“We’ve been searching a long time,” he murmurs. “Whether this next week can magically make a difference . . . For Patrice’s sake, I hope so.”
Marty heads back to his tent, while the rest of us remain huddled around the campfire for warmth.
No one talks. Bodies worn-out, bellies full, we succumb to individual comatose states. I move off the log to the ground, where I can stretch out my tired legs while leaning back and peering up at the night sky. The moon, probably three-quarters full, glows like a fat squash. And the stars. So many of them, stretching out forever. I’d nearly forgotten what they looked like, after my last year and a half in major cities.
These same stars spread across the tribal lands where I found Lani Whitehorse’s body at the bottom of a lake. Over the farm where I discovered little Johnny in the trunk of a rusted-out junk car. Over the crack house where I located my very first missing person, a sad young woman whose boyfriend blew off her head rather than let her go.
I wonder if Timothy O’Day did make it this far, five years ago. Was he grateful to stumble into this slice of paradise, thinking he’d finally gotten lucky? Did he look up at this sky every night and think of his soon-to-be bride waiting for him back home, his parents, who had to be going crazy? Did he whisper his secret hopes and hidden fears to these distant pinpricks of light, trusting them to remember him, a lone human in search of comfort?
Eventually, one by one, everyone makes discreet trips into the woods, then disappears into their tents.
I get up when Luciana does, Daisy lumbering slowly to her feet. I follow them to our corner of the campsite. My long-sleeve shirt is comfortable enough so I don’t bother to change. I climb into my borrowed one-person tent, the size of a cozy den. Then I zip myself inside my sleeping bag, the silvery lining reflecting my body’s heat back on me till I’m my own little convection oven.
I hear the low murmur of voices from the college friends, still sitting around the fire. Distant noises echo in the trees while frogs sing closer to the lake, a woodland lullaby . . .
* * *
—
I bolt awake, panicked and disoriented, my heart already thundering in my chest.
Then I hear it for the second time.
Somewhere outside, a person is screaming.
CHAPTER 13
I fumble with the zipper of my tent, then finally tumble out, registering several things at once. The fire has burned down to glowing red embers and the camp is in a state of chaos. People are pouring from their shelters, twisting around wildly, trying to identify the threat we can all hear but not see.
Then, that scream again. Definitely human, definitely male.
Beside me, Luciana has emerged, holding a straining Daisy by the collar. The woman’s face is pale, Daisy clearly distressed.
Nemeth strides forward, rifle in hand. “Everyone, stay here.”
But our group that isn’t really a group has already fractured. Bob disappears into one bank of trees; the college buddies grab flashlights and take off into the second. I jam on my boots with one hand, while digging around for a light source with my other. I come up with the headlamp. Good enough.
“Be careful,” Luciana says in warning. She’s already wrestling Daisy back into her tent, preparing to zip them both back in. I can understand her not wanting her dog racing through the trees after dark. I shouldn’t be doing this either. It’s not like I have a gun, or expertise, or any kind of training to offer.
But I’ve never been one to sit idly by. Even if it’s crazy, foolish, and impulsive—especially if it’s crazy, foolish, and impulsive—chances are I’m going to do it. No point in wasting time fighting the impulse.
Sound is disorienting in a canyon. I thought the last scream came from the direction of the pine trees, which is where most of our party headed. But then I hear something else from behind me. Not a scream. A distinct popping crack. Like a tree limb breaking. Or a human bone.
I correct course to the vast unknown on the other side of camp, the light from my headlamp swinging wildly as I glance frantically from side to side. Almost immediately, I wish I’d brought a flashlight instead. The beam from my headlamp slices the landscape into a disorienting mix of top of meadow grasses here, piece of tree trunk there, single curve of boulder over there. Meanwhile, I trip over every unseen object at my feet.
I power forward, ears straining.
Breathing. Heavy, deep. I turn toward it. Coming from my right side, near the lake. I stumble in that direction, barking my shin and nearly face planting as I catch the edge of a tree stump with my left leg.