“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 . . .
“How are you?” Bob asks Scott.
In reply, Scott raises the edge of his T-shirt to reveal a fresh white bandage. “Don’t let her fool you”—he points at me—“the lady loves her knife.”
“He made me do it.”
“She sliced open my chest,” Scott provides. “Didn’t warn, didn’t count down, just did it.”
“Is there a good way to slash someone across the chest?” I pose.
“Pus.” Miggy is already making a face. “I don’t want to remember, you don’t want to know. Lots of pus.”
“Very cool,” Neil chimes in. “Afterwards, Scott joined me in the stream. Dropped chest first. Let the icy water work its magic.” Neil sighs happily, a clear testament to the power of glacier runoff.
“I had no idea what I was doing,” I admit with a shrug. “Sliced him open, let the water rinse him out. Then wiped him down with the alcohol—”
“There was some screaming,” Miggy interjects.
“I did not—”
“Total screaming, like a little kid who lost his ice cream cone,” Neil and I back up Miggy’s assessment.
Scott glowers at all of us.
“Then we gooed him up with the ointment, slapped on a bandage, and hey, he almost looks like a real person,” I finish up.
“Lucky me,” Scott grumbles.
Bob reaches out and lays the back of his hand against Scott’s forehead, then his cheeks. “You feel better.”
“Power of ibuprofen.”
“And you?” Bob turns to Neil.
“Down with the death sled! The two-legged walk again.”
Bob leans back slightly.
“Yeah,” I agree. “We’ve been like this all morning. It’s possible we’re officially cracked.”
“Can you walk?” Bob asks Neil quietly.
“Ab-so-lute-ly!” Neil stands boldly. Promptly sways and grabs at the top edge of the root ball, then sits down hard. “I got this.”
Bob doesn’t laugh or speak or sigh heavily. Which finally cuts through my illogical giddiness and brings me crashing back down to earth.
“No travois!” Neil blurts out. “Fuck the travois! I’ll stay here. Hold the line, make my own fucking snare. But no travois! Can’t make me.”
Now Bob regards me seriously. I get it. I just don’t want to understand.
“We’re not safe,” I state quietly.
“We watched Martin get shot to death. Nemeth and Luciana have clearly been ambushed on their way to get help. The chances of them still being alive . . . We stumbled upon something horrible. But also, something that’s been going on a very long time if your assessment of the bodies is correct.”
I nod quietly.
“Whoever’s been doing this, he has to know using this canyon as his hunting grounds is over. Chasing us away with a series of accidents might’ve protected him and his lair. But the moment he fired that first shot at Martin . . . A party of eight disappearing in these woods? Sooner versus later, this area will be swarming with SAR volunteers, forest rangers, county deputies. Even if our hunter isn’t caught, he won’t be able to resume his game anytime soon.”
“Making this his last hurrah,” I murmur.
“Then why hasn’t he attacked yet?” Miggy brings up, his own voice somber.