“How long until we reach Splinter Ridge?” Imani asks weakly. She’s eased herself down into the footwell, leaning against the center bench. “I’m really sorry I can’t help you row, I can try—”
“No, you hang tight right there. It’s okay,” Macy says, looking up at the blazing sun overhead. “We’ve got a little less than forty miles to go. That means if we keep this pace up, we’ll be at Splinter Ridge in eight hours. Around the time the sun goes down.”
It’s sooner than I expected, but then again, if this were a normal rafting trip, we wouldn’t have rafted all night long. I can’t imagine being more exhausted than I already am, and I’m not even injured.
“Isn’t theresomewherewe can pull off the river and find a way up the canyon? I mean, Jesus Christ. If we don’t beat him to that portage, we’re dead …” Deborah bursts out, faltering as she pushes her paddle through the water.
“Yeah,” Pam jumps in, eyes brighter. “There has to be another rafting group that’ll be coming down the Middle Fork in the next couple of days, right? We can just wait for them, and somebody will have a satellite phone!”
“Another group would have put in two days behind us,” Macy says weakly. But the expression on her and Allie’s and Macy’s faces keeps me from sharing Pam’s enthusiasm. They haven’t stopped rowing. So neither have I.
Allie shakes her head. “He doesn’t care about getting caught this time, remember? He isn’t trying to get away with anything. He isn’t trying to pin these murders on Kellen Stroop. So do you think he bothered taking that wire down this time around?” She looks sick. “No way. We have to try to beat him down the river. Or more people are going to die. Maybe a lot more.”
My stomach churns, and I try to block out the dark memory of the woman’s head lolling backward on her neck, attached only by sinewy threads.
“She’s right,” I stammer. “We can’t risk letting the next group hit that wire. And besides, Imani and Macy need help sooner than that.” I hesitate, because I’m pretty sure I know the answer to the question I’m about to ask, but I have to know for sure. “Is thereanyother way off this river?”
I let the question hang in the air, watching Macy’s reaction as the current sweeps us around a bend. She just keeps rowing as hard as she can, stealing glances at the towering canyon walls with gritted teeth. “No. There’s nothing up there. No trails. No roads, either. Not untilafterSplinter Ridge. This canyon is like a pinball chute—and we’re the pinball.”
A wall of water slams into the side of the raft like the cold truth.
There’s literally only one way out of here. Forward.
From the position of the sun in the sky, it’s around noon. By the end of today, we’ll either hurl ourselves down Splinter Ridge, directly to our deaths—or discover exactly what Leo has planned as his final failsafe to finish us off.
Either way, we’re racing toward the unthinkable.
“Splinter Ridge is rated Class VI—unrunnable by any watercraft. The portage trail on river left is absolutely mandatory. There are no exceptions.”
—Backcountry River Running: A Primer
33
Nobody speaks for a while after that.
We just row, following Macy’s directions to find the fastest lines along the current, breathing hard and smashing through sets of whitewater, trying to stay in sync. I keep praying we’ll see a flash of green from Leo’s raft up ahead so we’ll know we’ve finally closed the distance—and that there’s a chance we can still outrun him.
But the sun only climbs higher overhead, turning our faces red and chapping our lips as the clock in the sky races westward, then slips over the opposite wall of the canyon. As soon as it disappears from view, the canyon plunges back into shade and shadows, like an ominous preview of what’s coming. It isn’t sunset yet—but the abrupt darkness feels like a warning.
We’re running out of time, and fast.
“I’m here,”Parker says, each time my arms shake so violently I’m not sure I can row any longer. Shadows fall across the river as a chill creeps back into the air; everybody is once again soaking wet from the whitewater that crashes over us every few minutes.
I’m here, I find myself mouthing it in rhythm to my rowing, like a prayer.
After a while, I swear I can feel him behind me, one hand resting on my shoulder, his cheek leaning against the back of my neck, the only warmth in this whole canyon.
In the center of the boat, Imani has slumped farther down into the footwell, no longer trying to hold herself upright when a wave throws her sideways. She stares ahead with half-lidded eyes, like she’s already accepted that this is really and truly over. The bandage has come loose and her elbow has started to bleed again, the wrapping falling apart as water sprays across the raft again and again.
I want to circle my arms around her, to tell her to hold on, to be strong for her boys and her husband, that we’ll make it. I don’t know if we will, though. And I’m in no position to cheerlead, having nearly given in to the same despair a few hours ago.
I desperately want to believe that someone she loves is sitting beside her in the raft like Parker is, doing what none of us can do right now, speaking comfort and kindness to her in what might very well be her last moments.
“How much farther?” Deborah gasps as the water turns abruptly to glass—forcing all of us to row even harder.
“Maybe an hour,” Macy says hoarsely.
An hour.
