One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(81)

Neil pats Scott’s knee. “Course not, buddy. There’s three of him.”

Miggy shakes his head at his wounded friends. So we’re on our own with . . . this.

“Do we still have first aid kits?” Scott asks.

Bob nods.

“Then I just need someone to disinfect a knife and play surgeon. Figure a little slicing, draining, fresh cleaning, I’ll be good as new.”

Now we’re all horrified. But Scott is dead serious. And maybe not so irrational after all.

I slowly reach down to my waist. “I have a knife.”

“Perfect, you’re hired. Both of you.”

“All three of her!” Neil chortles.

And I’m terribly envious that Bob’s the one walking away, even if it’s into a possible death trap.



* * *



—

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I want this clearly established up front.

“Ever have an ingrown toenail?” Scott replies. “Then you know what you’re doing.”

We’ve all moved closer to the stream, including Neil. I’m not sure I’d call his lurching gait from prickly tree to prickly tree exactly a workable stride, but he’s better than yesterday. Speaking on behalf of the group, we’ll take all the breaks we can get.

Miggy is carrying the larger first aid box from Bob’s pack. Initially, he was taken aback by the trashed contents.

“When Martin first got shot,” I murmured, and he immediately tucked the kit away from Scott’s and Neil’s gazes. Hearing about something terrible still isn’t the same as seeing direct evidence of the tragedy. Bloody fingerprints on plastic. Packets of alcohol wipes and antibiotics ripped open and emptied out.

Fortunately, Bob’s fair-sized kit still contains adequate supplies. Miggy found fresh surgical gloves in his own modest medical bag, while I have my knife and a butane lighter. I don’t want to consider either item. I order myself to keep moving. Rational thought is overrated anyway.

Neil collapses at the side of the stream—intentionally, this time around. He manages to lie down on his back and slide the top of his torso into the icy-cold water. He sighs happily. The chilly bath is clearly working for his head wound. I hope it can work similar wonders for Scott.

“Okay.” Miggy has appointed himself boss. His brains, my brawn. “Scott, shed the clothes. Frankie, cauterize the blade.”

I obediently flick open the butane lighter and start waving the tiny flame over the straight edge of my double-sided tactical blade. The guys all had smaller, less dangerous-looking options, but even Scott agreed my knife was the one, as its slicing edge is incredibly thin, wickedly sharp.

“Has Josh brought this each year?” I ask them as Miggy starts tearing open the alcohol wipes and antibiotic ointment in preparation.

“Never seen that before,” Scott answers, carefully pulling off his shirt. “But he might’ve had it in his pack the whole time.”

“Was he an experienced hiker?”

“Kind of. He and his father went elk hunting once a year. And for a while, he got into bow hunting. Felt it was more sporting than a rifle.”

“He brought down an elk with an arrow?”

“No. But he did an excellent job trekking through the woods while holding a bow and wasting lots of arrows. Does that count?”

I slowly release the lighter flame. The edge of the blade has taken on a dull patina from the smoke. Now Miggy hands me the first alcohol swab, which I use to wipe the knife. I swap him the used wipe for the blue surgical gloves.

“Why can’t it be Miguel?” I whine even as I glove up.

“Miguel once passed out witnessing another guy’s nose bleed on the basketball court. No way I’m trusting him with a knife.”

“Miggy’s going to faint?”

“Notice he’s prepared everything in advance.”

Miggy nods. “Normally, we’d make Josh do this. Tim would assist. I’d already be hiding behind a bush while Neil supplied the wiseass comments.”

“Working on it,” Neil calls out from the stream.

“That’s why you turned away when you first saw Neil’s head wound,” I fill in the blanks.

“Note I was the first to grab one of the front poles of the travois. All the better to ignore the gore.”

“Remember the swimming hole?” Scott comments now. “We’d heard about it from others. Hot summer night after Ultimate Frisbee, we decided to check it out. Tim jumped in first, and the rest of us followed.”

“I’m already going to vomit,” Miggy moans.

“An old rusty pipe was sticking straight out near one of the rocks. Tim smacked it with his arm swimming to the surface. Tore open this nice long gash all the way down his right triceps.”

“Stop,” Miggy warns.

Scott’s grinning now. The good old days. A perfect distraction from the not-so-great here and now. “We drove like bats out of hell to the ER, Josh and me sitting in the back, holding a wrapped T-shirt around the wound to staunch the bleeding. Except every time we hit a bump, Tim would shout obscenities and more blood would spray out. Within minutes, Miggy is vomiting out the passenger’s window and Neil, poor Neil . . .”

“?‘Not my car!’?” Neil intones readily from the stream. “Why did I have to be the one to drive? I threatened to burn it afterwards. My first brand-new car, too. A BMW X3, black on black. Drove that off the lot feeling like The Man. Then, months later with these goons . . . Probably should’ve torched it.”