One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(32)

I’m studying Martin’s map upside down. Devil’s Canyon is very long and wide. This won’t be a simple search at all, especially with only five days to cover as much ground as possible. I imagine the limited timeframe is in deference to Daisy’s stamina. Even working canines need a day off. But all in all, looking at this map, considering the size of our group, this feels more and more like a fool’s errand to me.

I wonder if Miggy might be onto something: Is Martin really convinced he can find his son’s body, or does he just want an excuse to torture his son’s wayward friends year after year?

“Why Devil’s Canyon?” I ask Martin. “Seems far away from Tim’s last known location.”

“This is a long shot,” Martin admits. I wait, because that doesn’t answer my question. Marty finally taps at the map, his finger following a line from the campsite five years ago to where we are now. “Our working assumption is that Tim got lost, became disoriented.”

I nod, understanding the theory—if Tim had met his end closer to the guys’ campsite, someone would’ve found his body by now.

“The first few years, we focused on the most logical ‘wrong’ trails. If Tim headed west instead of turning east at this juncture, then he would’ve ended up on this trail, which could’ve led to that trail, et cetera, et cetera. Or having forked north, he would’ve come to this river, which he could’ve followed to that crossing, leading to this meadow.”

I nod again.

“All of these options assume Tim stayed on the known byways. Safest course of action for a guy lost in the woods. Except . . .” Martin drags out the word.

“You never found him.”

“Which got me thinking. What if he made a judgment call? What if something tempted him to abandon an easier-looking route and strike out on his own? Look at this section here.” Martin moves his finger on the map. “If Tim missed the first turn as he hustled through the night, then he would’ve continued trekking north instead of south. Eventually, he’d find himself hiking along the bottom of this heavily wooded ravine. Nemeth and I did it last year. Tough trail. Narrow, densely wooded, real bitch. Tim would’ve found himself exhausted, disoriented, and desperate to get his bearings. Which brings us to right here. Where there’s a break in the trees. Where a fit, enterprising young man might be tempted to turn off the trail and take a direct route up the side of the ravine in order to reach higher ground. Maybe he thought he could get cell reception or a better vantage point once on top. Of course, that didn’t happen.”

“Nemeth says cell phones are useless in these woods.”

“Not even sat phones work worth a damn. But can’t blame a guy for trying. Now”—Martin returns to the map—“Tim is off trail, traversing the top of a ravine. If he continued his northern route, that path would bring him to this canyon. It’d take him most of the day, but upon arrival he’d see flat land, a large body of water, and opportunities for natural shelter. Shelter, water, and food.” Martin ticks the items off on his fingers. “Tim was smart. He’d recognize immediately this canyon presented his best shot at survival.”

“You’re hoping he took refuge here.” I hesitate, suddenly unsure. Did Martin think his son might actually still be alive? Surviving on his own for five years?

“He wouldn’t have made it through the winter,” Martin says quietly, as if reading my mind. “He didn’t have that kind of gear. Not for mountains this high, terrain this rugged.”

I nod, feeling guilty for bringing it up. Martin straightens, folding up his map.

“We’ve been searching a long time,” he murmurs. “Whether this next week can magically make a difference . . . For Patrice’s sake, I hope so.”

Marty heads back to his tent, while the rest of us remain huddled around the campfire for warmth.

No one talks. Bodies worn-out, bellies full, we succumb to individual comatose states. I move off the log to the ground, where I can stretch out my tired legs while leaning back and peering up at the night sky. The moon, probably three-quarters full, glows like a fat squash. And the stars. So many of them, stretching out forever. I’d nearly forgotten what they looked like, after my last year and a half in major cities.

These same stars spread across the tribal lands where I found Lani Whitehorse’s body at the bottom of a lake. Over the farm where I discovered little Johnny in the trunk of a rusted-out junk car. Over the crack house where I located my very first missing person, a sad young woman whose boyfriend blew off her head rather than let her go.

I wonder if Timothy O’Day did make it this far, five years ago. Was he grateful to stumble into this slice of paradise, thinking he’d finally gotten lucky? Did he look up at this sky every night and think of his soon-to-be bride waiting for him back home, his parents, who had to be going crazy? Did he whisper his secret hopes and hidden fears to these distant pinpricks of light, trusting them to remember him, a lone human in search of comfort?

Eventually, one by one, everyone makes discreet trips into the woods, then disappears into their tents.

I get up when Luciana does, Daisy lumbering slowly to her feet. I follow them to our corner of the campsite. My long-sleeve shirt is comfortable enough so I don’t bother to change. I climb into my borrowed one-person tent, the size of a cozy den. Then I zip myself inside my sleeping bag, the silvery lining reflecting my body’s heat back on me till I’m my own little convection oven.