One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(93)

“Best option, given the distance we have left to cover: walking sticks. Maybe, with your knife, you could cut us each a branch, about five feet high. That would help alleviate some of the stress on our joints.”

“Okay.” I’m happy to do anything to help. I’m happy to do anything that allows a short break from walking.

Miggy pulls off his pack, starts searching for his medical kit. I take my knife and shuffle a short distance away.

I’m tired of pine trees. I want oaks or maples, anything that doesn’t cover me in sticky resin while jabbing a thousand tiny needles into my skin. I’m pretty sure these trees are the mean girls from high school.

I gird my loins one more time for battle.

I pick a half-dead subject. Then I pull out my cool, double-edged blade, only to realize it’s now a filthy, gummed-up shadow of its formerly wicked self.

“I’m sorry,” I tell it. “Help me now, and if I get out of here, I promise you a good bath. Though pretty please tell me it doesn’t have to be in human blood.”

The knife doesn’t speak back, but I have a clear image of it sinking into tree man’s chest. Apparently, we want the same thing after all.

I go to work. Either the pine bough is that thick, or I’m that tired, because it takes forever. I’m so stressed about time that when I finally wrench it free, I don’t bother cutting a second, but grab one of the dead branches from off the ground.

I hustle back to Miguel, who looks as anxious as I feel.

“How’s the knee?”

“It’ll do. I took some ibuprofen as well. Here, for you.”

He deposits two white pills into my blood-, dirt-, pitch-encrusted hand. I don’t think twice as I pop both pills into my mouth and down them with a swill of water. Quickly, I slice the smaller twigs from the main bough, then pare down any remaining needles.

“For you.” I hand it over to Miggy, then inspect the dead branch I grabbed for myself. I trim it up as well, feeling like quite the blade professional as I hack away.

My walking stick feels brittle. Too much load and it’ll snap, unlike its freshly cut counterpart. But I’m not that heavy and we don’t have time for better choices.

We both rise to standing, slinging on our packs.

Second rifle crack. More birds flocking to the sky. Much closer now.

We have no choice but to flee.



* * *



—

We don’t get far before it’s clear Miggy’s bandaging job and my walking sticks aren’t enough. Miguel hobbles like a lame racehorse and I’m skipping more than running.

He pulls up abruptly. I halt beside him. We’re both breathing heavily.

“I have five bullets,” he says.

I understand what he means. When you’re done running, the only option left is to take a stand. Of course, our last stand didn’t go so well, but given we’re never going to win this footrace . . .

I glance around us. The clouds have cast this side of the mountains in shadow. I don’t know much about gunfights, but I’m pretty sure high ground is a good thing. Especially when the other guy is much better prepared.

I point to a small slope to our right, covered in needles and a dense line of evergreens.

“Too many trees,” Miguel murmurs, glancing nervously behind us. “Provides cover for us, but so much so that I’ll never be able to get off a clean shot.” He points to a short rise ahead of us, topped with a mix of rocks and brush, but terribly exposed. “We can lie down flat, like they do in the old Westerns.”

“I think you’re insane.”

He gives me his crooked grin, then heads toward the target. I follow in his wake; we don’t have time to argue.

I trail him to the top of the stubby rise. Miguel takes out his handgun, which looks not nearly powerful enough. I know nothing about firearms and I like to keep it that way, so I merely watch as he checks the clip for his five remaining bullets. Loads one into the chamber.

He hands me his pack. I tuck them both away in a slight hollow behind the rocks, then rip out handfuls of tall grass to layer on top of the fabric.

Miguel is already on his stomach, moving side to side to find the best position. I don’t know what to do with myself. Bear spray doesn’t work against our attacker. That leaves me with my knife. Do I have the courage to stab another person? I think of Bob dying, and the thought gets easier to imagine.

I tap Miguel on the shoulder, then gesture to the patch of scraggly pines. I’m headed there, I pantomime to him. Because me lying on the ground beside him accomplishes nothing. We might as well take advantage of our superior numbers.

Miggy nods. “I don’t have his range,” he whispers to me. “I’m going to have to let him get very close.”

Which gives me another idea. I pick up my walking stick and, after creeping back down, I resume our initial path and now continue on, helter-skelter, past Miggy’s perch. With any luck, our hunter friend, deep in tracking mode, will continue moving forward, intent on our trail, and never notice the exhausted, hypothermic dude with the puny handgun right above him.

I crash into the woods. It’s not hard given that I can barely walk. When I’m deep enough into the next cover of pines to have hopefully established my ruse, I stop the mad dash and limp much more carefully in a long loop back to my original destination. The closer I get, the faster my heartbeat, the stronger my fear.