She began moving again, this time in a more deliberate direction. There was a large, deep chasm between here and the beaver pond where they’d parked the plane almost two weeks ago. If she could get across it and then destroy her route, Wayne would have to walk two miles out of his way to get to her.
With every step she took, Emma knew she was putting more distance between herself and Wayne. She was in excellent shape despite her wounded shoulder; a lifetime of hiking had made her legs strong and her mind sharp.
Wayne was also at home in the woods, but even while he was hunting her, he was also being hunted by Beaker. And the man was demented; she’d seen it in his eyes when he’d pointed the gun at her and pulled back the hammer. Wayne Poulin had slipped over the edge of reality, which meant his perception would be skewed.
She made steady progress, and soon heard the roaring of water cascading over boulders in its rapid decent down the mountain. With an urgency born of desperation, she walked along the eastern edge of the gorge, looking for a fallen log she could use to get across.
The only one she found was wedged high up on a precipice, which meant she had to get her hands free. Emma found a jagged rock and began rubbing the rope against it, all the while scanning the forest behind her, knowing she’d never hear Wayne approach over the roar of the falls.
Her hands were a bloody mess by the time the ropes finally gave way, and Emma scrambled up the giant boulders to the fallen tree.
It was a long way down the churning icy water, and the log looked skinny and unstable. Emma carefully stepped onto the log.
The sound of gunfire stopped Ben in midstride, and its direction had him running back. Those hadn’t been hunting shots: they’d been too sharp to be from a shotgun and too muffled to come from a high-powered rifle. Which left only a handgun.
And people didn’t usually hunt with handguns unless the target was human.
Ben came to a sliding stop when he finally spotted the prey in the distance, and his heart stopped. Emma was on a log spanning the gorge, trying to walk over the roaring brook.
He broke into a sweat. There was no way she could make it. The log was too unstable, too high, and too rotted. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her to see what she was fleeing from; nor could he holler for her to go back, as she’d never hear him.
Then he heard the crack of another shot, this one sharp, telling him it came from a high-powered rifle. He saw the bullet slam into the log just beneath Emma’s feet.
He also heard Emma’s scream of surprise, and helplessly watched her fall.
He started running parallel to the gorge, moving with the current and watching for Emma to reemerge. Shedding his rifle and gear, Ben swiftly climbed down the boulders. He saw Emma coming toward him, fighting to stay atop the froth as she slammed into rocks and debris. He lay on a boulder on his belly and extended both arms, bracing himself for leverage.
He caught her by her shirtsleeve and pulled, then wrapped his hand around her arm. She nearly hauled him in, the current was so swift. He was afraid he was pulling her shoulder from its socket but refused to let go, even when she slammed up against the rock he was on.
He heard the air rush out of her lungs as she screamed in pain, and he reached down with his other hand and grabbed her belt. Adjusting his position for maximum purchase, he pulled her out of the icy water with one swift motion.
She came up swinging, clipping him on the side of his head with her free hand. The attack was so unexpected, Ben tumbled off the boulder, pulling Emma into his arms to save her from another battering. They landed against a large rock, Emma on top. She reared back to take another swipe at him, but stopped midswing, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Ben!” she yelped, grabbing his jacket. “What are you doing here!” Not letting him answer, she tugged at his jacket and scrambled to get up. “We’ve got to get out of here. Wayne’s trying to kill me.”
She started up out of the gorge, but stopped when she realized he wasn’t following. “Come on—he’s carrying a small arsenal!”
With barely controlled rage, Ben picked up his pack and rifle, grabbed her hand, and started walking along the gorge upstream. Emma ran to catch up.
“Oh, the log. Good thinking. We’ve got to toss it in the water so he can’t follow,” she panted.
The sweat was cooling on his forehead, reminding Ben that the temperature was in the low forties. Emma had to be freezing. When they reached the spot below the log, Ben settled her into a safe crevice. She finally seemed to be coming down from her adrenaline high. Her face was a mask of pain, and her shivering was so bad he could hear her teeth chattering over the noise of the waterfall.
He eased her down between two boulders and set the pack in front of her. Her eyes widened when he repositioned his rifle onto his shoulder by the sling, but that
was all the reaction he got. Her strength was gone, sapped by the cold water. Bruises were already turning purple
on her forehead, and a cut was oozing blood from her hair.
Ben still couldn’t speak, his voice caught in his throat at the sight of her. Reining in his emotions, he leaped over the rocks toward the log bridge, keeping as low as possible. Once on top, he pulled his rifle up and scanned the forest on the other side of the gorge.
Poulin was probably downstream,
