Killer Summer

86

The morning sun was beginning to bake as Kevin lay back in a crevice in the rock. With only the most minimal of movement, he lifted the binoculars for the umpteenth time and surveyed the lightly trod trail.

There!

Sounds of the forest came from behind Kevin: pine boughs sighing, magpies cawing, obnoxious squirrels chattering-all underscored by the river’s timeless advance. As the birds’ whitewash coating of the rocks warmed in the sun, stench surrounded him, overpowering the sweet smell of sage nearby and even the bitter trail dust at the back of his throat. All around, insects alighted, wings abuzz. Up ahead, blackbirds darted in and out of the boggy marsh across the trail, the red chevron on their wings a designation of rank.

The cowboy lay on his belly hidden in the waist-high grass at the edge of the marsh. Even though Kevin knew where to look, he couldn’t see John with the naked eye. He had to use the binoculars to work from one landmark to the next until he found the place. When he did, he saw John’s binoculars trained back at him. Kevin held up three fingers, and the cowboy nodded. Kevin held up his fingers again to make sure the message was clear.

Three people, he had signaled, not the four they had expected. The small guy-crazy, unpredictable-was nowhere to be seen.

The cowboy fashioned his hand into a gun and squeezed the trigger, then nodded. Game on. Kevin was to go ahead with the plan.

Kevin practically shit his pants. His mind suddenly cluttered up with all the stuff the cowboy had told him, all the stuff his uncle had told him, all the stuff his mother had told him-half a dozen voices competing for his attention.

Where was Matt? Had he been left behind following a climbing accident? Had he gone elsewhere? Or was he out there just waiting for him?

Strange things happened to time when Kevin was like this. Summer and her two abductors were a hundred yards off, now they were just sixty. Adrenaline charging through his system would not allow him to focus.

Forty yards.

His mind clouded. He wasn’t up to the challenge, didn’t deserve the trust the cowboy had placed in him. It was just him, after all, just Kevin.

He reached for the revolver. The cowboy had warned that its nickel plating might spark in the sunlight, so Kevin wrapped it in a handkerchief with only the dark hole at the open end of the barrel showing.

Yes, now he had it. It all came back to him. Not so hard, not so much to remember. The cowboy had kept it simple for him.

“Can you do this?” John had asked.

“Yes.”

“Say it. I want to hear it.”

“I can do it.”

Focus.

They were now within thirty yards of him, close enough to hear scuffing of weary boots on the trail. One of them coughed lightly.

The copilot was in the lead. He carried the shotgun in both hands. Next came Summer, a two-foot length of climbing rope tied around both calf muscles like a horse’s hobble: she could walk but not run. The pilot was last, three yards behind her, carrying the handgun in his left hand and watching her ass.

Kevin wondered if Summer being hobbled like that affected the cowboy’s plans. He lifted his binoculars: John was watching the three, his body flat and still.

A pair of magpies burst from the woods and swooped toward the marsh. Kevin followed them, rotating his head very slowly.

And there was Matt, to Kevin’s left, at the edge of the woods. He was paralleling the three on the trail, playing scout, slipping in and out of the shadows.

He also carried a handgun. Had John accounted for all the possible weapons? An occasional snap of a twig gave him away, but he was trying to be quiet.

Kevin dared not move his head. Racking his eyes to the right, he barely glimpsed the three below.

Twenty yards away.

And still ten from reaching the cowboy’s mark, a stick by the trail.

Did Salvo’s approaching change the plan?

With every step, Matt drew closer.

If Kevin did as John asked, he’d be an easy target for Matt. Wedged in the rocks like he was, he was a sitting duck.

Kevin caught another glimpse of Summer. He had a choice to make, the same choice he’d made in the river when John was being pushed toward the Widow Maker. Only this time it wasn’t Mother Nature he was facing but a madman out to get him.

Kevin understood the importance of the element of surprise. He understood that this was the place for an ambush. He understood that everything came together here. Saving Summer came down to this one last chance. If he failed, Summer would be lost. And maybe John.

Kevin had to change the timing.

He would do as the cowboy had instructed, but he had to do it now, before Matt saw him. He should try to get a shot off at Matt, but he knew there was no way he was going to shoot a human being. John was right about that.

Kevin had been the one who found his father. He could never do that to another human being, not for any reason. Not even for Summer.

So if he did what the cowboy asked-and he had only seconds to decide-he knew the shooting would be in one direction only: his.

Kevin began to shake. His muscles locked up. He felt impossibly cold. The revolver slipped from his hand, thudding six feet down in a dirt-filled, cup-shaped indentation in the rock ledge below him.

Summer and her captors reached the stick, then walked past it.

Too late…

He glanced down at the gun. There was no way to get it in time. He couldn’t fire the rounds to attract attention as John planned.

But Matt had stopped when he heard the gun fall. He’d spotted Kevin.

Matt raised the pistol and took careful aim.

Kevin realized his being shot would create the same diversion the cowboy wanted from him firing the revolver. He didn’t have to shoot, all he had to do was make damn sure Matt fired.

Kevin stood up and held out his arms.

Impossible to miss.