Page 26 of No Hope of Rescue

I hold up a figure head with a large Romanesque nose, large lips, a headdress with designs, and a bird in one hand. “What’s this?”

“This looks Latin American or Mesoamerican or something,” Brock says. Kelly is an archeologist, so of course, Brock would have some idea. He glances into the other opened crate.

“This one has fossils. I don’t know what, but I can see the bones and prints through the bubble wrap.” He glances outside. “We really need to go, Riley.”

“Smugglers?”

He looks sick to his stomach, and I know he’s thinking of Codie. He nods and looks at the eight or nine cases still left. “With a stash this big, they’re not fooling around. They probably took the most valuable pieces with them and had those two last night come here and get a few more. They’re definitely coming back.”

“Savi, here.” I don’t want her near the crates.

He winces. “Let’s go. But wait.” He leans over and picks up the small figurine I just returned. “Put that in your coat pocket. Maybe someone can figure out who they are if we can ID this missing piece.”

Five minutes later, we’re walking slowly through deep snow, my arm around his waist again while Savi bounds ahead. When we get to where the ruts used to be, he starts to pull to the right, following them. I tighten my grip and lay my other hand on his chest.

“No. No, we have to go back to the cabin. Brock, you’re in no condition to do anything.”

He stands still and looks into the woods, as if Codie is about to appear.

“Look, there are two vehicles right there,” I say, gesturing with my head, trying to get him to look across the gorge into the woods. “Right there.” I point to where a speck of bright blue from the snowmobile flickers between the large flakes of snow.

Saying nothing, he adjusts. We wait for a moment at the top of the incline before we make our way down the trail into the gorge. It’s a hard slog through the snow, and I’m sweating by the time we reach the bottom. He has to stop for a moment to catch his breath on the rocky bank.

I’m sure the second set of battery packs are dead again, but without the wind, the cold isn’t as penetrating. I hoist the daypack and then reach to help him again, but he shakes his head. We make our way past the dangling ropes, and against the blue gray of the sky, they’re almost invisible.

“We should cross here,” he says at the gorge, starting to clamp himself to the guiding rope.

“No way. The covered bridge is just a quarter of a mile—”

His back is to me, and I almost don’t catch his words. “I may not have another quarter of a mile in me.”

We have to cross without clips. He begins. I hurry and get up right behind him, worried that if he slips, I may not be able to haul him up. The thick gray of the churning gorge and the rushing call of water is deafening. Spray has frozen over every surface. I reach down and engage the spikes on my boots.

Three-quarters of the way across, Savi’s made it to the other side as deftly as a mountain goat. As she starts to bark to hurry us, my right foot slides out from under me. I pitch to the right and grab the line. Thank God it holds, because for a moment, I’m dangling above the undulating mass of water.

In a flash, Brock braces himself, wrapping one arm around and under the guideline and grabbing my left upper arm with the other, hauling me straight up with one hand.

It’s over before I even understand what just happened.

I start to open my mouth, but he’s already got his back to me and is moving forward again.

When we get to the other side, he stands for a moment and lets me take the lead. He leans against a tree and closes his eyes. His pallor is scary. I rip off a glove and touch his neck.

“Anyone tell you that you have cold hands?” he chides, eyes closed. But he grins.

His pulse is even and strong. He’s probably dehydrated and exhausted. I shove my hand back into the glove.

“I just need a minute,” he says, eyes still closed, but he won’t get it.

The sound of a snowmobile revving through the forest drones from the direction of the fuselage.

Silently, we make a pact with each other: we’re getting to those snowmobiles. He rallies.

We hustle up the hill as fast as we can, and I’ve stopped trying to scatter snow behind us. Savi, understanding the need for silence, climbs up swiftly, breaking the trail and packing snow. I try to plant my feet in her tracks, knowing Brock’s in mine.

Finally, cresting the top to the clearing where the snowmobiles are perched, I turn around, reach down, and offer a hand. He grabs it with one hand and Savi’s collar in the other. I urge the dog on, and Brock hauls himself up.

There’s no time to applaud ourselves. The engine sound across the gorge is closer. With one arm outstretched, I sweep snow off my snowmobile, but he shakes his head and points to the blue one.