The Call of the Mild

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Gus lay wide awake on the feather bed, staring up through the darkness at the tent ceiling. He thought back to the start of this day, when his only problem was that Shawn wouldn’t share his theory of who’d killed Ellen Svaco. Somehow he’d managed to convince himself that that had been a problem worth getting worked up about.

That was before he’d found himself on a five-day nature hike with a quintet of psychopathic lawyers, one of whom was also a murderer who seemed to have no compunction about killing to keep his or her identity a secret. At least two people were already dead, and Gus couldn’t imagine why the killer would feel any hesitation to continue with the spree.

But now even that seemed like the good old days. Because that killer was likely to attempt murder only if it looked like he or she was about to be revealed. Mathis, the FBI agent, had claimed he’d kill them all if he didn’t unmask the killer. Which meant that someone was going to try to kill Gus, Shawn, and who knew how many others no matter which way things worked out.

There was a light snore from the bed next to his. Shawn was sleeping peacefully-as always. And he’d eaten well, too, knocking back two bowls of soup and at least three helpings of lamb, along with a couple of chocolate souffles. Nothing seemed to bother him-not their impending doom, or the impossibility of their situation, or guilt at having gotten them into this death march in the first place. Even when Gus had told him the entire story of his long search-and-rescue mission, starting with his baffling discovery upon stepping out of the bathing pavilion, through the searches of the other sleeping quarters and the supply tent, through his treacherous journey across the rocky hillside, Shawn sounded more entertained than impressed. By the time he was done, Gus suspected he’d hit the wrong person with the rock.

He was feeling around on the ground next to him for something to chuck at Shawn when he heard noises from outside. It was a rustling, followed by the sound of a zipper being undone. It took Gus a moment to realize that it was coming from the supply tent behind them. Maybe one of the servers had decided that sleeping outside was no fun and was going to make a bed among the next morning’s food.

Or maybe it was the next morning. Gus’ heart sunk at the thought. He could tell through the sleeping tent’s fabric that it was still dark out, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t soon be time for them to be yanked out of bed. He hadn’t slept at all, and now he’d have to get up and face another endless day on the march. Nothing could be worse than that.

Except what happened next.