Page 9 of Hollow Moon

“Private joke.”

When he didn’t share it, she asked, “What were you doing out here?”

“Enjoying the woods. Like you, I assume.”

“Yes. Where’s your camp?”

“I packed everything up and put it in the car. God knows where that is.”

She finished bandaging the wound, then helped him pull on the sweatpants. They were high-waters, but they did the job of covering his midsection. “Can you stand?”

“I made it this far.”

She helped him up, slinging her arm around his waist and taking part of his weight as they made their slow way back to the tent.

“The blue bubble,” he murmured as he stared at the ordinary piece of camping equipment.

“It’s a standard tent. I got it online.”

She pulled the flaps back as far as they’d go. He grimaced as he crawled inside and flopped onto one side of the sleeping bag.

He lay with his eyes closed, breathing hard, as she got water and an antibiotic tablet, then helped prop him up so he could swallow the pill.

“Get some sleep,” she said when she turned back from stowing the medical kit, but she saw he had already closed his eyes.

Outside, she pulled out her cell phone. But the damn thing was out of power. Her fault. She must have left a bunch of apps open. In D. C. that didn’t matter so much. Out here, it could be a fatal mistake.

But maybe calling wasn’t such a good idea—until she understood what she was dealing with. Weirdly, she liked the guy—maybe because at the beginning he’d told her he could be dangerous. How many wounded men would be in such bad shape and still be thinking of someone else?

She looked back toward the tent. He was peacefully sleeping, but she couldn’t count on his not wigging out again.

She got out a power bar and ate it for breakfast. She’d carried in some plastic bottles of water, but not enough to supply herself for the whole trip. Picking up a small bucket, she took it to the nearby stream. After adding a purifier tablet, she transferred some of the water to a plastic pitcher and mixed it with the fruit juice concentrate she’d brought. It wasn’t great, but it disguised the taste of the purifier. She left the rest of the water in the bucket—to use for cooking.

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Back at headquarters in Beltsville, Frank Decorah called Cole Marshall into his office.

When the younger man entered, Frank gestured toward one of the guest chairs across from his desk.

Cole sat, his expression troubled.

“You haven’t gotten a line on Knox?” Frank asked as he picked up the gold eagle coin on his desk and turned it in his hand. Playing with it was one of the habits he’d acquired over years of working as a P.I.

“Still no answer from his mobile, so we checked the GPS. The phone is now untraceable.”

“And your conclusion?”

“He could have deliberately cut off communications, but I don’t think he’d do that,” Cole added quickly.

“Agreed. Which leaves—he ran into something bad in Western Maryland, and his phone got destroyed.”

“It could have been an accident.”

Cole nodded.

“But after my conversation with Jonah last night, I’m sorry I didn’t send a team up there.”

“Last night, we couldn’t be sure the distress call was from Knox. We still can’t be sure. Plus finding him would have been almost impossible in the dark. Has Jonah had any other contacts with whoever called?”

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