Free Noctuidae by Scott Nicolay Page B

right. Her pack would only overbalance her on the way back down. They had a window of safety and they’d have to hurry through while it stayed open. However briefly it did. They had no way to tell how long that might be.
    When she hunched over the edge she found Pete waiting in the same spot below. His presence gave her comfort, a surprise in itself. Her hands dug for purchase among the dusty pebbles but her feet found good holds, and soon she was below the rim, her hands on solid stone, heading for Pete. He didn’t move. As she made her way toward him, he offered encouragement —C’mon, yeah, that’s it. Right this way. His steady voice provided a beacon without her looking down.
    Soon she was right above him, and for a moment she feared he might grab her ankle and yank her right off the slope, the last witness to whatever he’d gone and done to Ron. That spasm of terror passed and a fresh impulse seized her, the desire to kick Pete right in the face, send him tumbling into the slot below. He would never bother her again if she did. Never bother anyone . But the keys. . . How badly broken might his body wind up, wedged in the crack below? Would the keys be accessible? What if they flipped from his pocket into the pitch filthy water? She’d never find them, shuddered at the thought of having to reach into that cold opaque foulness, grope blind amongst the sticks and bones. Even if she made it back to the truck without the keys, what could she do? She had no real idea how to hotwire a vehicle. Seek help from the ranchers? Hike out all the way on her own? What if the police found her bootprint pressed onto Pete’s forehead?
    The moment passed. She could not do it. She was no murderer. Her Baptist upbringing on the farm held that far.
    Pete continued his descent and she followed. Though she had to feel with her feet for footholds, she found her handholds on the ribbed rock face with relative ease, and descended keeping just above Pete. They shared no more words till they arrived right above the coffee colored creek at the bottom of the crack, where Pete had to comment —Phase One done at least. And we’re making good time I think . . . not that I can tell anymore. . . Now we’ve gotta get up and outta here. Are you ready?
    —Yeah.
    She was scanning ahead and behind for any remnant of Ron’s broken body, but she saw nothing in her little headlamp’s limited beam beyond the stony V, the stagnant water, the scattered broken ends of branches or bones. No Ron. And still no monster.
    Pete began to chimney along the crack back the way they’d come, and two seconds later she followed. He didn’t look back.
    As Sue-Min rushed to keep up her left hand slipped and her foot sunk half up her calf in the stagnant ink. Right off she felt the cold and cried out, an exclamation half gasp half yelp. She stopped her fall with her forearm, her submerged foot finding no bottom, and wriggled to brace herself anew, but before she could yank her wet foot free, Pete was there to take her arm, offer support. She would’ve shooed him off but her scraped palm already throbbed and the water was cold and who knew what worse?
    —C’mon, he said, —Grab my arm, and she paused only a moment before wrapping first her right hand then her left around his bicep. She could feel the damage to her hand—after everything, she’d forgotten her gloves again. Damn. Pete raised her till her boot rose dripping from the black wet and held her in place until she could get her hands back against the sides of the crevice higher up. She shook her foot back and forth, for what little good it did. The water had run down inside her boot.
    —You okay? Did you hurt yourself?
    —Just wet. And angry at myself for slipping.
    —Not your fault. It’s dark and we’re both rushing. Maybe I was rushing too much. Sorry. It must feel gross.
    —Don’t make me think about it.
    —Yeah. Understood. Let’s keep going then. I want to get up and out of this canyon as