One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(22)

I’m envious. Forty years later, I still haven’t found that.

“We didn’t have a lot of money. Patrice had just gone back to work as a receptionist in a beauty salon; I’m a self-employed contractor. But twenty-five years ago, there weren’t microfibers this, crazy-expensive-tents that. You borrowed gear, you headed into the woods with a can of baked beans, a package of franks, and that was it. You had fun. You got out, you got away, and you laughed like hell with your kid.

“That’s what we did, Tim and I. We hiked into one of the canyons not far from our home, wore ourselves out exploring during the day, practically froze to death at night—and goddamn, there isn’t a second I would change about any of it. Timmy loved it. No one yelled at him to slow down or lectured him about being too loud or begged him to be anything less than who he was. He shone that weekend. That’s what I remember. My boy, with his wild hair and crazy dark eyes, grinning. Ear to ear. The entire two days. I’d never seen him that happy. After that, we were hooked. We escaped as much as possible. Good for Patrice to have some time to herself. Good for her madmen, she’d say, to have time romping in the wild.

“Later, when she was diagnosed with cancer the first time . . . I took Tim camping to break the news. Meant his mother couldn’t be there, but both she and I agreed it would be better that way. Tim could howl at the moon. And I could howl with him. Because it wasn’t fair. Nothing about cancer is fair.

“We didn’t know it then, of course. We didn’t understand. Those were the good old days. When we had only one battle to fight. Soon enough . . .”

Martin stops speaking. He doesn’t have to continue for me to understand. Soon enough, he’d go from a terminally ill wife to a missing son. And now, in a matter of months, he’ll be the only member of his family left. My eyes are moist. I notice, even if Marty doesn’t, that the rest of the group is listening intently.

A noise. Scott, the bachelor buddy who disappeared first that night, stands up abruptly. “Gotta piss,” he mutters, then turns and stumbles into the woods.

The two others, Miggy and Neil, exchange looks. Both stand, head after their friend, because surely it takes three guys to pee in the woods.

Nemeth resumes glaring at me. How dare I disturb the fragile equilibrium of his hiking party. He is both right and wrong. Searches such as this one are about way more than finding tangible remains. They are about gaining closure.

Sometimes that comes from finally having a body. Sometimes that comes from the journey along the way.

I stand up, stepping close enough to touch the back of Martin’s hand as he clutches his map. He flinches, clearly not expecting the contact.

I’m a mess in so many ways. Can’t sleep through the night. Can barely make it a single hour without craving a drink. Don’t know how to live the way other people seem to know how to live.

But grief. Bone-deep pain, soul-searing rage. This I understand.

“Thank you for telling me about Tim,” I murmur. “I will do everything I can to bring him home this week. But I will carry the stories of him with me always.”

Marty glances up sharply. Quick enough I can see the feral nature of his pain. Quick enough he can see the feral nature of my own.

I pull back my hand. Martin folds up his map.

And like survivors everywhere, we continue on with our day.





CHAPTER 9





Bite me, bite me, bite me,” I repeat. Then, just to switch it up: “Good goddamn!”

Screw these woods. Screw my pack. Screw Nemeth, who’s definitely a cyborg. The last half is gonna be more difficult? Seriously??

I’m panting. Staggering forward, one careening step at a time. Leg up, leg down. Pant pant pant. Leg up, leg down. Pant pant pant. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes with a toxic mix of sunscreen, bug spray, and human salt.

No pretty trail winds like a ribbon through the verdant woods. No leveling off of the topography. No end in sight. Dirt, boulders, pine trees. Sometimes, we get a switchback, which is to say a slight turn to the right or to the left before a new route through hell. Then there are steep patches of ledge where there’s no path at all. Instead, we clamber up like spider monkeys, clutching at spindly trees and praying not to slide back down.

I don’t know much about flora and fauna, but so far the forest seems to consist entirely of evergreens. Pine, spruce, fir. I’m basically hiking my way through Christmas. I fucking hate Christmas.

Nemeth and Martin have vanished from sight, leaving Scott, Neil, and Miggy gasping painfully as they trudge along. Even Daisy is reduced to being on point. No more mad dashes into the woods. Just one paw at a time with Luciana following slow and steady behind.

“Stand up,” Bob murmurs from behind me.

“I am standing up!”

“You’re bending at the waist. It’s squeezing your diaphragm, reducing your oxygen supply. I could take your pack—”

“Touch me and I will fucking kill you.”

“Then I recommend placing your hands on your hips, which will expand your chest capacity. Or leave your arms loose and focus on swinging them forward. Where your arms go, your legs must follow.”

I growl. Snarl. Whimper. Then grudgingly swing my arms.

It works. And enables me to focus on something other than my burning calves and exploding heart rate. I can do this.