One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(85)

My heart is pounding by the time I lead them to where I first found Daisy’s vest. With each step, I wonder if the air behind me will crack with rifle fire and the ground explode at my feet. We’ve already wasted most of the morning between intelligence gathering, first aid, and strategic planning.

Our tracker is way ahead of us. He knows roughly where we are, how many we are, and how completely unprepared we are. At any moment . . .

Once again, Bob brings up the rear, this time to try to cover our tracks. Not his best skill, he confessed, but he’s still the most qualified.

We left some gear loaded into the travois, as if we were planning to return to the tree hollow. We wanted our hunter to feel calm, like he had plenty of time to catch his inexperienced prey. Play to his ego.

Psychological warfare is as important a strategy as any.

When we arrive at the fallen log where I first spotted the red vest, I gingerly return it to its snagged position on a broken branch. The log is half rotten, pieces of bark having fallen away to reveal the smooth, ivory-colored flesh beneath. I trace the exposed wood with my fingers. It feels like bare bones. What we all become in the end.

Miggy walks a circle around the area. There’s only a small patch of open ground before we encounter more trees, a clump of bushes, et cetera. It takes me only a second to realize we’re not digging five depressions in this ground anytime soon. There’s no way we’d be able to hack our way through all the tree roots, let alone the level of disturbance that would make.

“Plan B,” Miggy states, looking at Scott. “We use the terrain.”

Scott points up, wincing only slightly, as he gestures at a V formed by two branches at the trunk of a rough-looking fir. “One perch.”

“The bushes,” Neil offers. He’s leaning against the fallen log, clearly having to recover from the walk over. He’s still doing better than yesterday. “Dig out a little beneath them, that’ll be perfect.”

“Not for a person my size,” Bob warns.

Which brings up a good point. How do you hide a glow-in-the-dark Paul Bunyan? These trees aren’t particularly large or old. Growing this densely, they are a collection of thin to medium-sized trunks. Nothing suitable for Bob.

“I’ll find a place between here and the camp,” Bob says at last. “Closer to the stream, I saw some more open spots. I can signal when he’s coming. Close in from behind.”

“How are you going to signal?” I ask. “We don’t have walkie-talkies and the emergency whistle will give you away.”

In response, Bob trills. Then makes four or five other birdcalls that have us all rocking back on our heels.

“My husband says it’s what made him first fall in love with me,” he says sheepishly. “I also play a mean ukulele.”

“Um, okay,” Neil offers. “So which of those would sound most natural in these woods?”

Bob repeats an option that sounds pretty close to the birds I’ve been hearing in the morning. Not knowing my species, I’ve been referring to them mentally as the happy birds. Versus crows and ravens, which are never happy. And seagulls and pigeons, which are just plain annoying.

Happy birds it is.

“We need more cover,” Miggy says, still looking around. “Tree branches, boughs of needles we can use to further obscure our hideouts. We’ll need to keep it loose and natural-looking—no neat rows of twigs, maybe living branches, downed logs.”

I unsheathe my knife. “I can hack off some lower pine boughs.”

“Perfect, but not around here. The fresh cut marks will be a dead giveaway.”

I didn’t even think of that.

Scott sets down his pack. “I can go to work on these bushes, dig out beneath them.”

“I’ll help Frankie with the branches.” Neil stands, bobbling slightly. “You cut, I gather.”

I think that’s a mighty generous offer, given he appears ready to fall over.

“I’ll backtrack,” Bob announces. “Select a size-appropriate lookout option for me.”

That lightens the mood, makes us all smile. Just in time for Neil’s stomach to grumble. Then Scott’s, as if in sympathy.

We all hesitate, gaze longingly at our packs. We’re down to nearly crumbs. Going through Luciana’s bag produced two more protein bars, which felt ghoulish, but she would have been the first to hand them over.

“No,” Bob states firmly. “We don’t know how long this will take. Assuming we win this fight, we still have to get down this mountain.”

I really wish he hadn’t said that. Such a demoralizing thought.

“Let’s get through this. When we know we’re making the final trek home, then we’ll snack. Celebratory protein bars for all.”

That sounds more promising.

We nod in agreement, then get to our tasks.



* * *



—

Neil and I need to hack down tree limbs away from the initial area. But which way? Strike out to the left? The right? What if our guy is already in either of those places and we walk straight into him?

We suffer a solid minute of analysis paralysis, then Neil simply takes a step forward and I follow him. What can possibly go wrong by putting the guy with a concussion in charge?

We come to a thick clump of spruce, their prickly limbs all snarled together. I curl my nose.