One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(91)

“Okay,” Miggy says at last. “Let’s just take a moment. We’ll drink some water. Study the map.”

I look behind us uneasily. At any moment, the tree man could emerge from those woods. Raise his rifle. When the bullets hit us, we will fall backward, just like Bob did. Except we’ll go tumbling down the steep drop-off. Will that give us the last laugh? Steal from the hunter his trophy? Neil wanted his death to matter. I would settle for my death pissing someone off.

“We can move over here,” Miguel says. He gestures to a small huddle of straggly pines that form a screen of sorts. We tuck ourselves inside the group, our packs scraping against the sharp branches as we wrest them from our backs.

My stomach growls. I press my hand against it self-consciously. I hate to ask the question. “Do we still have the protein bars? Granola? Anything?”

Miguel doesn’t look at me. Finally, “I gave the remaining food to Neil and Scott. They said no, they said we should take it. But I couldn’t leave them alone and injured with nothing at all.”

His voice hitches. Immediately, I place my hand on his.

“I understand.” I feel guilty. I was so lost in my rage and grief over Bob, I imploded, leaving Miggy to deal with the rest. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for him. Patching up a bullet hole on one wounded friend, then having to rouse his second, concussed friend long enough to get them behind the cover of the bushes.

They would’ve been stoic about it. They have been from the very beginning. For five years these woods have been their enemy. They already know nothing good happens here.

But Miguel, having to leave them, after refusing again and again to make that choice. Of repeating the same mistake.

Scott bleeding out. Neil vomiting.

Moments like that take a piece of your soul. Leave the kind of wounds that never heal. You just learn to live with the pain.

A boom of thunder in the distance. Because we’re not already wet and miserable enough.

Miggy sees me watching the approaching wave of dark clouds. “Maybe it will slow him down.”

The guy who’s been outfitted by Survivalists “R” Us? No, he probably has some waterproof supersuit that repels lightning. I hate him so much.

Miggy unfolds his map to reveal the same topographical overview Martin had. He fingers a twisting line of dashes.

“Our original trail,” he states. He follows it to its end, which comes up short of a light green patch labeled Devil’s Canyon. He moves his finger into the lower part of the shaded area, taps it. “Base camp, where we initially headed out from yesterday afternoon.”

“Wait, there’s a gap between the end of the dashed trail line and the beginning of the green canyon. What’s in there?”

“We were in there. That’s the backcountry part of our trek. Remember what Nemeth said on our first day? Not all the trails around here are marked or maintained. That’s why Martin always planned these expeditions with Nemeth. You need either an experienced guide or compass skills. See?” He backtracks a short distance on the mountain guide to a tight cluster of black gradient lines. “These elevation marks indicate the steep one-mile descent to the flat area where we spent last night. That path isn’t an officially marked byway, but one Nemeth and many of the locals know. Probably an animal trail that got co-opted by humans. So this morning we started out from here. I think we’ve been heading southwest, but I’m not sure.”

“I don’t suppose you have compass skills?” Because he’s not an experienced guide, and I possess neither of those attributes.

“Once upon a time. Boy Scout training. But I’ll be the first to admit, I haven’t been practicing all these years. Hell, I liked Nemeth doing the heavy lifting. I didn’t want to think any more than I had to about where we were going and what we were doing.” Miggy grimaces. “Okay, forget direction for a second and let’s consider elevation. Since we started, we’ve been picking the quickest, sharpest drop-offs. So, considering the gradient lines on our map . . .”

“We’re looking for the tightest grouping.” I get it now. “Shortest path that drops the most elevation at a time.”

“Exactly.”

We both study the map. A fresh rumble of thunder, much closer now, then the first fat raindrop hits the map dead center.

Miguel tucks the unfolded paper between us, where we can best shield it with our bodies.

“Not an exact science, but following the gradient lines, it looks like we’ve been coming down this section.” He fingers a new route cutting across the mountain chart. “If that’s true, then we’re dropping like mad, but drifting too far south. We need to be heading more to the west to hit Ramsey. This is actually leading us deeper into the wilderness area. Lower elevation, but still smack-dab in the middle of the Popo Agie.”

He taps the paper, where a huge sea of dark green is marked Popo Agie Wilderness. It looks like a long, crooked island, and we’re nowhere near the shores. I can’t form words as I take in the magnitude of our lostness. If I open my mouth now, I will cry.

Miguel is breathing heavily, struggling with his own emotions. As the sky once again opens up. With a crack of lightning followed shortly by a roar of thunder, the afternoon deluge finds us.

I don’t care about the wild beauty anymore. The awesome power of nature feels like nothing more than a kick in the teeth. Mother Nature is already whupping our asses. She doesn’t need to show off about it.