Page 96 of One Step Too Far

Bob appears in the middle of the encampment, holding a pack. One by one, we pop up like a row of prairie dogs. He looks at us, blue eyes widening.

“What happened to you?” he asks Miggy.

“Rock.”

“He fell,” I provide.

“He passed out cold,” Neil clarifies.

Scott giggles slightly.

Bob’s eyes widen further. He holds up the pack. I recognize it immediately. “That’s Luciana’s!”

Bob nods, taking a seat as we all scramble forward. “I didn’t find any bodies,” he states bluntly. “Or blood. But I found an area of disturbance and this.”

He digs around in his pocket, emerging with a thin piece of looped cord.

“A snare,” Miggy provides.

I’ve heard of them for hunting rabbits. While I don’t like to think about it, I imagine the same principles apply for targeting human prey. “You think they were ambushed?” I ask.

“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—”

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