One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(37)

I have to admit, I’m enjoying the show.

“Several dozen—”

“We’re a party of eight.” Miggy, doing the same math I performed last night. “We’re going to need at least sixteen a day. So basically you’re saying we have, what, a two-day supply?”

“Three. Four if we’re careful.”

“Careful? What the fuck is careful? Last night, we supposedly did everything careful and Scott here is missing half of his chest, while you lost half our food.”

Nemeth clearly doesn’t appreciate that comment. He’s just opened his mouth to argue, when Martin steps forward.

“Stop it.” There’s a tone to his voice. Nemeth, Neil, and Miggy shut up, and Scott finally looks up from the fire.

“I’ve counted the meal kits. We’re good for four days. This might shorten our trip, but it doesn’t change our immediate plans.” Martin turns to Scott. “Can you still hike?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then there’s nothing else to discuss. Finish up, get dressed. We head out in thirty.”

With that, Martin is done. He turns back to his tent. After another tense moment, Nemeth follows.

“Well, that was interesting,” Luciana murmurs beside me.

“You have no idea,” I tell her.

The college buddies are already on the move. They may resent Martin, maybe even hate him, but they clearly feel obligated to obey him.

I finish up my oatmeal, down the last of my coffee. My entire body hurts. The idea of slipping my feet back into my boots almost has me undone. It’s a two-hour walk to the caves, Martin said last night. I have no idea how I’m going to do that, given I can barely make it to my tent.

“Today, I’m grateful for this beautiful morning,” I murmur, drawing upon my AA training. “Today, I’m grateful for the sun, and my new dog friend, Daisy, and the opportunity to be out in the great outdoors. Today, I’m grateful I haven’t had a drink.”

I give it a moment. For my shoulders to come down. For my buzzing brain to center.

Then I pull on my still-damp clothes from yesterday, strap my badass blade to my belt, and prepare for another long trek through the woods.



* * *



—

Luciana helps me reorganize my pack with enough supplies for a day-trip versus a weeklong expedition. I refill my water bottles, reload snacks. Belatedly, I discover I never handed over Josh’s secret stash of chocolate or dozen protein bars. Given the food bags’ fate, I’m grateful I kept the snacks to myself. Though I may have to change my mind if I wake up to a grizzly in my tent.

Nemeth and Martin finish up the camp chores. Food secured, fire banked, tents zipped shut. Then we’re off.

We start out much as we did yesterday morning, which was only twenty-four hours ago and already feels like another lifetime. Nemeth, slinging the rifle over his shoulder, takes point. Martin follows close behind. Then the guys, all of them wincing with each step. Next come Luciana and Daisy, with Daisy now clad in a black duty vest and trotting happily. The dog clearly knows she’s off to work and is excited about it.

I trudge after them, grateful for my significantly lighter pack and telling myself my stiff, sore muscles will loosen up anytime now. Just one more step. And another. And another.

Bob plays sweeper, his long legs effortlessly gobbling up the trail. I slow to put a little distance between us and Luciana.

“You okay?” he asks as we start to lag.

“How long have you been a member with the North American Bigfoot Society?” I ask him.

“Ten years. Wait, maybe twelve. Awhile now.”

“Isn’t it a volunteer organization?”

“We have an elected board, that sort of thing. Given our size, most meetings are online. But local members often come together for group hikes, organized searches of a target area, that sort of thing.”

“Help with lost hikers?”

“Sure. Most of us spend lots of time in the woods. If there’s anything we can do to help . . .”

“Are there paid positions?”

He laughs. “Don’t I wish. I’m currently the secretary. Trust me, it’s all for love, not money.”

“Then why did Martin write you a check for five thousand dollars?” I twist enough so I can catch the expression on Bob’s face as he walks behind me. His red-gold beard is either that thick, or he’s that cool under pressure, because he gives nothing away.

“Marty didn’t pay me any money. Marty did”—Bob pauses to emphasize the next phrase—“write a check to the North American Bigfoot Society. A thank-you, for all the help we’ve offered over the past few years with his search.”

“Five thousand dollars is one helluva thank-you.”

“That would be a question for Marty, not me.”

There’s a note of tension in Bob’s voice now. A curtness at odds with his normal easygoing manner. The Bigfoot hunter’s sensitive on this subject. Why, if the check was nothing but an appreciative gift to his group?

I don’t know Bob well. We are online acquaintances, virtual comrades in arms when it comes to seeking what others haven’t found. But I know a liar when I hear one, and Bob is lying to me.

“Do you really believe there’s a Sasquatch in these woods?” I ask after a second, as we pass the tip of the lake, start to loop around to the other side, en route to the caves.