One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(50)

“Nemeth is unbeatable.”

“You know this how?”

“Local gossip. Hiking group got lost twenty-something years ago, end of October. Volunteers were activated, Nemeth leading the charge. An unexpected blizzard hit above nine thousand feet, caught Nemeth and his team. They were a party of eight. Four days later, only Nemeth was recovered alive. Pretty much a human Popsicle, but he recovered fully in the end. He isn’t from the wilderness, the locals like to say. He’s of the wilderness. And mountains never die.”

I’m impressed, then notice my charge’s drooping eyelids. “Uh-uh-uh. Eyes open. Sorry, but that’s the way it’s gotta be. More water?”

Neil’s eyes open. He sighs harder. “Fine.”

“Have Nemeth and Martin gone at it before?” I ask him as I remove the cap from the thermos. He drinks long and hard. His color appears normal, but I’m worried he’s running on the adrenaline rush following his initial injury. Once that fades . . .

“Directly? Not that I know of. But both are stubborn old farts. Tim used to say . . . his mother survived cancer first time cuz Martin willed it.”

“I don’t think his will is working out so well these days,” I say quietly.

“Guess not. Or maybe he’s stopped telling his wife what to do. Poor Patrice.”

Neil shifts restlessly, then promptly winces from the pain.

I give him more water. Nemeth left us with one of the largest bottles. Now is not the time to be stingy.

“Nauseous?” I ask my charge. “Headache? Bellyache? What’s your name?”

“Fuck you,” he mutters without any heat.

“That would be my name. I asked for yours.”

A reluctant smile. He blinks his eyes several times, seems to be forcing himself to rouse. “Last time I split open my scalp”—he fingers the top of his caked hair—“they used staples to close it up. I still have the dents. Six of them. Duh, duh, duh. That hurt. This . . . I’ll live.”

“You’ve broken your skull that much?”

“Let’s just say . . . I was a clumsy kid.” He emphasizes the word clumsy enough for me to understand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. My old man was a drinker. The stronger the booze, the quicker his fists. At least he finally drank himself to death. Couple of decades later than my sister and I would’ve liked, but done is done.”

“Younger or older sister?”

“Younger. Four years. Baby of the family.”

“I take it you were especially clumsy when she was around?”

“Ding, ding, ding, give the woman a prize.”

“My father loved his beer,” I volunteer. “And Jack Daniel’s and anything else he could get his hands on. He wasn’t a violent drunk, though. Just an unemployed one.”

“Your mom?”

“Worked two jobs. Hated him, loved him, resented him. But didn’t kick his sorry ass out the door. I’ve never known why. First, I was too young to ask the question. Then I was too drunk to care. And then . . .” I shrug. “They were too dead for me to ask.”

Neil twists his head to study me, moving slowly to keep the ice pack in place. “You got the drinking gene?”

“Started early and went at it hard,” I assure him. “I don’t remember most of my twenties. Given I spent them in LA encouraging strange men to pay my bar tabs, it’s probably better that way.”

“Drugs?”

“In my drinking days, I’d take whatever you were offering. But liquor remains my first love. The rest, I can walk away from. I’m lucky that way.”

“My sister, Becca, loved it all. Drink it, snort it, smoke it, inject it. Nothing she didn’t try. I blamed my father. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. But then he died, and she was still a train wreck. Lost her license. Lost her job. Picked up a new loser boyfriend. The two of them . . . like the meth-head version of Bonnie and Clyde, racing their way to the bottom. My mom and I tried. Interventions, rehab, AA, substance abuse counselors. For a while, every penny I earned went to my sister’s latest treatment. But Derek the Douche always reappeared. And she always went away with him.”

“You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

“You?”

“Sober ten years, five months, and”—I’ve lost track of dates—“eighteen days. Took me a couple of tries, though. And I did have help, someone who believed in me until I was strong enough to believe in myself. I take it your sister . . . ?”

“Drank herself to death?” Neil smiles thinly. Despite my best efforts, his eyes are at half-mast. I snap my fingers, forcing him to focus.

“Remember. No sleeping.”

“No dying,” he finishes.

“That’s the spirit.”

“She OD’d. My sister. Two years after I graduated from college. Police found her body in some abandoned warehouse. Derek the Douche was long gone. Probably grabbed the rest of their drugs and booked it while her body was still warm. I always thought the call would come in the middle of the night, but no. Eleven a.m. on a Tuesday. I was sitting at my desk at work. Saw my mother’s number and picked up without suspecting a thing.”