by Lisa Gardner
Only then do I remember the exit wound.
Finally, I get it. Except I don’t want to get it. What Bob had been telling me.
I stop studying the pale hairy torso in front of me; I inspect the ground beneath.
The earth has turned black with blood. Pints of it. Gallons of it. Too much of it.
“Please,” I try. To Bob. To the universe.
“Tell Rob . . . I love him.”
And then. Then . . .
* * *
—
Eventually, Miggy is there. Miggy tugs at me. Miggy slaps my face.
“Frankie,” he says. “Let him go.”
Then: “Frankie, Scott and Neil still need us.”
Then: “Frankie, get the fuck up and move. Time to run.”
So I do.
CHAPTER 36
We’re sprinting. No, we’re slipping and sliding, slamming into pine boughs and scraping off our skin on tree bark and smashing our shins against rocks. But we don’t stop. We crash and careen, swallowing our screams and ignoring our pain as we race on.
I trip. Stumble down several feet, whack my shoulder against a boulder. I might be sobbing in terror. There’s so much snot and sweat on my face it’s impossible to tell.
I can’t think. I can’t process. I can only move, so I stagger up, stumble on, Miggy right in front of me.
We’re not on any trail. Just somewhere in the middle of the woods. We turn in any direction that leads down, the steeper the better. We’re probably lost. We’re probably about to be shot in the back. We can’t worry about such things.
The hunter won. Our brilliant plan failed. And now we’re the deer, fleeing before the predator’s advance.
I have my pack. Miggy has his. But we have so few supplies left it hardly matters. Help, Miggy said. We must get help for Scott and Neil.
But not Bob. No longer for Bob.
I take a tree branch to the face. My eyes well again, needles adhering to my cheeks, lodging in my mouth.
“Sorry,” Miggy gasps. He’s faster than me, taking the crazy-steep sections with a rapid-fire sidestep I try to emulate but can’t.
We hit a narrow gurgling stream. I fall to my hands and knees. I think of Neil, his head resting in the water as he laughed with his friends. I remember Scott, instructing me to slice open his own chest with a good-natured smile.
I don’t want to get up again.
“Frankie,” Miggy gasps.
“A tree killed them. A tree killed our friends.”
Miggy splashes back to me. He scoops up a handful of water and uses it to scrub the needles and mucus from my face. His dark eyes are so large, so intent, as he peers into mine.
“I saw him,” he says.
“The tree man?”
“Full army camo. Short branches stuck into his hat. Textured shooting gloves. He had a black bandana over the lower part of his face and some kind of high-tech goggles over his eyes. That’s why the bear spray didn’t help. He was prepared, Frankie. Outfitted, geared up for anything and everything.”
“We’ve been outclassed since the very beginning.”
Miggy nods. “In my worst nightmares, I never imagined something like this. This guy, he’s hard-core. He’s ready.”
“At least you shot him.”
“I winged him. At best.”
“Scott and Neil?” I can barely say their names.
“I hid them. Tucked them away behind the bushes. Neil’s head took a second hit. He regained consciousness long enough to vomit. He and Scott. They can’t make it out of these woods, Frankie.”
“We’re not going to make it out of these woods.”
Miggy doesn’t deny it.
“This is how Tim died,” Miguel states at last. “All these years, I’ve wondered. Now I know.”
He pulls me to standing. I let him. We’re both soaked. And yet I can still feel the blood caked beneath my nails, embedded in the palms of my hands.
“I have five bullets left,” he says.
I understand. “It’s a race now. Can we make it out of these woods before he finds us again.” I start smiling then, I just can’t help myself.
“What’s so funny?”
“You and me. We’re the weakest links. Remember? First day hiking up. Of everyone, we’re the ones who struggled the most. And now, of everyone, we’re the only two left.”
“Ironic, I know.”
He doesn’t get it yet. I smile again, and now I scoop up a handful of water to rub the dirt and blood from his face. My fingers are gentle. I feather them across his brow, the planes of his cheeks, the underside of his jaw. It will not make my next words any easier to take.
“Strategy for taking down a group,” I murmur softly. “You start by eliminating the strongest members first. Nemeth. Luciana. Martin. Bob. We are the weakest links. And for our reward, he is saving us for last.”
Miggy places his hands over mine. He replies, very somberly, “I wanted to go golfing that weekend. I would’ve been happy to just fucking whack a little white ball around eighteen holes.”
He offers me his own twisted grin.
Then we start running again.
* * *
—
We pinwheel madly down steep slopes for what feels like forever. I expect at any moment to feel a bullet in my back. Sliding down rough terrain, we are leaving a trail even an amateur could follow. We’re crashing through bushes, breaking small branches, crushing waves of grasses, churning up the earth.
I’m shivering despite our efforts. Going down kills my legs and knees. But it’s not as cardio intensive as hiking up, meaning we’re not generating enough heat to counter our wet clothes. And now the sky is clouding up, the sun disappearing.
The ritual afternoon rain shower is due to happen at any time. Which will make us even colder and wetter.
Luciana had said eight to ten hours at a fast pace to reach bottom. But she meant hiking down the winding trail versus sledding at breakneck speeds down hillsides of pine needles. Surely we’re close. Of course, we’re also lost. But if we can just get near enough to civilization, maybe our cell phones will work. Maybe we’ll encounter some random person living in a cabin in the woods.
And get them killed, too?
My spinning brain is not my friend right now.
In front of me, Miggy comes to an abrupt, skidding halt. I have to grab a tree branch to keep from crashing into him.
“What?”
He doesn’t speak, just points. I follow his finger straight ahead, then straight down. We’ve come to a ravine. A massive, incredibly deep green furrow that goes on for as far as I can see. Like a giant decided to gouge an enormous slice out of the mountain.
I stare at Miggy. He stares at me. We can’t cross that, no way. Meaning we need to pick a direction, left or right, except I’ve lost all sense of direction. Down is on the other side of the ravine. But how the hell do we get there?
“Okay,” Miggy says at last. “Let’s just take a moment. We’ll drink some water. Study the map.”
I look behind us uneasily. At any moment, the tree man could emerge from those woods. Raise his rifle. When the bullets hit us, we will fall backward, just like Bob did. Except we’ll go tumbling down the steep drop-off. Will that give us the last laugh? Steal from the hunter his trophy? Neil wanted his death to matter. I would settle for my death pissing someone off.
“We can move over here,” Miguel says. He gestures to a small huddle of straggly pines that form a screen of sorts. We tuck ourselves inside the group, our packs scraping against the sharp branches as we wrest them from our backs.
My stomach growls. I press my hand against it self-consciously. I hate to ask the question. “Do we still have the protein bars? Granola? Anything?”
Miguel doesn’t look at me. Finally, “I gave the remaini
ng food to Neil and Scott. They said no, they said we should take it. But I couldn’t leave them alone and injured with nothing at all.”
His voice hitches. Immediately, I place my hand on his.
“I understand.” I feel guilty. I was so lost in my rage and grief over Bob, I imploded, leaving Miggy to deal with the rest. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for him. Patching up a bullet hole on one wounded friend, then having to rouse his second, concussed friend long enough to get them behind the cover of the bushes.
They would’ve been stoic about it. They have been from the very beginning. For five years these woods have been their enemy. They already know nothing good happens here.
But Miguel, having to leave them, after refusing again and again to make that choice. Of repeating the same mistake.
Scott bleeding out. Neil vomiting.
Moments like that take a piece of your soul. Leave the kind of wounds that never heal. You just learn to live with the pain.
A boom of thunder in the distance. Because we’re not already wet and miserable enough.
Miggy sees me watching the approaching wave of dark clouds. “Maybe it will slow him down.”
The guy who’s been outfitted by Survivalists “R” Us? No, he probably has some waterproof supersuit that repels lightning. I hate him so much.
Miggy unfolds his map to reveal the same topographical overview Martin had. He fingers a twisting line of dashes.
“Our original trail,” he states. He follows it to its end, which comes up short of a light green patch labeled Devil’s Canyon. He moves his finger into the lower part of the shaded area, taps it. “Base camp, where we initially headed out from yesterday afternoon.”
“Wait, there’s a gap between the end of the dashed trail line and the beginning of the green canyon. What’s in there?”
“We were in there. That’s the backcountry part of our trek. Remember what Nemeth said on our first day? Not all the trails around here are marked or maintained. That’s why Martin always planned these expeditions with Nemeth. You need either an experienced guide or compass skills. See?” He backtracks a short distance on the mountain guide to a tight cluster of black gradient lines. “These elevation marks indicate the steep one-mile descent to the flat area where we spent last night. That path isn’t an officially marked byway, but one Nemeth and many of the locals know. Probably an animal trail that got co-opted by humans. So this morning we started out from here. I think we’ve been heading southwest, but I’m not sure.”
“I don’t suppose you have compass skills?” Because he’s not an experienced guide, and I possess neither of those attributes.
“Once upon a time. Boy Scout training. But I’ll be the first to admit, I haven’t been practicing all these years. Hell, I liked Nemeth doing the heavy lifting. I didn’t want to think any more than I had to about where we were going and what we were doing.” Miggy grimaces. “Okay, forget direction for a second and let’s consider elevation. Since we started, we’ve been picking the quickest, sharpest drop-offs. So, considering the gradient lines on our map . . .”
“We’re looking for the tightest grouping.” I get it now. “Shortest path that drops the most elevation at a time.”
“Exactly.”
We both study the map. A fresh rumble of thunder, much closer now, then the first fat raindrop hits the map dead center.
Miguel tucks the unfolded paper between us, where we can best shield it with our bodies.
“Not an exact science, but following the gradient lines, it looks like we’ve been coming down this section.” He fingers a new route cutting across the mountain chart. “If that’s true, then we’re dropping like mad, but drifting too far south. We need to be heading more to the west to hit Ramsey. This is actually leading us deeper into the wilderness area. Lower elevation, but still smack-dab in the middle of the Popo Agie.”
He taps the paper, where a huge sea of dark green is marked Popo Agie Wilderness. It looks like a long, crooked island, and we’re nowhere near the shores. I can’t form words as I take in the magnitude of our lostness. If I open my mouth now, I will cry.
Miguel is breathing heavily, struggling with his own emotions. As the sky once again opens up. With a crack of lightning followed shortly by a roar of thunder, the afternoon deluge finds us.
I don’t care about the wild beauty anymore. The awesome power of nature feels like nothing more than a kick in the teeth. Mother Nature is already whupping our asses. She doesn’t need to show off about it.
Miggy is still studying the map. “I can’t find the ravine. Just, the fucking lines, where are the lines? Goddammit, I know this. Why can’t I think? Come on, come on, come on. Now is not the time to be stupid.”
He’s losing it. Once more, I place my hand on his. It feels as cold and clammy as mine.
“It’s okay. We’ve made it this far. You’ve gotten us this far.”
He looks up at me. His features are beyond haggard. He is exhausted and demoralized, weighted down by the guilt of leaving his friends, haunted by the horrors we’ve witnessed. I wish I could wrap him in my arms and tell him it’ll be okay. But lying won’t help us.
The rain drips down his face. He blinks his eyes several times. “I heard Bob talking to you. He told you to tell Rob he loves him.”
“Rob is his husband.”
“I don’t have a special someone. But . . . my parents. If I don’t make it, and you do, tell my parents I love them, and it was an honor to be their son. Tell them . . . tell them I went down fighting. My dad, he’ll like that.”
“We’re going to get out—”
“You?” he interrupts me fiercely. It seems very important for him to know. But I have no one. I’m not that kind of person. I haven’t lived that kind of life.
“There’s this bar in Boston,” I say at last. “Owned by this guy Stoney who’s not much for words. But if you could let him know . . .” He’d pass it along to Viv, Angelique. Detective Dan Lotham. They will be sorry to hear the news, I’m sure. But my passing won’t leave much of a hole in their lives. How could it, when I was never really there to begin with?
I wonder about Amy, Paul’s widow. Will she wonder when my periodic phone calls stop? Think about me, miss our strange little ritual? Or will she simply think I’ve finally moved on, and be grateful to be rid of me at last?
I have no idea.
“When the storm eases,” Miguel says at last, pulling himself together, “we should head that way.”
He points through the trees. I nod. He’s shivering. I am, too. Given the conditions, now is not the time for pulling on additional layers. We’ll need them dry for later, when the temperatures truly start to plummet.
Assuming we make it that long.
Miguel folds up the damp map. We both take sips of water, willing our stomachs to believe it’s sustenance.
Then we stand together, in the circle of twisted little pines. We turn our faces up to the sky and watch the bruised clouds roil and spears of lightning crack.
One final light show, I think. A last moment of staggering beauty.
Then the storm races on. And so do we.
CHAPTER 37
I dream of a hot shower, cascading down my body as the dirt sluices from my skin. Followed by a feast of food. Steaming bowls of macaroni and cheese, a fresh grilled burger, piles of spicy Haitian meat patties. Then a bed. A massive, king-sized, incredibly soft, piled-high-in-down-comforters bed with twenty-nine pillows.
Then I dream of a particular Boston detective climbing onto that bed with me.
And I’m forced to confront reality once more.
We’re trying so hard. Traversing the lip of a gulley that seems to go on forever. We are stumbling over tree roots, trudging through thick grasses, marching up small crests, sliding down modest slopes. Forward, forward, forward.
But still no sen
se of progress.
We’re cold, wet, and twitchy. The storm has passed, but the sun hasn’t fully emerged. Hiking up, this kind of shade would feel good. Headed down, we’re rapidly losing body temperature.
My footsteps have become sluggish, ungainly. I can’t even blame a steep grade or scary descent. I’m exhausted, starving, and freezing. I’m also limping, having twisted my ankle one too many times with all my careening about.
Ahead of me, Miggy is faring little better. From time to time, I catch him wincing. He’s favoring his left leg; his knee seems to be troubling him. Like mine, his body has taken a beating.
We can’t stop, though. The ravine isn’t just keeping us from our target. It’s hemming us in. Making us sitting ducks for the next time the shooter appears. Geology has us trapped.
A crack behind us. We both flinch, startle, leap for the cover of nearby trees.
But the gunshot fades out behind us. We watch a flock of birds take flight in the distance, then we exchange glances.
It has to be our hunter. What are the odds of two different people firing off rifles in such a remote area? Miguel is right: tree man does enjoy the chase. And now he’s taunting us.
Miggy stares at me miserably. “My knee,” he murmurs.
“I know. My ankle.”
“We can’t stop.”
“Neil and Scott,” I agree. They’re depending on us. Assuming they’re still alive. How alone they must’ve felt—the two of them, unable to move, unable to fight, huddled together, waiting for the end to come.
Not so unlike Miggy and me, right now.
Miguel is still rubbing his knee.
“Would taping it help?” I ask. “Bracing it somehow?”
“I could try. But we’d have to be quick.” He hesitates. “Your ankle is bothering you?”
“I could go for an ice pack and an easy chair right about now.”
“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.”