One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(18)

But I don’t drift off.

I remain wide-awake, staring up at the ceiling, wanting things I can’t have. Missing a man I chose to leave behind.

Eventually I roll onto my side. I picture Patrice O’Day, waiting for her son to come home. I imagine the lines easing in her face when her husband finally returns with their son’s body. I visualize the bachelor party friends sagging in collective relief and setting down the weight of their guilt.

A loved one recovered. A mission accomplished.

It will be good, I tell myself. It will be enough.

And that lie gets me through to morning.





CHAPTER 7





No one speaks when the alarm shrieks morning wake-up. Luciana rolls out of bed the second it sounds and is on her feet, pulling on clothes, tending to Daisy. I follow in a fog of sleep deprivation. In my world, five a.m. is for going to bed, not getting get out of it.

No small talk, no breakfast. Just get dressed, gather up personal possessions, and move. Then we are outside, where two white-paneled vans are idling and Nemeth is standing in the middle of the parking lot like an air traffic controller, motioning half of us here, half of us there. I end up in the same vehicle as Luciana, Daisy, Bob, and Nemeth. Martin and his son’s friends ride in the other.

Separate, I think again, as the sun just starts to break over the horizon. Tim’s college friends and his father equal one pod; we are another. I should follow that thought, but the hour is too early, my mind too fuzzy. I lean my head against the cold side window and close my eyes instead.

Then, just like that, the van stops and the door slides open. Nemeth steps out.

“Leave your extra luggage in the van. Marge will keep it safe for the rest of the week.”

Which is when I realize our older female driver in full camo regalia is also the diner owner. Nemeth places a light hand on her shoulder, which would seem collegial for a normal person, but I’m guessing in Nemeth’s understated world is a public declaration of intimacy. Marge doesn’t even look at him but regards us with a cool, assessing stare.

I’m pretty sure they’re soul mates. On the other hand, dear God, where is the coffee?

Bob is moving. Luciana and Daisy, too. They seem to know what they’re doing, so I follow their lead, stepping out of the van, dumping my gear on the ground, then, belatedly, digging out the insect repellent. The others are spraying it on heavily. Even Daisy is subject to some minty-smelling, canine-friendly mosquito napalm. Once that’s completed, everyone pulls on their packs. Again, Daisy fits right in, adorned in a red vest with bulging pouches and a single water bottle.

If a dog can do this, I tell myself, then I can, too.

Of course, the dog has had way more training.

Marge nods once at Nemeth. Some kind of all-set signal. I’m still trying to figure out how she got all of her bouffant curls tucked under her khaki-green hat, when he nods back, and that is apparently that. No lingering kiss as they part for the next week, not even a peck on the cheek. She heads back to the van; he turns toward us.

I’m thinking that this might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed, when Nemeth pauses before me, inspects my gear, then tightens straps here and there. With a final nod, he steps back.

“Today is about hiking into our target area,” he announces. “First eight miles aren’t so bad, but don’t let them fool you. The altitude we don’t gain then we gotta make up the second half. I won’t lie. Final mile is a bitch.”

So much for a pep talk.

“Remember, slow is smooth, smooth is fast. We got a week of hard work ahead of us. No need to be stupid day one. Luciana, Daisy”—Nemeth nods in their direction—“you set the pace. Of all of us, Daisy has the hardest job. What she needs, we will accommodate.”

I notice that Daisy’s red hiking vest is not the official harness most SAR dogs wear when on task. Which makes sense if today is just about hiking into our search destination. Scenting is hard work. No point in exhausting the most valuable member of our party before we must.

“Here’s the deal,” Nemeth continues, his voice totally commanding. “When I say stop, you stop. When I say drink, you drink. When I say snack break, eat a snack. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you want to or not. We’re a group. I’m the leader. What I say goes.”

I wake up a little more, stand a little straighter. Damn, this guy is good—and not just because he has a rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Any foot discomfort”—he pauses, repeats—“any foot discomfort, you will speak up. We will stop, you will adjust your boot, change your socks, apply moleskin, do whatever it is you need to do. Number one cause of expedition failure isn’t grizzly bears or falling off ledges or breaking a leg; it’s blisters. There will be no blisters. Got it?”

We nod obediently. Martin and the young men appear less impressed, having no doubt sat through this lecture before. I’m mentally cataloguing every inch of my feet and informing them they will be healthy and happy because Nemeth says so. I want to believe my feet are impressed.

“Your back starts to ache, your shoulders get sore, you will speak up. We will stop, I will personally adjust your pack.” Nemeth stares at me. “When everyone feels comfortable, we will resume our pace. But again, seven days. What bothers you now might kill you later. There will be no dying on this trek.”