Hit someone in the eyes with that shit and they’re not peering down the barrel of anything.”

I nod. I’m not sure how feasible any of this really is, but it’s a plan, and we need a plan. Plans give you a list of tasks to keep you from drowning in your own fear. Plans give you a feeling of control, even if it’s just an illusion at the time.

Miggy picks up a stick, starts sketching out defensive options in the dirt. Scott ticks off things to do. By the time Bob returns to tell us what we’d already guessed about Neil’s condition, we’re ready for him.

Miggy does the honors, tapping the ground in front of him. “Okay, this is how we’re going to survive till the choppers get us out of here.”