One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

  Now I picture us as a pair of badass commandos in some cool action movie, but maybe that’s the hysteria talking.

  We wait. I see tents. I smell smoke. I still don’t hear people.

  We exchange nervous glances.

  Bob points to the right, veering us off trail toward a dark copse of skinny pines. More cover. I nod my understanding, and we creep through the waves of grass to our next destination.

  I don’t have a watch, but my internal clock pegs the hour somewhere around late afternoon, early evening. Sun no longer straight up, but several hours till its full descent.

  And our impending rescue?

  Three hours is still three hours. Especially if we’re being stalked by someone with a high-powered rifle.

  Martin . . .

  I refuse to think of his last moments. I choose to picture him, Tim, and Patrice, all together again. They are somewhere where the sun is always shining and the grass is green and the breeze is perpetually pleasant. But mostly, they are a family again.

  We hit the strip of woods, weave our way through the skinny trees and the low-growing bushes. I’m still listening for voices.

  Then, all of sudden: “Who goes there? I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  Miggy, thank God! I step forward, hands already in the air. “It’s us. Bob and me. Are you guys all right?”

  Miggy appears from behind a moss-covered boulder, holding not a gun, but the red can of bear spray.

  “Where is Martin?” he asks.

  “Where are Scott and Neil?”

  Which leads to our next discussion.

  * * *

  —

  “After you guys left, we tended to Scott’s wound. Coated it in a triple antibiotic ointment, replaced the bandage. But within an hour or two, I could tell he was spiking a fever, while Neil started vomiting.”

  Bob and I blink our eyes at Miggy. We’re tucked at the edge of the woods, close enough to the camp where Miggy can survey his kingdom, while also keeping watch on the perimeter. I notice he never loses his grip on the pepper spray and his gaze has taken on the intent alertness I once associated with Nemeth.

  “Worse,” Miggy said, “I kept hearing noises in the woods. Something moving. A big something. I ventured away from camp a few times to investigate, but never saw signs of anyone. I did, however, find some recently disturbed bushes, that kind of thing. Then, when I returned to the fire, I noticed the flap to Martin’s tent was open. I knew it hadn’t been open before, so I made my way over.”

  Miggy’s voice isn’t so steady. I can’t imagine how that must have felt to him. Approaching the tent, knowing he must peer inside and check for monsters. That his two best friends were depending on him. And he’d already lost another in these woods.

  “There wasn’t anything inside,” Miggy says. “I mean, there wasn’t someone inside. But I saw a pile of ripped-open foil pouches, like the kind our dinners come in. Sure enough, in the middle of the tent, a bunch of our missing meals had been returned, the contents shaken out onto the floor. A pile of wasted food.” Miggy grimaces.

  I’m still confused, but Bob does the honors.

  “Bear bait,” he states.

  “Yeah. Which got me tossing the other tents, then tearing around the perimeter. Sure enough, piles of exposed food everywhere.”

  My eyes widen. I’m getting it now. The perpetrator who’d originally stolen our food then turned around and used it to sabotage the entire camp. Attract the attention of a grizzly, which, stumbling upon three fire-warmed humans, would’ve considered it quite the buffet.

  And the kind of thing that, when discovered by our too-late rescuers, could be chalked up as an unfortunate accident. The type of tragic mistake made by inexperienced hikers left on their own once their guide went for help.

  “What time was this?” I ask Miggy.

  “I’m not sure. Noon, maybe? I was starting to picture all my favorite lunches. A nice roast beef sandwich, heavy on the horseradish. My mom’s shrimp tacos with sliced avocado and fresh cilantro . . .” Miggy shrugs, his remembered cravings making all of our stomachs growl. “Scott was still feverish, Neil nauseous and incoherent. In the end, I dragged them into our tent, zipped it up tight, and then used a shovel to scoop up as much of the food as possible. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I dug hole at the other end of the lake and dumped it in. I’m thinking bears have a good sense of smell? And if so, I want the beast dining on his unexpected buffet as far away as possible. Though, of course, I couldn’t go too far away, because what if Scott got worse, or Neil vomited again? Or the crazy person returned and hurt them while I was gone?”

  Miggy’s voice starts to wind up with a new bout of anxiety and stress. This is not a day any of us would choose to repeat.

  “They’re still in there,” he says now. “But I’ve been keeping watch from out here, in case that person returns. Or, you know, a grizzly. I check on them every thirty minutes or so, bringing them water. I’m down to the last instant cold compress for Neil and a handful of ibuprofens for Scott. Help is coming, right? Nemeth and Luciana should be talking to the sheriff right about now and he’ll call search and rescue and the chopper will launch and we’ll be saved. Any moment now. Any moment.”

  Miggy stands, paces back and forth in sheer agitation, then plants himself on the tree stump again, staring at the trembling can of bear spray. He’s breaking. Given his afternoon, I can’t blame him.

  He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Then, glancing up: “So, where’s Martin?”

  * * *

  —

  I let Bob do the talking. I’m not sure I can handle revisiting the details just yet. Bob keeps it simple, though that doesn’t make it any less horrible.

  “What do you mean there’s eight bodies in this canyon? Murder victims? Hunted? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Bob raises a calming hand. He gets to the sniper, Martin’s initial wound, then the man’s choice to bound off into the boulder field, leading the hunter’s attention away from the two of us.

  “There’s some freak show with a high-powered rifle waiting to kill us? Jesus Christ. He could be here right now, any moment. Fuck!”

  Miggy is back on his feet. Forget pacing. He’s bent over, head at his knees as if to keep himself from passing out. Bob doesn’t say anything. I find, hearing the story of our day out loud, I’m starting to hyperventilate myself. Returning to Martin, then trying to save him, then finally fleeing in the opposite direction from him.

  Those hadn’t been moments for thinking. Those had been moments for doing. And doing is a cushion of sorts. Now, all action stripped away, I am forced to confront what happened, what I’d seen, what we’d lost.

  I pace a small circle and will myself to hold it together. Miggy is losing it enough for all of us. Not to mention it sounds like Neil and Scott are in even worse shape, and we’re still hours from sunset and, oh yes, our hunter friend should be arriving at any time, is maybe even stalking us as we speak, creeping his way from tree to tree, rifle butt pressed tight against his shoulder.

  I pace six more loops before I hear a very real sound from behind me and whirl in fresh alarm.

  It’s Scott, standing at the edge of the camp, his pale face covered in sweat. “Neil’s vomiting again,” he says. “We gotta get him out of here.”

  * * *

  —

  Bob goes to check on Neil. I remain with Miggy, who’s staring at the ground. Scott has taken a seat on a dead tree. He doesn’t look good at all, but he’s clearly trying to pull it together for his friend.

  “I heard you,” he says now. “I heard you guys talking. Some guy has been killing people up here, and we . . . found it?”

  “I think Daisy did yesterday. But having the remains so deep beneath the rock pile confused her.” Though I’m not sure why that would be an issue, given all her experi
ence working mounds of rubble.

  “I don’t think we can stay here,” Scott murmurs.

  I nod, worrying about the same thing. “Do you think Neil can travel?”

  “If we load him back into the travois,” Scott says, “and all take turns carrying.”

  I give Scott a look. Like he’s capable of carrying anything right now. But he raises a good point. We have the travois, and it’s better than nothing.

  “We leave the gear,” Miggy fills in now. “The tents, even a low-burning campfire with the cooking pot on top.”

  “A false target.” I nod slowly. “Trying to keep his focus here, while we sneak away.”

  “We could even fill the sleeping bags. You know, pretend we’re kids again, leaving behind clothing dummies for our parents to find while we sneak out of the house.” Scott smiles wryly.

  “Where do we go?” I ask. “We can’t get Neil, or you”—I gesture toward Scott—“all the way down the mountain. Especially not before nightfall.”

  “What if we made it just one mile?” Miggy speaks up thoughtfully. “Back to the river at the base of the last, hard climb that brought us into this canyon? That area’s not as exposed as this, making it more defensible. It has a readily available source of water, while being close enough we’d see the choppers when they arrived. We could signal them with our flashlights.”

  “I don’t think that ravine’s wide enough for a chopper to land,” I counter.

  Scott uses the hem of his shirt to blot the moisture from his face. “Doesn’t have to,” he provides. “They can lower down a stretcher, not to mention rescuers. Harder, but doable. And yeah, the smaller area . . . Position ourselves with a dirt embankment or a grove of trees at our backs and we could at least see the threat coming.”

  “We have a rifle,” Miggy adds. “Not to mention half a dozen cans of bear-grade pepper spray. Hit someone in the eyes with that shit and they’re not peering down the barrel of anything.”

  I nod. I’m not sure how feasible any of this really is, but it’s a plan, and we need a plan. Plans give you a list of tasks to keep you from drowning in your own fear. Plans give you a feeling of control, even if it’s just an illusion at the time.

  Miggy picks up a stick, starts sketching out defensive options in the dirt. Scott ticks off things to do. By the time Bob returns to tell us what we’d already guessed about Neil’s condition, we’re ready for him.

  Miggy does the honors, tapping the ground in front of him. “Okay, this is how we’re going to survive till the choppers get us out of here.”

  CHAPTER 30

  We move fast. Bob and Miggy need to make adjustments to the travois to prepare it for a steep descent. Notching poles, adding a crossbar, creating a rope system to help lower it down from above, as it will be too much weight for two people to try to control from the bottom.

  I start out as errand girl, riffling through Martin’s tent for any and all available rope. I grab a roll of duct tape, then any empty water containers. Once Bob and Miggy have what they need for their engineering project, I join Scott in disguising our camp. We roll up dirty clothes and stuff them into the sleeping bags in some close approximation of human forms.

  I feel my fake campers are superior to Scott’s in every way, but then I logged a lot of hours perfecting such skills during my misspent youth.

  Next up, Neil. The tent reeks of vomit. He really doesn’t look good, his skin color somewhere between ashen and pallid. He’s only semiconscious, enough to regard us through heavy-lidded eyes as we lift the edges of his sleeping bag and wiggle him out of the tent as carefully as possible.

  I inspect the back of his head. The wound is no longer weeping, but there is one hell of a lump. I worry about swelling inside his skull but don’t magically have any more medical knowledge than I did a minute ago. Water for the patient, ice for the head injury. No ibuprofen, as it’s also a blood thinner and could increase bleeding. That’s it, all I know, and I’m not even sure how I know that much.

  Scott and I exchange nervous glances. He’s also pale and sweaty, but he’s clearly resolved not to repeat the mistakes of five years ago by leaving a buddy behind. And maybe equally determined to get himself to his new wife and soon-to-be baby. Love and regret. Can’t get much more powerful motivation than that.

  Bob lifts Neil into the new and improved travois, lashing the man to the carrier, sleeping bag and all. Final look around, conscious that our hunter could appear anytime, that maybe we are already standing in the crosshairs of a rifle scope . . .

  Miggy tends the fire, trying to bank it just enough to still look good, while reducing the risk of it flaring up and out of control. It’s a huge violation of sound woodland practices to leave a fire burning unattended. But given the imminent danger to our own lives, it’s a risk we gotta take.

  We load the last of the boiled water into our thermoses. I dump the final bit of lake water into the cooking pot, which Miggy leaves strung across the low flames. Look at this active campsite, where dinner prep is already underway!

  Then the hard part. Miggy and Bob assume the position, one at each of the forward poles of the travois. Count of three, they lift the front, Neil’s head coming up, his feet remaining down low, to reduce the pressure on his skull.

  Scott takes point, mostly because we need to keep his feverish form in sight. Which puts me, the weakest hiker, as sweeper. I would laugh if I wasn’t so terrified.

  Our humble party of five. One injured but at least vertical. One completely incapacitated. Two who must now shoulder the load of carting that one around. And me.

  Miggy had thought we could make it one mile. I hope he’s right.

  So many things I didn’t know about true wilderness hiking that I now wish I still didn’t know. For all the muscle-burning, heart-racing, chest-heaving pain ascending this impossibly steep section caused me, going down is worse.

  Footing is lousy. Little pebbles and loose dirt breaking free beneath our feet, till we slide more than we step. Awkward for me and Scott, dangerous as hell for Bob and Miggy trying to manage the travois.

  Short, sharp declines turn out to be the easiest. Bob jumps down first. Then, given his superior height, he can pull the front of the travois nearly onto his shoulders, while Scott, Miggy, and I scramble to assist with the back end. It’s excruciating given our fatigued muscles, but at least it’s a quick burst of pain.

  Whereas the incredibly long steep sections, where we once had to scramble up hand over foot . . . Now I understand the logic behind the modifications. Bob has a rope system forming a triangle at the top of the travois. The rope extends from the tip of the triangle back to Bob, where he gets to form a human anchor point, slowly unspooling the rope through gloved hands. For the truly extended segments, he recruits a nearby tree to help him bear the weight. But either way, it is painfully slow, muscle-straining, teeth-clenching work as Neil is lowered on the travois feetfirst. Miggy and I are in charge of catching the end poles, one of us on each side trying frantically to buffer the descent. It’s made even worse by my significantly smaller height, which tilts the travois dangerously to one side. After the first section, Scott takes my place. But the first real impact of the carrier’s descending weight sends him to his knees.

  By the time we hit the third sharply plummeting stretch of trail, I’m ready to cry from exhaustion, while Neil is moaning softly from all the bumping and banging. I doubt we’ve made it even a quarter of a mile. No way we can keep this up much longer.

  Scott is on his knees, head hanging down, either trying to regain his breath or trying not to vomit, or both.

  Miggy is standing, but clearly strained. Even Bob looks haggard, having borne the brunt of our exertions this entire way.

  “Leave . . . me,” Neil gasps out. “Just, stick me . . . aside.”

  “No,” Miggy states sharply.

  “When help . . . comes. They can . .
. retrieve me.”

  “No,” Scott groans.

  “Need . . . more people . . . to carry. Not enough . . . people.”

  Now I almost do cry. Because we’re not enough people. I am not enough people. I have never been enough people.

  Bob speaks up. “We can do this. Just . . . need a moment.”

  “Fuck that.” Miggy turns to Scott. “We don’t need more bodies. We need better physics.”

  Scott straightens up, his gaze sharpening. “Rope and pulley? But we don’t have pulleys.”

  “We do have rope.” Miggy turns to Bob. “Don’t suppose you have any anchor plates, D rings, or mechanical grab devices in your pack?”

  “Um, I have a few D-shaped carabiners?”

  Miggy contemplates. “Rope, carabiners”—he glances around—“and all the trees and boulders a person could desire. What do you say, Scott?”

  Tired, strangled moan. “Nerd powers activate.”

  “That’s the spirit. All right. New plan.”

  * * *

  —

  We all comb through our packs, producing every carabiner we can find. I had no idea carabiners came in so many shapes and sizes, not to mention pretty metallic colors, but no one except me seems impressed by that detail. Miggy and I take up position with the piles of gear beside Neil’s semiconscious form while Scott and Bob stumble off to recon available woodland features. I unsheathe my evil blade, ready to attack rope, though my fingers are so thick and swollen it might result in the loss of a digit. Miggy doesn’t want shorter segments, however, but longer.

  In the end, I play go fish with nylon cords, matching them by approximate width and flex as Miggy starts tying together the similar pieces in a series of lightning-fast knots.