I’ve seen what I needed to see. Someone could’ve very well been hiding here, waiting for Neil. Furthermore, there are more than just the caves in the cliff wall for taking cover; there appears to be at least some kind of warren of subterranean hideouts.
Most likely, Scott was telling the truth and someone else attacked Neil, then disappeared into this hidey-hole without any of us being the wiser.
Someone who wasn’t just watching us, but knows this area intimately. An enraged local? Ghost of a past hiker?
Or Timothy O’Day himself? Having made it this far, maybe he did survive. And all these years, he’s waited for his revenge?
That doesn’t make sense to me either. But one thing’s for certain. I’m climbing my scrawny ass out of this damn tomb. Then I’m racing like hell toward Marty and Bob. Not just to tell them what I’ve learned, but to warn them as well.
Danger is everywhere.
And we’re much more vulnerable than we knew.
CHAPTER 26
I’m a panting, heaving, sweaty mess by the time I careen into Bob. He’s standing outside the opening of a large cave when I crash into him. He grabs my shoulders reflexively, then widens his eyes at my disheveled appearance.
“Rocks. Air pockets. Den below. Caves above. Hideouts. Everywhere,” I manage to gasp out. I can’t breathe. I’ve been running ever since I crawled my way out of the underground chamber. The climb up to the opening hadn’t been so bad, with the craggy rocks providing plenty of handholds. Having to wriggle back into the exposed sun, however, wondering if our watcher was standing there, waiting for me. With a gun. Or a knife. Or a venomous snake.
It had taken me nearly as much mental fortitude to force myself out of the subterranean cavern as it had taken me to blindly plummet into it. Then, standing up, my shoulder blades starting to itch, the fine hairs standing up on my arms . . . I’d grabbed my pack and bolted north. Veering around boulders, stumbling up rock piles, just running, running, running. The hunted hare desperate to reach safety.
“You’re okay,” Bob says. “I got you. Here.” He reaches around me to remove my water bottle from the side pocket of my pack and hand it to me. I unscrew the top and drink desperately, water spilling down my chin in filthy rivulets.
“Stop.” Bob pries the metal bottle from my hand. When my breathing has calmed another notch, he gives it back. “Now, come inside where it’s cooler. You can talk to Marty and me at the same time. Something about air pockets?”
I manage to nod. My heart is slowing, my adrenaline fading. I feel faintly foolish, but still shaky. I pick my way slowly into the impressively large cave, Martin’s great discovery from yesterday.
The space is so tall not even Bob has to worry about head space. It’s wide, too. Like, gather-twelve-of-your-closest-friends-and-enjoy-the-bonfire kind of wide. Which is where Marty is now, sitting on the rocky ground, staring at the charred remains of wood and ash, encircled by two dozen perfectly symmetrical, golf-ball-sized rocks.
Marty’s right: The stone fire ring is a work of beauty, showing an aesthetic touch when none was required. Is this Tim’s signature? Particularly pretty campfires? Or is this how a lost, lonely hiker distracted himself? By searching through the endless supply of rubble to find the pebbles that were just right.
Marty looks up as we approach. He isn’t just studying the rocks, but once again touching them. As if he can still feel his son’s fingers upon them. Now he takes in my grimy appearance and frowns.
“What the hell happened to you?”
I do my best to explain. About subterranean pockets beneath some of the boulder piles. The potential for our watcher to be anywhere, everywhere. Above us on the cliff face. Beside us in one of the caves. Below us in a hidey-hole.
My voice grows agitated as I speak. But Marty shows little expression. His attention appears miles away. I’m not sure he’s even listening, then I wonder if it matters.
I don’t think Martin’s searching for his missing son anymore. He’s holding vigil for his lost family.
“How big was the opening again?” Bob asks me when I’m done.
“Maybe two feet high?”
“So big enough for a male or a female.”
“Yes. Though, couldn’t be a huge guy.” I glance at him pointedly. “But Martin-or Nemeth-sized would definitely fit.”
“It would have to be someone who knows this area well. Even Nemeth never mentioned anything like an underground den.”
“Gotta be a local,” I agree.