Last Track, The by Sam Hilliard

to me.” Holding down the button on the walkie-talkie, Dagget buzzed Lisbeth. A few moments passed before the dialogue started. Lisbeth did most of the speaking.
    Dagget peeled off from the trail to have the conversation, turning the volume down, although Mike could still hear both sides of the conversation.
    “You disappeared,” Lisbeth said.
    “I was checking something out.”
    “You are supposed to be checking things out with Mike. As in together.”
    “It was just a misunderstanding . . .” Dagget said.
    “Work through that,” Lisbeth said, “or you’re both coming back in. And you don’t want that, because there’s really nothing much for you to do around here. Unless you like the smell of car exhaust and parking tickets. That clear enough?”
    “Yes, Detective.” The shock was all over his face.
    “Excellent. Next time answer when I buzz you.” Her firm statement ended the conversation.
    When Dagget jammed the walkie-talkie into the belt holster, the plastic catch almost snapped in half from the force. He scowled. He did not look at Mike for some time. Finally he spoke. “There’s a stream a minute from here. I’ll go fill the canteens.”
    •••
    Sean Jackson hardly remembered the sensation of pedaling his arms and legs. That was before the stiffness in his muscles and joints. Sore from sleeping on the hard ground, he was tired. A mild case of dehydration aggravated a pull in his quadriceps. Hunger and thirst made his head throb.
    When he found a wide stream, he celebrated by shouting, collapsing on the soil, and dunking half of his head beneath the surface.
    The liquid turned his stomach on end and burned his sinuses, but he gulped more. Sean drank greedily without regard for taste or temperature, sucking in so much all at once he nearly choked. His throat was raw and burned as if he had puked. He was so happy, Sean could ignore the stomach acid. At last he had water.
    For half of the first day, he denied his predicament. He just rejected it without question. Surely the right trail, the right turn, the right move was around the next stretch. It just had to be.
    In the beginning, the trees had varied as he crisscrossed through the woods. He remembered that. He had noticed the difference between a beech and a pine. This was no longer true. Fatigue had sharply eroded his cognitive skills.
    Now when he noticed the trees at all, they were part of the same blur: massive, knotty trunks, covered with green, pirouetting toward the sun. As daunting as the landscape might be, he stared upwards for long stretches, missing breaths. This lack of oxygen further aggravated his panic receptors, making his steps more unsteady.
    His chest was clear and open, and for that he was grateful. Whenever it tightened, he tapped the inhaler and a warm rush washed through his lungs.
    What scared Sean about asthma was less the symptoms and more the loss of control. Painful as asthma could be, the physical discomfort only explained a small part of his fear. The real terror was how the attacks struck without warning, and knowing the only thing that might save him was the inhaler. And he was most afraid that someday his chest might constrict so completely that the inhaler would fail, leaving him utterly helpless.
    Above him a small bird roosted in a tree. He mistook the finch for a woodpecker. Distracted by the bird, his left sneaker skated across something lodged in the soil. Nearly slipping, he righted himself midstep. Sean glanced downward at the long, thin, almost cylindrical object in the soil. He barely recognized the object at first.
    A human thighbone.
    12:24:34 PM
    The Partner’s tone changed midconversation. A shift of inflection at the end of sentences. A slight rise in pitch when asking questions. Subtle cues, and Crotty perceived them. He noticed because he was trained to observe details. The impasse between them gave him plenty of opportunities to sharpen his skills.
    For months now, they had handled most