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Senses on high alert, I limped forward.
Ten yards, then I spotted a dark shape in the shadow of a craggy boulder.
I froze.
The shape didn’t move.
Around me, nothing but wide, eerie silence.
A few more shambling steps.
My heart leapt into my throat.
Monck lay belly-up in the rock’s shadow, looking like a roadkill squirrel.
I totter-raced to him. Was relieved to see no blood.
Squatting, I pressed two fingers to Monck’s throat. Felt his carotid pulsing strong.
“Detective.” I prodded him gently.
He didn’t stir.
“Monck.”
My breath began coming in short hitches.
Do not cry!
“Damn it, Monck! Wake up!”
That did it.
Monck’s lids fluttered, opened. He appeared dazed but, after a moment, managed to focus.
“I’m good,” he said, struggling to sit up.
“You’re not good. You may have a concussion.”
“I don’t get concussions.”
My eyes rolled. A response born of relief, not ridicule.
Monck’s face was the same pale gray as the sedimentary extrusion behind him. Elbowing to his butt he drew in his knees. “Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”
“What happened?”
“I was ambushed.”
“One of them clocked you.”
“In my defense, the asshole had home-court advantage.” While gingerly exploring his scalp.
“Was the newcomer Uri Stribbe?”
Monck shrugged. Winced.
“What do youthink?” I pushed.
