Page 110 of One Step Too Far

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 sense 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.”

“Okay.” I’m happy to do anything to help. I’m happy to do anything that allows a short break from walking.

Miggy pulls off his pack, starts searching for his medical kit. I take my knife and shuffle a short distance away.

I’m tired of pine trees. I want oaks or maples, anything that doesn’t cover me in sticky resin while jabbing a thousand tiny needles into my skin. I’m pretty sure these trees are the mean girls from high school.

I gird my loins one more time for battle.

I pick a half-dead subject. Then I pull out my cool, double-edged blade, only to realize it’s now a filthy, gummed-up shadow of its formerly wicked self.

“I’m sorry,” I tell it. “Help me now, and if I get out of here, I promise you a good bath. Though pretty please tell me it doesn’t have to be in human blood.”

The knife doesn’t speak back, but I have a clear image of it sinking into tree man’s chest. Apparently, we want the same thing after all.

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