by Lisa Gardner
Bob and Martin remain silent.
“The bodies were laid out next to each other. A progression of sorts, oldest to newest. I could see damage to either their skulls or their chests, sometimes both.” I blink rapidly. “Maybe gunshot wounds. Also, some kind of mark on their necks . . . I think . . . I think maybe their throats had been slit.”
Bob murmurs, “Bled out?”
Martin is staring at both of us. “You’re saying these people were murdered?”
“I think there’s a reason someone tried to warn you away from coming here. Then did their best to get us to leave again.”
“But that person wouldn’t want to have called too much attention,” Bob follows my line of thinking. “Hence starting out with threats, sabotage. He wants to keep people away, his secret safe. Except now that we know . . .”
The wind has picked up outside, the sky falling darker.
“We need to go,” I plead urgently. “Get back to base camp. We don’t want to be trapped here.” And by here, I don’t just mean the cliff face and surrounding boulder field. I mean in this cave, where if someone appeared right now with a rifle, there’d be no place for us to go, nowhere for us to run.
But Marty isn’t reaching for his pack. “Do you think one of the bodies belongs to Tim? My son was shot and killed?”
“I don’t know. Without any clothing or gear to go by . . .” I shrug helplessly. “Look, the rescue chopper will arrive in a matter of hours. Once back in town, we can summon experts. A good forensic anthropologist and DNA test later, you’ll have all the information you need.”
“I’d know,” Martin states. “Take me to see them. Right now. I’ll know if one of the bodies belongs to my son. A parent always knows his child.”
The look on his face would’ve broken my heart if I didn’t want so badly to slap him.
“Martin, we’ve stumbled upon a killer’s hunting grounds. For now, forget identifying your son. We need to save our own skin. Let alone Miggy, Scott, and Neil. They’re sitting all alone back at camp, two of them partially incapacitated and none of them with a clue about the real danger. We need to move.”
The first crack of lightning flashes across the canyon, making me jump, followed immediately by a boom of thunder and sheets of rain.
“Fuck!” I have an explosion of my own, turning wildly to Bob for support. “Let’s leave anyway. We can use the storm to cover our retreat.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“I want to see the bodies—”
“I’m not taking you and you’ll never find them without me. So shut up and let’s go!”
I head for the cave entrance. I’m shaking again. From nerves, horror, the building electricity of the storm. From an overwhelming sense of panic and doom. I just know we have to get out of here, and we have to do it right now.
I’m almost to the opening when Martin grabs my arm. His eyes are too bright. I recognize the look from his previous altercation with Nemeth. He’s beyond the reach of reason, a man who’s lost so much, the only dream he has left involves a pile of bones.
“I’ll pay you.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Anything you want. My house, my car. You said you don’t have a home. Take mine. Take all of it. I’ll give you everything. Just show me . . . You have to show me . . .”
“Tomorrow,” I attempt to placate him, as arguing isn’t working. “We’ll return tomorrow. With more help.”
“Now, I need to go now.”
“It’s raining and I’m clumsy enough on dry rocks. You’ve seen me hike, Martin. You know I’m a disaster.”
Behind Martin, Bob is slowly advancing, an intent look on his face. He’s clearly planning something. I have no idea what, but I hope it involves knocking Martin over the head, then dragging his unconscious body out of here.
Martin clutches both my shoulders, his hazel eyes fixated on me. Grief. It’s etched deep into his features. He is drowning in it, drunk upon it, crazed with it. I understand, but we don’t have time.
I try to twist away, shrug out of his grip. While lightning cracks and more thunder booms.
Except Martin is suddenly staggering back, and rain splatters across my cheek within the shelter of the cave. Then the thunder roars again and rock shards explode from the rock wall beside me, driving into my skin. Bob screams at me to get down. Martin clutches at his chest where a red stain is now blooming across his shoulder.
Blood. Gunfire. Bullets.
The facts finally penetrate my shocked brain.
We didn’t get out in time. And now the hunter is here.
CHAPTER 28
Shit, shit, shit.” Bob is dragging Martin away from the opening. Belatedly I scramble after them. More thunder, so loud and close the entire cave seems to shake with the concussive boom. This storm is definitely bigger than yesterday’s. I don’t know whether to be terrified at its wild power or grateful for its protective cover. For now, I crawl over to where Bob has Martin on the ground, ripping away the man’s shirt.
I swipe at the moisture on my face. My fingers come back stained with blood. Martin’s. All over me.
I gag, then recover. I will not think of liquor stores or dark alleys. One horror at a time, and this one is hard enough.
“First aid kit,” Bob snaps at me.
I dig frantically through my pack, producing the small mesh bag packed by Josh.
“Not good enough. My pack. White box. Grab it.”
I go plowing through Bob’s belongings. Sure enough, front pouch, a hard rectangular kit, much more robust than what I have. I hand that over, then remember Luciana’s explanation on the first aid uses for feminine hygiene products. I return to my pack, never so happy to whip out a tampon and a maxi pad.
Bob is already nodding at me. “Good idea. But first I need you to open up the medical box and remove the antiseptic wipes and plastic gloves. I’m too filthy to be handling an open wound.”
My attention bounces to Bob’s massive hands, which are coated with a mix of red gore and black dirt. He’s right: First things first.
Martin isn’t screaming or moaning. His breathing is ragged, shock kicking in. But his face . . . He doesn’t look scared or anguished. He looks furious; his gaze is fixed on the cave entrance. As if he can see the sniper across the way. As if he’s already planning on killing the hunter with his bare hands, for daring to come between him and his son.
I fumble with the plastic first aid kit. There are some kind of fancy red tabs I can’t make sense of in my frazzled state. The more I tell myself to hurry up, the less coordinated I become.
“Frankie, slide them back!”
I manage that, but the clear lid remains glued to the blue base. I feel like I’m wrestling with the Tupperware container from hell.
“Tape. On the sides. It’s brand-new.”
Sure enough, the kit is still taped shut. Martin is going to die because I’m an idiot.
While I fight with inanimate objects, Bob dumps water across Martin’s shoulder. The blood bubbles out of a wound higher up than I originally thought. More muscle and sinew, less heart. But it’s still bleeding profusely.
I finally have the kit open, pawing through with my shaking hands. Antiseptic wipes, blue surgical gloves, got them.
Bob eases Martin back down, the man’s shirt balled under his shoulder to keep it out of the dust. I don’t detect a single tremor in Bob’s fingers as he rips open the wipes, quickly scrubs both hands, then pulls on the surgical gloves.
“All right, this is going to hurt.” He’s speaking to Martin, not me, but I still take the words to heart. “Frankie, the alcohol prep pads.”
Oh shit, this is going to hurt.
“Count of three. One, two—” Bob forgoes three and slaps the saturated isopropyl alcohol pads simultaneously to the front and back of the bubbling wound, gri
pping tight with both hands. Martin screams, back arching, toes curling, as outside, more thunder booms.
“Pad,” Bob barks at me. I belatedly free the maxi pad, being careful not to touch the surface with my own filthy hands. Bob rolls Martin roughly to the side. “Good news, man. It’s a through and through. You’re lucky.”
I’m pretty sure that’s an ironic statement, but I don’t argue.
With Marty half folded to the side, Bob lets the alcohol pad on the back of the man’s shoulder fall to the dirt, replacing it with the maxi pad. Once more, he eases Marty onto the folded ball of his shirt, holding the absorbent pad in place.
“Tampon,” Bob clips out.
I don’t want to watch what’s going to happen next but can’t seem to look away as I hand over the product and watch Bob drive the tight cotton roll straight into the bullet hole. Marty howls again while the sky roars its answer.
I lean over and gag.
“Do not vomit here,” Bob states so coldly and commandingly it slices through my light-headedness. Gone is the amiable, puppy-eyed Bigfoot enthusiast. This is a man who can leap mountains in a single bound and thank God, because I need one of us to know what the hell he’s doing.
I force down the rest of my bile, wiping my mouth with the back of my forearm.
“I’m okay,” I manage.
“Yes, you are. Now, scrub in.”
“What?”
“Antiseptic wipes. Hands. Start cleaning.”
I do as instructed, but with a growing sense of trepidation. I’m a naturally squeamish person. It’s not like working missing persons cold cases is a front-line sort of gig. There’s a big difference between interviewing people and . . . this.
But Bob is waiting, and Martin, his jaw clenched in pain, his eyes narrow slits of watchfulness. I scrub the dirt and blood from my hands as best I can, then look at Bob for my next orders.”
“Grab the compression wrap and unwind the first quarter of the roll.”
“Okay.”
“Now set it all down in the lid of the kit and come here. I need both your hands.”
I’m still not sure I want to know, but I scoot closer. Bob once again twists Martin’s torso to the side, the man gasping out a string of curses, but complying.
I understand the issue almost at once, grabbing at the absorbent pad at the back of Martin’s shoulder to hold it in place while simultaneously slapping at the tampon plugging the front of the bullet wound as Bob untangles his own fingers. With my hands now pinning the bandages in place, Bob grabs the wrap.
“Hold the pads steady while I secure them in place.”
I will not be sick, I will not be sick, I will not be sick.
More forked lightning. More rolling thunder. I can hear the rain, sounding hard and smelling fresh just outside the cave opening. While inside, my senses are coated with the sticky feel and rusty odor of blood.
Martin’s lips are moving, but I can’t make out his words. A final prayer? A call to his wife, a promise to his son?
Bob is both beside me and over me. He moves fast and efficiently, not speaking as he weaves the first aid wrap over, under, and around Martin’s shoulder. I keep my fingertips in place till the final second, then release my grip on the rear pad, then the front tampon as Bob snugs them into place. Within a matter of seconds, Martin’s shoulder is bandaged and we are all sitting back, breathing heavily.
I feel covered in blood, but then so is Bob, with streaks across the backs of his arms, down the front of shirt, even dripped into his beard. Ironically enough, Martin is the cleanest of the three of us, his wound now contained in a sea of tape.
Bob pours water onto his hands, scrubs them clean as best he can. Then he’s back to the first aid kit, digging around for a foil packet of painkillers. He rips it open and dumps two into Martin’s hand. The man takes them without protest.
“Drink more,” Bob orders, after Martin’s first swig. “Nope, more than that. Okay, to quote Frankie, we need to get the fuck out of here. Because the moment that storm passes, we’re sitting ducks.”
I nod rapidly.
Martin smiles. Actually smiles. His breath is ragged, his skin nearly gray with pain. And yet there’s a certain glow about him. His fanaticism lives on. “I got a clean shirt in my pack. Get it out.”
Bob retrieves a simple blue microfiber top and helps Martin wrestle it on. I can’t even imagine the pain as Bob forces the man’s injured left shoulder to move, sliding his left arm into place. But Martin merely grits his teeth in determination.
“Rain coat,” he requests next.
It takes both Bob and me to tuck him into the jacket. No draping it over his bandaged side. Coat must be all the way on, both arms in the sleeves. “Gotta . . . be able . . . to get on my pack,” he states.
“I’ll carry it for you.”
“My pack. My back.” At least it’s something new for us to fight about.
The thunder booms again, but no longer so loud. The epicenter has already passed over us, the storm fading away. I glance nervously at the cave opening, where I can still see the rain coming down, but lighter. It’s only a matter of time now. The afternoon thunderstorms are a short-lived affair. Hit hard, move fast.
Which is what we need to do next.
Martin makes it to his feet. Bob wrestles the pack onto his hissing form. Then we’re ready to go.
My body is shaking. I’m a mess of adrenaline and terror. But I also feel focused and razor-sharp. Survival has a way of doing that to a person.
There are no good options left. We are the rabbits, about to bolt into the open and race across the predator’s field of view. I am the slowest and clumsiest. Then again, there’s already-injured Martin and big-as-a-barn Bob.
I think our hunter is about to have the time of his life.
Martin is staring at us intently. Whether he knows it or not, he’s swaying slightly on his feet. “You see where the initial shots came from?” he asks us.
I’m still shaking my head when Bob answers. “Across the way, forty feet to the north, is a bluff. Halfway up, I saw a gleam, like from a rifle scope.”
“Good shot at that distance,” Martin says, gesturing to his shoulder.
Bob nods.
“But it’s always more difficult to hit a moving target.”
Bob nods again.
“I go first,” Martin instructs. “Give me a minute or two, then follow.” He reaches up to his neck, roughly tugs off his orange bandana with his free hand. He appears one hundred percent focused and intent. But also . . .
He gives us one final look. “Get to base camp. Summon help. Get justice for my son.”
Just like that, he turns and bolts for the opening, orange bandana waving like a flag.
“Hey, asshole. See if you can hit this!” Then he’s bounding forward, but not toward the safety of the tree line. Instead, he cuts due north, bolting in the direction of eight dead bodies. Forcing the hunter to track away from the cave in order to keep him in sight.
The storm’s weakening rumble is now trailed by Martin’s own battle cry. “You kill my son, you bastard? Face me, goddammit, face—”
The first rifle crack. Pebbles explode near Martin’s feet. But he zigzags, running and weaving, bandana high in the air, taunting at the top of his lungs. “Missed me!”
Another shot, two, three, four.
Bob has my arm, pulling me forcefully out of the cave and into the lightening rain. But I keep looking at Martin. A fresh spray of blood, his body spinning. Another primal scream.
“You asshole! I’m coming for you! For my son. I’m coming, Timmy!”
Then the rifle booms again and Bob is shoving me across the rocks, off the edge, down into the first corridor, where we race forward before clambering up, bolting across. Up, down, across. Up, down, across.
Rain slashing at m
y cheeks. The sounds of Martin’s enraged yells. More cracks of the rifle. Followed by a fresh scream, sharper, higher. Another direct hit. The hunter taking Martin apart in pieces.
“Timmy!” Martin shouts in a garbled tone.
I don’t turn around anymore. I keep my head down and shoulders hunched, my hair plastered with rain, my cheeks coated in tears. I do as Martin hoped we would do.
I race for safety. I bolt desperately, breathlessly, for the tree line and the trail back to base camp. Where the choppers will arrive. Where help will finally come.
Where other people, heavily armed and much better trained than us, can return to these rocks and do what must be done.
Recover the missing.
Carry out the dead.
I run for a very long time, Bob right behind me, till the trees have swallowed us and the storm clouds have cleared and the sun steams the wet from our clothes. Finally I hit a stream, where I slip on the first stone and fall into the ice-cold water. And Bob, far from fishing me out, collapses into the water beside me, his chest heaving as hard as mine.
We still don’t speak. There are no words to say. We let the freezing water wash over our bloody clothes and sweat-stained faces. We let it sluice across our eyes hoping that will carry the images away.
When it doesn’t, we rise, and much more slowly, aware of our surroundings at all times, we work our way back to the three men we left behind.
Praying they’re still alive.
CHAPTER 29
We follow the trail around the vast lake, homing in on base camp. At the last moment, I find myself drawing up short, straining my ears. From this position, crouched down behind a green veil of lake grass, I can make out the colorful domed tents of our camp, but not the people. A thin line of smoke indicates the campfire still burns. Meaning Scott, Miggy, and Neil are still huddled around it?
Bob doesn’t question my decision to halt, but squats beside me. Our impromptu dip in the stream had felt both visceral and spiritual. But once on the other side, Bob had paused long enough to grab huge handfuls of squelching mud and smear it across his glow-in-the-dark fair skin, then rub it into his golden-red hair. I’d followed suit; my coloring might be darker than his, but not by much.
