by Lisa Gardner
“In other words, plenty of people would know.” I pause. “Five years later, Martin’s efforts aren’t a new variable, right? And he’s never gotten threatening messages before.”
“No.”
“Then it’s gotta be this area. That’s what’s new. Devil’s Canyon itself. Someone doesn’t want outsiders here.”
Bob remains thoughtful. “Nemeth said this area wasn’t well trafficked but that other hikers do pass through. What would make our presence so special?”
“We’re not passing through,” I guess. “We’re staying and searching. And we brought a cadaver dog.”
“But attacking us would only bring more attention and people into this canyon.”
“Unless Neil wasn’t supposed to end up incapacitated. More like wounded enough we’d have to abort our efforts and return to civilization. Same with stealing our food. Further motivation for us to depart.”
“Except Neil can’t hike out. Most of us stayed, and the two other members of our party are now summoning the cavalry. That doesn’t bode well for our attacker’s mission.”
I gaze at him with troubled eyes. “Or it doesn’t bode well for us.”
“What do you mean—” Bob stops himself, arriving at the answer before he finishes asking the question. “You’re worried now the person will have to grow more serious, get rid of us once and for all.”
“I wish this canyon could talk,” I say quietly.
“Me, too.” Bob nods slowly. Then: “I think we should get back to the others now.”
“Agreed.”
We both turn toward Martin. Then our real work begins.
* * *
—
Martin doesn’t argue, but neither does he agree. He pretends to listen but doesn’t appear to register any of our words.
I understand grief. I’ve witnessed its ravages before, felt its sharp teeth myself. I still don’t know what to do with Martin’s silent surrender. He’s gone from totally obsessed to completely shut down. I’m not sure which is worse.
In the end, Bob gives up on discussion, goes with a command. “You have twenty minutes,” he informs the man. “Then we’re leaving. All of us. Even you.”
Bob walks off, heading deeper into the cave to give Martin some space. I follow after him. The ceiling slopes down the farther away from the opening we get. There’s still plenty of distance before Bob has to duck.
We curve around slightly, then approach what appears to be the end, where the cave narrows down into a den-like space not so different from my domed tent. There’s another, smaller campfire that’s been built here. I peer behind us, just making out a piece of the vast opening where Martin still sits. Living room, I think. Making this the bedroom.
With two sources of heat, this place would feel cozy even as the temperatures plummeted. Had that given comfort to its inhabitant—say, Timothy O’Day—before the first winter storm arrived and buried all his available firewood in feet of snow?
“What have you found?” I ask Bob quietly.
“Just this. Someone’s clearly camped out here. But who? When?” Bob shrugs. “Marty has his symmetrical-stone theory. Believes it’s proof it was Tim. But I’ve been all through the cave, as well as the area outside of it. I can’t find any traces of Tim’s pack, gear, clothing. There’s also no sign of bedding.”
“I thought Tim didn’t have his sleeping bag or tent.”
“No, bush-craft bedding. A layer of harvested moss, or a mat of thin pine boughs. If Tim stayed here for the long run, he’d want something other than stone to sleep on, and not just for comfort, but for insulation as well.”
I nod. “Having a second fire back here implies this was a resting area. But you’re saying not for the long haul.”
“That would be my guess. There’s no food refuse either. Say, bones from small animals or discarded roots, dried mushrooms.”
“Do you really know how to live off the land?”
“I know enough.” Bob shrugs. “Like I said, I didn’t lie about everything.”
I still don’t feel like letting him off the hook just yet, but nod in acknowledgment. “Nemeth said plenty of hikers liked to take shelter in these caves, enjoy a campfire.”
“I found several more used caves,” Bob confirms. “Though to be fair, this is the only one with such a distinctly aesthetic approach to the stones ringing the campfires.”
“Maybe we’re all right. Tim did make it this far. Took shelter long enough to catch his breath, recoup his strength. Then he headed back out. Attempted to climb the cliff face, knowing he’d never survive through the winter.”
“If his journey ended here,” Bob says carefully, “we should’ve found his pack. That implies he moved on, if he was ever here at all.”
“Daisy caught a scent,” I murmur.
“We walked through that area; it’s right after this cave. I didn’t see anything.”
I sigh unhappily. “Did you happen to look down low? You know, for any underground openings?”
“I don’t do down low very well.”
Now we sigh together, knowing what we have to do next.
* * *
—
We leave Martin to play with pebbles as we exit the cave. I hesitate for a moment, not just because of the heat awaiting us, but because I can’t stand the thought of once more being so exposed.
Bob seems to share my concern, both of us drawing to a halt right before the cavern opening. Here, we have a thin cover of shadow before bursting into full sun. The view is gorgeous from this vantage point, the gray-brown expanse of the boulder field rippling like a dry riverbed right before the green explosion of the abutting woods. A blue-tinged bluff rises to the right, not nearly as impressive as the cliff face, but offering up its own patchwork of forest shadings. If I squint hard enough, I think I can almost make out water in the distance. One of the streams we crossed or maybe even the lake near our campsite.
Or it’s all just wishful thinking.
I return my gaze to the piles of rocks strewn before us. Midafternoon now. Do this, return to base camp, welcome the rescue choppers.
Only a handful of hours left.
* * *
—
We jump down from the cave entrance without speaking. Bob heads straight for the cover of the largest boulder and I follow. We don’t put our mutual fear into words, just watch each other’s back as we thread our way to the place where Daisy detected the odor of decomp.
According to Luciana, the dog kept losing the scent trail. Now that I’m walking the terrain, I get Luciana’s point. It feels to me like the rocks themselves would trap the scent in places such as this corridor, making for an easier time, not more difficult.
We hit a dead end at a particularly large boulder. After a moment’s hesitation, we both scramble up to the top of it, leapfrog our way quickly another ten to fifteen feet, then drop down again. I feel a patch of coolness against my ankle.
Sure enough, there’s a thin black void beneath one of the rocks. Too small for a human to wiggle through, but further evidence of air pockets. We continue on more slowly.
Back and forth. I start sweating heavily again, using my bandana to blot at my forehead. It’s about as dirt-stained as I am. I long for civilization, running water, hot showers. I wonder how Luciana, Daisy, and Nemeth are doing.
Moving fast, I’m sure. As cavalries go, we couldn’t have chosen better.
“It’s been more than twenty minutes,” Bob says behind me.
I nod. I’m hot, tired, and defeated. And I have that twitch back. Bob is looking hinky as well. There’s something about standing in the middle of a barren rock field that feels so vulnerable. I have images of a wild-eyed human popping up to surprise us. Maybe even now the predator is hunkered down low, watching our progression, waiting to attack.
I was never on
e for haunted houses, and this is starting to feel an awful lot like that.
I lead the way back up to a section of massive boulders, staying low as I scurry my way across. I don’t have to look at Bob to know he’s doing the same. Of course, a guy of his size still remains a considerable target. We reach the end, jump down into one of the dusty corridors. The rocks here aren’t tall enough to shield us completely, but it still feels better than being topside.
This section is wide enough that we could easily walk side by side, but Bob remains behind me. Covering my back? If I’m being honest, I understand Bob fibbing about his true profession. As lies go, it’s not the biggest I’ve ever heard. At heart, he seems to be a good guy with a natural protective instinct. Which explains his actions now, as he stalks behind me like my own personal guardian Sasquatch.
We’re approaching the base of the cliff, where we’ll have to scamper up a steep rock pile to make the final, open-air traverse to Martin’s cave. I come to a halt, preparing to climb, then I feel it. A kiss of cold wind against the back of my neck, causing me to shiver.
I turn around, frowning. Bob draws up short as well. There are four or five particularly large boulders that form a jumbled pile behind us. Like the rest of their craggy brethren, they’re tilted this way and that, a compact grouping at first glance, but the more I look, the more gaps appear between the stones. I pause before a particularly tall, narrow crack. Cool air wafts out.
Definitely there’s a void inside this rock pile. But this opening is far too skinny for human access, and I say that being a particularly skinny human.
“What?” Bob asks.
“Hold up your hand.”
He does as I instruct, nodding as he registers the breeze. I continue to study the opening. What is it that’s bothering me? What am I not seeing?
Then I do. It’s not the opening. It’s the enormous boulder itself. What appears to be a giant slab protrusion along the side of the rock . . . isn’t. I can just make out a fine line of cracks all around it. This piece isn’t connected to anything. It’s a free-standing, five-foot-high, four-foot-wide section. In shape and dimensions, it’s a door. A stone door.
I gaze up at Bob, then gesture to what I’ve found, tracing the edges of the slab with my fingertips. I don’t speak a word and neither does he. Because, having found the door, we now have to worry about what’s behind it.
Bob thins his lips. To open or not to open, that is the question. Except it’s not really much of a debate. Both of us are seekers. Of course we have to know what’s on the other side.
He shrugs out of his pack. I follow suit. He digs around in his gear until he emerges with fresh can of bear repellent, holding it up for my attention. It’s as good a weapon for self-defense as any. I have my knife attached to my belt, but I’m not that confident or bloodthirsty, so I retrieve my own canister of high-octane pepper spray.
We nod at each other. Then, as if we’ve been partners forever, I take up position to the right of the opening, where I can pepper spray first, question later, while Bob takes on the door, clutching the edge with both hands and preparing to slide it left.
The slab should be incredibly heavy, nearly impossible to move. Instead, it pops to the side so quickly, Bob nearly tumbles to the ground.
Which is when we make our second discovery. The gateway isn’t chiseled stone after all, but some Styrofoam-like substance, painted and covered with a thin layer of pebbles and sand to make it both look and feel genuine.
Man-made. Placed here with purpose. Hiding this chamber.
We stare at a jagged gap that’s now appeared between the rocks. More cool air wafts out, and with it, a faint odor. Musty. Earthy. Fetid.
The bear spray rattles in my hand.
“I’ll go,” Bob says.
A guy with a good heart, but there’s no way he’s fitting into an opening that at four-feet high, is even tinier than the dimensions of the fake door.
I smile. I once more take out my pen flashlight.
“Tell me there are no snakes.”
“There are no snakes.”
“All right. I can do this.”
I don’t give myself another moment to think about it. I duck my head and go.
CHAPTER 27
Later, this is how I will tell the story: Once, while searching fearlessly for a missing young man, I entered a crawl space underneath a jumble of boulders. It was tough going. No smoothly carved tunnel, but a series of opportunistic gaps that enabled me to work my way forward piece by piece. I forged bravely on for what felt like forever but was probably more like ten minutes.
Until suddenly the space opened up. Enough that I could straighten to my full height with plenty of clearance, and wave my flashlight over the entire room. Which I did, bit by bit, until finally . . .
Later, this is how I will tell the story. Assuming I survive long enough to speak of it again.
* * *
—
By the time I stumble back out into the light of day, I’m no longer shaking. There are no tears on my cheeks, or bile in my throat.
Inside me, there’s a scream building but it can’t come out. To make a sound would be to jar myself back to consciousness. To speak words would be to give voice to something I can’t bear to be real.
Instead, I stare at Bob. I stare and stare and stare. I think of Marty and his silent surrender. I wish it for myself.
“Frankie?” Bob prods with concern.
But I can only shake my head.
“Did . . . did you find him? Was Tim’s body in there?”
I shrug, because I honestly have no idea.
Bob hands me my water bottle. He forces me to take a drink. Then, when I remain a silent statue, he wraps his huge arms around me. He pulls me into his massive sweaty form and I don’t mind. I focus on the feel of him, solid and warm.
I start to shake then. And once I do, I can’t stop. Then I’m crying. And once I do, I can’t stop.
Bob whispers words of soothing. He strokes my hair. He cradles me against him as if I’m a child.
I cling to him. In the way I was never allowed to cling to my parents. Harder than I even clung to Paul, because I knew from the very beginning his love would be too much.
But now, I don’t let go. I absorb every last ounce of Bob’s comfort. I soak it in and reach for more, leaching from him wave after wave of compassion, demanding it. Till he’s shaking, too, though he doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s also crying, because tears can be contagious. We shudder together like shipwreck survivors, desperate to feel saved.
I don’t want to pull away. I want to stay here, plastered against my own personal Bigfoot.
But there’s no security here. We need to retrieve Marty, then hightail it back to camp and hurl ourselves into the first chopper that appears. We need to get the hell out of this valley and never come back.
Slowly, I pull away. Till only Bob’s hands remain on my shoulders, lending me strength.
He peers at me with solemn blue eyes. “Frankie? Did you find Tim? Is that what this is?”
I lick my lips. Take a deep breath and let the words come. “I don’t know. I didn’t find one body. I found eight.”
* * *
—
We make a break for it. Both of us moving fast and low as we scramble up the steep rock pile. Eyes everywhere. That’s all I can think. If we’re being watched, then our hunter knows we’ve discovered his lair. Eight bodies later, what’s a few more?
We burst topside, and I feel an immediate gust of cold wind, while in the next instant, the daylight dims dramatically. Another thunderstorm rolling in. Meaning we really have to hustle. Grab Martin. Race for camp. Go, go, go.
Bob is still behind me, trying to make himself as small a target as a bear-sized human can be. I run flat out, leaping across the gaps between these larger stones, stumbling over smaller
stones. I can see the cave entrance just up ahead.
Martin appears, frowning at us. We’ve been gone far longer than twenty minutes, and no doubt he’s also noticed the incoming storm. He seems more alert, which makes me feel guilty for the news I’m about to deliver. But there’s no time for niceties anymore.
I burst into the cave, careening past Martin, Bob hot on my heels. Marty falls back with us, clearly perturbed. Then in the next instant, as if some internal radar has pinged to life:
“Did you find it? Was it Tim? Take me to him. Now!”
He’s already whirling for the cave entrance when Bob grabs his arm. “Stop. Listen. Frankie, tell him.”
“We discovered another boulder chamber,” I babble. “I crawled inside. There were bodies. Eight bodies. I saw them. I have no idea if one of them is Tim. I’m so sorry.”
Martin doesn’t move. He peers at me as if I might’ve spoken English, but it came out as gibberish. “Eight bodies?”
“Yes.”
“You mean like an ancient burial chamber for Indigenous people?”
“I don’t think there’s anything ancient about this.”
“But if it’s recent . . . how can there be eight?”
I hesitate, glancing at Bob. “We’ve heard of other missing hikers. I don’t know. But there were eight.”
Martin cocks his head at me, clearly trying to process what I’ve said, but coming up short. I take another deep breath, then do my best to describe something I never want to see again.
“The remains appear mummified. No clothing, no gear. Some probably male, some female, though I’m judging by hair length.” Bile rises in my throat. I force it back down.
“Um, I’d guess some of the remains have been there for a while. They were . . . further along. Others appeared more recent, but not . . . fresh.” I don’t know how to explain it exactly, and I don’t want to try.
