Camp sure was different from when heâd been a kid.
A phone sat on a bunk, its screen still lit. That was weirder yet! The kid must have been typing less than sixty seconds ago. Who goes to sleep that fast? And on the floor? He picked up the phone. There was a half-finished e-mail on the screen from sender
Slovak, Benjamin
. So this was definitely the right kid.
What to do, then? Squeeze the dogâs location out of Slovak? Or . . .
He opened the phoneâs camera function, and there it was: the most recent picture was Luthor, standing on a screen porch somewhere. No, make that a balcony, a high one â the trees were far below. He clicked on another photo, and light dawned. The âbalconyâ â heâd seen it before. It was the fire-spotting platform just west of the camp. Heâd passed it on the way in. That was where theyâd stashed the dog!
He covered the bite wound with his mouth to soothe it. This might turn out to be easy after all.
P itch loved climbing in the rain. Clothes turned damp and heavy, and could throw off your sense of balance. The rocks got wet, slippery, and treacherous. Dirt and gravel became loose and unstable. Best of all, most of the other climbers gave up and went home. That left just Pitch, alone with the rock face, the purest relationship in the world â the climber and the challenge.
The crest of the ridge was just a few feet above her now. She pushed for it, enjoying the burn in her muscles. This was always her favorite part â the moment when she reached the top, the highest point, and a whole new vista unfolded before her on the other side.
There was the camp, nestled in the pines. And, about three-quarters of a mile away, the ranger platform where Luthor was safe and sound . . . or was he?
There was a dark shape halfway up the steps on the tower. A person? It had to be. But the shape was kind of wrong, huge across the shoulders. Like Bigfoot wearing blue jeans! Whoever or whatever, it was descending very slowly, almost painfully.
She squinted for a clearer picture, but the platform was just too far away. Acting on pure instinct, she began to climb down the other side of the ridge, moving carefully, yet never taking her eyes off the mysterious figure. She continued to find lower and lower positions, steadying herself with handholds that were often little more than a single finger jammed into a tiny crack or hole. Most mountaineers spent years perfecting the techniques she had grown up with. In the Benson house, it was as natural as breathing.
The mysterious figure was on the ground now, stepping out of the shadow of the tower. All at once, Pitch was low enough to get a good look. It was a man, all right. The giant humpback resolved into a familiar expanse of black and tan fur.
Pitchâs breath caught in her throat. This was Swindleâs man! And he had Luthor slung over his shoulders!
Instinctively, she reached for her cell phone to alert Ben, but then realized sheâd left it back in her cabin. No one climbed with a phone â not if they wanted it to be in one piece at the end of the day. She was on her own. If anything was going to be done, she would have to be the doer.
She sped up her descent. She was no planner, like Griffin. But what she lacked in strategy, she made up for in raw determination. She was going to stop this guy even if she had to tackle him into a tree! Then, hopefully, Luthor would protect her if the goon got mad. As she moved down the rock face, she wondered why Luthor hadnât protected himself, especially in view of yesterdayâs angry mood.
Sheâd find out soon enough â at least, she would if she got there in time.
Hurry up!
She worked her way around a rock spur, and noticed for the first time a mud-spattered red pickup pulled over to the side of the dirt road. It seemed to her that Luthorâs kidnapper was heading there. If he made it to the truck . . .
The wet clay of a foothold
Anais Bordier, Samantha Futerman