One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(92)

Miggy is still studying the map. “I can’t find the ravine. Just, the fucking lines, where are the lines? Goddammit, I know this. Why can’t I think? Come on, come on, come on. Now is not the time to be stupid.”

He’s losing it. Once more, I place my hand on his. It feels as cold and clammy as mine.

“It’s okay. We’ve made it this far. You’ve gotten us this far.”

He looks up at me. His features are beyond haggard. He is exhausted and demoralized, weighted down by the guilt of leaving his friends, haunted by the horrors we’ve witnessed. I wish I could wrap him in my arms and tell him it’ll be okay. But lying won’t help us.

The rain drips down his face. He blinks his eyes several times. “I heard Bob talking to you. He told you to tell Rob he loves him.”

“Rob is his husband.”

“I don’t have a special someone. But . . . my parents. If I don’t make it, and you do, tell my parents I love them, and it was an honor to be their son. Tell them . . . tell them I went down fighting. My dad, he’ll like that.”

“We’re going to get out—”

“You?” he interrupts me fiercely. It seems very important for him to know. But I have no one. I’m not that kind of person. I haven’t lived that kind of life.

“There’s this bar in Boston,” I say at last. “Owned by this guy Stoney who’s not much for words. But if you could let him know . . .” He’d pass it along to Viv, Angelique. Detective Dan Lotham. They will be sorry to hear the news, I’m sure. But my passing won’t leave much of a hole in their lives. How could it, when I was never really there to begin with?

I wonder about Amy, Paul’s widow. Will she wonder when my periodic phone calls stop? Think about me, miss our strange little ritual? Or will she simply think I’ve finally moved on, and be grateful to be rid of me at last?

I have no idea.

“When the storm eases,” Miguel says at last, pulling himself together, “we should head that way.”

He points through the trees. I nod. He’s shivering. I am, too. Given the conditions, now is not the time for pulling on additional layers. We’ll need them dry for later, when the temperatures truly start to plummet.

Assuming we make it that long.

Miguel folds up the damp map. We both take sips of water, willing our stomachs to believe it’s sustenance.

Then we stand together, in the circle of twisted little pines. We turn our faces up to the sky and watch the bruised clouds roil and spears of lightning crack.

One final light show, I think. A last moment of staggering beauty.

Then the storm races on. And so do we.





CHAPTER 37





I dream of a hot shower, cascading down my body as the dirt sluices from my skin. Followed by a feast of food. Steaming bowls of macaroni and cheese, a fresh grilled burger, piles of spicy Haitian meat patties. Then a bed. A massive, king-sized, incredibly soft, piled-high-in-down-comforters bed with twenty-nine pillows.

Then I dream of a particular Boston detective climbing onto that bed with me.

And I’m forced to confront reality once more.

We’re trying so hard. Traversing the lip of a gulley that seems to go on forever. We are stumbling over tree roots, trudging through thick grasses, marching up small crests, sliding down modest slopes. Forward, forward, forward.

But still no sense of progress.

We’re cold, wet, and twitchy. The storm has passed, but the sun hasn’t fully emerged. Hiking up, this kind of shade would feel good. Headed down, we’re rapidly losing body temperature.

My footsteps have become sluggish, ungainly. I can’t even blame a steep grade or scary descent. I’m exhausted, starving, and freezing. I’m also limping, having twisted my ankle one too many times with all my careening about.

Ahead of me, Miggy is faring little better. From time to time, I catch him wincing. He’s favoring his left leg; his knee seems to be troubling him. Like mine, his body has taken a beating.

We can’t stop, though. The ravine isn’t just keeping us from our target. It’s hemming us in. Making us sitting ducks for the next time the shooter appears. Geology has us trapped.

A crack behind us. We both flinch, startle, leap for the cover of nearby trees.

But the gunshot fades out behind us. We watch a flock of birds take flight in the distance, then we exchange glances.

It has to be our hunter. What are the odds of two different people firing off rifles in such a remote area? Miguel is right: tree man does enjoy the chase. And now he’s taunting us.

Miggy stares at me miserably. “My knee,” he murmurs.

“I know. My ankle.”

“We can’t stop.”

“Neil and Scott,” I agree. They’re depending on us. Assuming they’re still alive. How alone they must’ve felt—the two of them, unable to move, unable to fight, huddled together, waiting for the end to come.

Not so unlike Miggy and me, right now.

Miguel is still rubbing his knee.

“Would taping it help?” I ask. “Bracing it somehow?”

“I could try. But we’d have to be quick.” He hesitates. “Your ankle is bothering you?”

“I could go for an ice pack and an easy chair right about now.”