Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

They were both breathless, gasping. His heart was pounding too hard to use the pistol but his partner might be able with the shotgun to hit the one who was last going up the rocky ledge, Michelle.

Good.

Kill the bitch.

Lewis stopped, took a deep breath and fired a round.

It was close-Hart could see from the dust on the rock-but the pellets missed. And just then the trio vanished as they leapt off the ledge at the top into what seemed to be a field.

“They’ll be making straight for the highway-through the clearing and into the woods. They’ve got the kid. We can beat them if we move.”

The men were winded. But Lewis nodded gamely and they started up the ledge.

GRAHAM BOYD FLINCHED as the gunshot sounded, no more than a quarter mile away.

He was in a precarious position, perched on the edge of a cliff of sandstone, the Snake River churning past nearly a hundred feet below. He was staring down and in the dim light he believed he could see the shotgun that Eric Munce’s murderer had flung over the edge. It was about fifteen feet below him on a jutting rock.

Oh, did he want that gun!

The men had passed by him, on the other side of the rock, and vanished into the tangle of the woods. When he could no longer hear them, Graham had risen and, crouching, made his way to the edge of the gorge.

Could he make the climb down and retrieve the weapon?

Well, goddamn it, he was sure going to try. He was burning with fury. He’d never wanted anything more in his life than to get his hands on that gun.

He squinted and, studying the rock face, found what seemed to be enough hand-and footholds to climb down to a ledge and from there grab the shotgun.

Hurry. Get going.

Breathing hard, he turned his back to the gorge and eased over the side. He began feeling his way down. Five feet, eight. Then ten. He moved as fast as he dared. If he fell he’d bounce off the outcropping and tumble down the steep incline of the gorge walls-vertical in places-into the rocky water far below; streaks of white foam trailing downstream were evidence that boulders were plentiful.

Twelve feet.

He glanced down.

Yes, there was the shotgun. It was balanced unsteadily right on the edge of the outcropping. He felt a panicked urgency to grab the gun fast before a gust of wind tipped it over the side. He continued down, getting as close as he could. Finally he was level with the weapon, though it was still four or five feet to his right. Graham had thought there was some way to ease sideways toward it but what seemed like the shadows of footholds were just dark rock.

Inhaling hard, pressing his face against a cold, smooth muddy rock. Go for it, he told himself angrily. You’ve come this far.

Gripping a thin sapling growing from a crack in the cliff, he reached for the gun. He came within eight inches of the barrel-the black disk of the muzzle was pointed directly at him.

Below the water raged.

Graham sighed in frustration. Just a few inches more. Now!

He slid his hand farther along the sapling and swung out with his right again, more forcefully this time. Two inches from the gun.

Extending his grip once more, he tried a third time.

Yes! He got his fingers around the barrel.

Now, just-

The sapling snapped under his weight and he slipped sideways a foot or so, held in place only by a strand of slick wood and bark. Crying out, Graham tried to keep a grip on the shotgun. But it slipped from his sweat-slick fingers and tumbled over the side, striking another outcropping ten feet below and cartwheeling into the river, eighty feet below.

“No!” He watched miserably as the weapon vanished into the black water.

But he had no time to mourn its fate. The sapling gave way completely, and Graham grabbed the outcropping, though he was able to keep his grip for merely ten seconds before his fingers slipped and he began to fall, almost in the same trajectory as the shotgun he’d so dearly desired.

THEY’D NEVER MAKEit to the highway in time, Brynn realized.

She gasped in dismay. Just as the shotgun fired they’d leapt off the rocky shelf and into the field. But she’d misjudged the distance to the trees. The strip of forest next to the interstate was an easy three hundred yards away. The ground was flat, filled with reed canary grass, heather and a few saplings and scorched trunks. She recalled that this had been the site of a forest fire a year ago.

It would take them ten minutes to cross and the men would be here in far less time than that; they were probably already on the ledge.

Brynn looked at Amy, her terrified face ruddy with tears and streaked with dirt.

What can we possibly do?

It was Michelle, leaning against the spear, gasping, who supplied the answer. “No more running. It’s time to fight.”

Brynn held her eye. “We’re way outgunned here.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s a long shot, you know.”

“My life’s been nothing but sure things. Treadmills and lunch at the Ritz and nail salons. I’m sick of it.”

They shared a smile. Then Brynn looked around and saw that they could turn to the right and climb up a steep incline to the top of the cliff, which was above the ledge the men were on now. “Up there. Come on.”

Brynn led the way, then Amy, then Michelle. They looked down to see the men moving cautiously along the trail, a third of the way into it. Hart was in the lead.

They assessed their pathetic weapons: the spear and the knife. But Brynn wanted to keep those for the last minute. She pointed to the rocks littering the area: some were too big to budge, but others could, with some difficulty, be rolled or lifted. Also, there were plenty of logs and thick branches.

Brynn growled, “Let’s send ’em into the thorns.”

Michelle nodded.

Then Brynn had an idea. She took the compass bottle from her pocket. With the knife she cut off a long strip of cloth from her ski parka and tied it around the bottle. She gripped the candle lighter.

Michelle pointed out, “It’s just water.”

“They don’t know that. As far as they know it’s full of alcohol. It’ll stop ’em long enough for us to get some rocks down on them.”

Brynn peered down. The men were almost directly below them. She whispered, “You ready?”

“You bet I am,” Michelle said. She lit the strip-the nylon burned bright and sizzling.

Brynn leaned over the edge, judged the distance and let the bottle fall from her hand. It landed on the ledge about five feet in front of Hart and bounced but stayed put.

“What-?” Hart gasped.

“Shit, it’s alcohol! It’s going to blow, get back.”

“Where are they?”

“Up there. Someplace.”

The shotgun fired and a few pellets struck the rock face near the women. Amy, huddled nearby, began to scream. But Brynn didn’t care. Somehow screaming and howling seemed just right at the moment. They weren’t a deputy and a dilettante actress. They were warriors. Queens of the Jungle. She wanted to give one of her wolf cries at the moment herself.

Together they rolled the biggest rock they could-it must’ve weighed forty or fifty pounds-toward the edge of the cliff. They muscled it up and Brynn rolled it into space. Then looked down.

The aim was perfect but fate intervened. The rock wall wasn’t completely vertical; the missile hit a small outcropping and bounced outward, missing Hart’s head by inches. The rock did, however, crack apart the formation it struck and showered the men with fragments. They backed up ten feet along the ledge. The partner fired again but the pellets hissed past the women and upward.

“We can’t stop,” Brynn called, gasping in a whisper. “Hit them with everything we can pick up.”