by Lisa Gardner
I’m already vulnerable. I don’t want to be completely defenseless.
Conifers don’t make for great climbing. Too many thin, prickly branches, not to mention sticky pitch. In the dark, it’s hard to tell my options, but I can’t seem to find anything close to a sturdy oak or statuesque maple. In the end, I settle for a particularly large pine tree. I have to scramble up a rock to reach the lowest branch, but once I swing up and get going . . .
Just like riding a bike. In my mind, it’s me and Sophie again, on a sunny California afternoon. I’m escaping from a father already passed out on the couch. She’s escaping from an empty home where her parents arrive late and leave early for reasons neither of us know. But none of that matters as we climb until the thinned-out limbs groan ominously and yet we continue on because we’re young and immortal and the sun is high and summer is good.
Up up up. Top of the world. Shrieking with laughter.
Nothing can catch us up here. Nothing can hurt us. Nothing can go wrong.
It was only on the ground that the world failed us.
I’m not sure what happened to Sophie after I headed to LA. Is she alive? Happy? Does she still remember those sunny afternoons? Miss her dog? Think of me as a childhood friend?
One of these days I should look her up. Except, of course, a woman who never stays is hardly likely to become a woman who finally returns.
Now I find a perch nestled against the sticky trunk, high enough that the skinny branches can still bear my weight, low enough that I can just make out shifting shapes in the darkness below. I’m physically tired, but mentally ramped up. Exactly perfect for night watch.
Bit by bit, my companions wrap up in their blankets, lie down like a row of little cocoons. The creatures in the woods resume their nocturnal song. A breeze wafts through the trees. The stream gurgles beneath me.
I hold my whistle. I look down and study. I glance up and wait.
As hour turns into hours.
But the chopper never arrives.
* * *
—
Only when the sun rises do I carefully clamber down, my limbs heavy, my mind overfull. Was the rescue effort delayed? Is the chopper just now taking off? Do we stay camped here, do we try to continue on? What to do what to do what to do?
My attention is so distracted I almost don’t see it at first. Then, just out of the corner of my eye, a spot of red. Bright red.
Carefully I creep my way through the trees, till I have a better view of the object. I cross over, pick it up, cradle it in my hands.
My stomach plummets. My blood runs cold. I don’t want it to be. It can’t be. It shouldn’t be.
And yet it is.
Much more slowly, I return to the others, my sad discovery clutched tight against my chest.
CHAPTER 32
Everyone is sitting around the hollow when I first approach. Miggy glances up sharply as a twig snaps beneath my foot. I wave my hand frantically before he starts pointing his firearm. It would figure that I survived all of yesterday’s trials just to be shot by a paranoid companion now.
“I’m sure the SAR team will be here anytime,” Bob is saying as I join the group. My water bottle is nearly empty. At least I had a moment to pee behind a bush before reappearing. Luciana was right—outdoor life is changing me.
I don’t really know how to announce what I’ve discovered, so I simply hold out the torn red fabric.
Bob’s voice fades. He blinks his eyes several times.
Scott beats him to the punch: “That’s Daisy’s vest.”
I nod.
“The one she wears when not working. She had it on yesterday morning.”
I nod again.
Scott takes it from me, fingers the fabric. “It’s been ripped. Several places. Like . . .” He pauses, looks up at me. “There’s some blood.”
I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry. I nod again.
Now Bob takes the vest, then Neil and Miggy after him. All of us must see it for ourselves, feel it for ourselves. Process the significance, all by ourselves.
“Where did you find this?” Bob asks finally.
“Near a pine I’d climbed up, opposite side of the stream. It looks like it got snagged on a downed log.”
Neil takes a deep breath, then states what the rest of us have realized but don’t want to know. “They went off trail. Like us. Meaning . . . they were most likely being pursued. Like us.”
Reasonable assumptions.
“When did you first start hearing activity at the camp yesterday?” Bob asks Miggy, Scott, and Neil. “When did the stolen meals start reappearing?”
Miggy shrugs. “Late morning, maybe? Elevenish?”
“This is only a mile from the campsite. Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy took off shortly after seven. If someone was following them . . . They could’ve been attacked here. Killer would still have plenty of time to hike back to the canyon.”
“We have Nemeth’s rifle,” Neil murmurs quietly.
Meaning the guide would’ve been unarmed. “Luciana told me she didn’t do guns,” I speak up now. “Still, I wouldn’t want to take on the three of them. You know they’d put up a helluva fight.”
“Unless he ambushed them like he did Martin,” Bob says slowly. “Had already taken up position with his rifle. Shot Nemeth first, eliminating the biggest threat, then hit Luciana. After which Daisy would’ve taken off into the woods. Maybe she snagged the vest herself, ripped it pulling herself free.”
I feel both nauseous and hopeful considering Bob’s words. Ill because of what it meant for Nemeth and Luciana. Optimistic for Daisy, who might still be out there, racing through the forest.
“We should go back to the main trail,” Scott says. “Look for signs of violence. We could’ve missed them last night in the dark.”
“And walk straight into the killer’s sights?” Miggy counters. “No way. Whatever happened, happened. Real question is what do we do now?”
“Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” I murmur. “Meaning . . . if we assume Nemeth and Luciana didn’t make it, then we also have to assume no chopper is about to magically arrive. We’re on our own.”
“I want to go,” Bob states suddenly. “I need to see for myself what happened. I need to know.”
We all stare at him, uncertain how to argue with a crazy man, let alone a crazy man twice our size.
“I’ll go on my own,” he continues. “Sneak back to the clearing, do some investigating, then return.”
“And if you get shot?” Scott asks.
“Then you’ll have your answer. Hunter is here and ready to rumble.”
“Don’t get shot,” I inform Bob, rubbing my shoulder self-consciously. “I can, um . . . I can return to where I found Daisy’s vest, see if there’s anything more to discover.”
“To what end?” Neil asks tiredly. “Either way . . . on our own.”
Scott raises a hand. “I, uh, I need some help.”
We watch wide-eyed as he slowly unpeels his top layers, then pulls off his T-shirt. I might’ve gasped first, but the others weren’t far behind.
The wounds on his chest, the two jagged gashes superglued by Luciana two nights ago . . . They aren’t just red and inflamed. I can see yellow pus now weeping out the edges, let alone more pockets of infection sitting there, right under his skin.
“Dude, how are you even sitting up?” Miggy asks him.
“Are there supposed to be two of you?”
Neil pats Scott’s knee. “Course not, buddy. There’s three of him.”
Miggy shakes his head at his wounded friends. So we’re on our own with . . . this.
“Do we still have first aid kits?” Scott asks.
Bob nods.
“Then I just need someone to disinfect a knife and play surgeon. Figure a little slicing, draining, fresh cleaning, I’ll b
e good as new.”
Now we’re all horrified. But Scott is dead serious. And maybe not so irrational after all.
I slowly reach down to my waist. “I have a knife.”
“Perfect, you’re hired. Both of you.”
“All three of her!” Neil chortles.
And I’m terribly envious that Bob’s the one walking away, even if it’s into a possible death trap.
* * *
—
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I want this clearly established up front.
“Ever have an ingrown toenail?” Scott replies. “Then you know what you’re doing.”
We’ve all moved closer to the stream, including Neil. I’m not sure I’d call his lurching gait from prickly tree to prickly tree exactly a workable stride, but he’s better than yesterday. Speaking on behalf of the group, we’ll take all the breaks we can get.
Miggy is carrying the larger first aid box from Bob’s pack. Initially, he was taken aback by the trashed contents.
“When Martin first got shot,” I murmured, and he immediately tucked the kit away from Scott’s and Neil’s gazes. Hearing about something terrible still isn’t the same as seeing direct evidence of the tragedy. Bloody fingerprints on plastic. Packets of alcohol wipes and antibiotics ripped open and emptied out.
Fortunately, Bob’s fair-sized kit still contains adequate supplies. Miggy found fresh surgical gloves in his own modest medical bag, while I have my knife and a butane lighter. I don’t want to consider either item. I order myself to keep moving. Rational thought is overrated anyway.
Neil collapses at the side of the stream—intentionally, this time around. He manages to lie down on his back and slide the top of his torso into the icy-cold water. He sighs happily. The chilly bath is clearly working for his head wound. I hope it can work similar wonders for Scott.
“Okay.” Miggy has appointed himself boss. His brains, my brawn. “Scott, shed the clothes. Frankie, cauterize the blade.”
I obediently flick open the butane lighter and start waving the tiny flame over the straight edge of my double-sided tactical blade. The guys all had smaller, less dangerous-looking options, but even Scott agreed my knife was the one, as its slicing edge is incredibly thin, wickedly sharp.
“Has Josh brought this each year?” I ask them as Miggy starts tearing open the alcohol wipes and antibiotic ointment in preparation.
“Never seen that before,” Scott answers, carefully pulling off his shirt. “But he might’ve had it in his pack the whole time.”
“Was he an experienced hiker?”
“Kind of. He and his father went elk hunting once a year. And for a while, he got into bow hunting. Felt it was more sporting than a rifle.”
“He brought down an elk with an arrow?”
“No. But he did an excellent job trekking through the woods while holding a bow and wasting lots of arrows. Does that count?”
I slowly release the lighter flame. The edge of the blade has taken on a dull patina from the smoke. Now Miggy hands me the first alcohol swab, which I use to wipe the knife. I swap him the used wipe for the blue surgical gloves.
“Why can’t it be Miguel?” I whine even as I glove up.
“Miguel once passed out witnessing another guy’s nose bleed on the basketball court. No way I’m trusting him with a knife.”
“Miggy’s going to faint?”
“Notice he’s prepared everything in advance.”
Miggy nods. “Normally, we’d make Josh do this. Tim would assist. I’d already be hiding behind a bush while Neil supplied the wiseass comments.”
“Working on it,” Neil calls out from the stream.
“That’s why you turned away when you first saw Neil’s head wound,” I fill in the blanks.
“Note I was the first to grab one of the front poles of the travois. All the better to ignore the gore.”
“Remember the swimming hole?” Scott comments now. “We’d heard about it from others. Hot summer night after Ultimate Frisbee, we decided to check it out. Tim jumped in first, and the rest of us followed.”
“I’m already going to vomit,” Miggy moans.
“An old rusty pipe was sticking straight out near one of the rocks. Tim smacked it with his arm swimming to the surface. Tore open this nice long gash all the way down his right triceps.”
“Stop,” Miggy warns.
Scott’s grinning now. The good old days. A perfect distraction from the not-so-great here and now. “We drove like bats out of hell to the ER, Josh and me sitting in the back, holding a wrapped T-shirt around the wound to staunch the bleeding. Except every time we hit a bump, Tim would shout obscenities and more blood would spray out. Within minutes, Miggy is vomiting out the passenger’s window and Neil, poor Neil . . .”
“ ‘Not my car!’ ” Neil intones readily from the stream. “Why did I have to be the one to drive? I threatened to burn it afterwards. My first brand-new car, too. A BMW X3, black on black. Drove that off the lot feeling like The Man. Then, months later with these goons . . . Probably should’ve torched it.”
“Josh went in with Tim while he got stitched up,” Scott relates. “I called Tim’s parents. And two weeks later, we hit the swimming hole again. This time with much less bodily harm.”
“How old were you guys?”
“Twenty-six, twenty-seven. Old enough to know better, young enough not to care.”
Scott smiles and I catch it now, the bittersweet edge on even his carefree memories. For the longest time, I couldn’t think of Paul at all. I couldn’t say his name or I was back there, on the sticky floor of the liquor store, and he was smiling apologetically as the blood poured from his stomach and I screamed and screamed.
In the beginning the awful memories block out everything, a total eclipse of happiness. But, bit by bit, the good times sneak through again, and the pain becomes less a feral beast and more a wise companion. I don’t know if that’s peace, but it is progress.
“We would’ve worked it out,” Scott murmurs now, as if reading my mind. “We were all assholes. We’d all done stupid things. We would’ve fought a bit more, forgiven a lot more, then got on with it. Twelve years of friendship . . . You don’t just give up on that.”
“He would’ve married the woman who’s now your wife.”
“Yeah. And I would’ve lived with it. I was infatuated back then, captivated by the idea of Latisha. I didn’t truly know her, so I couldn’t really love her, not the way I do now. We became real to each other only in the past few years. We fell in love only in the past few years. I understand the difference.” He’s speaking more to Miggy and Neil now than to me. I let him have his speech. I let the three of them feel this joint memory, probably one of their first moments of solidarity since Tim’s disappearance.
Why do I do what I do? Because at the end of the day, the people left behind matter as much as the ones who are missing. We mourn the ones we’ve lost, but we agonize over the pieces of ourselves they took with them. The identities we’ll never have again. The emotions we’re certain we’ll never feel again. The sense of our own selves, becoming undone and disappearing just as completely and suddenly as those who vanished.
Now I present Scott with a bolstering smile.
“You’re a very considerate man,” I assure him.
“I like to think—”
I stab him in the chest.
And Miggy drops like a rock. While from the stream, Neil starts laughing.
CHAPTER 33
We’ve laughed, cried, and done everything short of weaving friendship bracelets by the time we hear approaching footsteps. We immediately hunker down behind the enormous felled pine. Miggy has his gun out, pointing straight up. The Charlie’s Angels pose strikes me as hysterically funny, and I have to duck even lower, my shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Maybe
it’s low blood sugar or sleep deprivation or sheer terror, but we’ve all gone a little batty.
Bob appears in the middle of the encampment, holding a pack. One by one, we pop up like a row of prairie dogs. He looks at us, blue eyes widening.
“What happened to you?” he asks Miggy.
“Rock.”
“He fell,” I provide.
“He passed out cold,” Neil clarifies.
Scott giggles slightly.
Bob’s eyes widen further. He holds up the pack. I recognize it immediately. “That’s Luciana’s!”
Bob nods, taking a seat as we all scramble forward. “I didn’t find any bodies,” he states bluntly. “Or blood. But I found an area of disturbance and this.”
He digs around in his pocket, emerging with a thin piece of looped cord.
“A snare,” Miggy provides.
I’ve heard of them for hunting rabbits. While I don’t like to think about it, I imagine the same principles apply for targeting human prey. “You think they were ambushed?” I ask.
“Luciana made it one mile from camp, then set down her pack and simply walked away?” Bob shrugs.
I want to say that’s absolutely plausible, but of course I can’t. The truth is just so hard to take.
“Do you think . . . they’re still alive?” Neil asks.
“I didn’t find bodies,” Bob repeats. “Then again, given the chamber we stumbled upon yesterday . . . I’m not sure this person likes to leave his kills behind.”
I shiver now, rubbing my bare arms. Kills. Is that all we will be in the end? We enter life with such grand illusions, then exit as notches in some serial killer’s hunting belt?
“No blood?” I quiz.
“No. But if he used some kind of trap, such as a snare . . . maybe he didn’t have to shoot first.”
“Maybe he tied them up and left them tucked away someplace,” Neil brings up hopefully. “While Daisy ran off.”
Bob doesn’t say anything. Neil pretty much abandons his theory the moment it’s spoken out loud. The odds of a man who’d already killed eight people and laid out their bodies in an underground chamber simply tying up two more victims and walking away . . .
