One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(54)

“How was the cliff climb? Did you see the green thingy, up high?”

“Yes.” His voice is as terse as Luciana’s. Apparently, everyone had a fun-filled afternoon.

“Who did the climbing?”

“I did. You were right. Too narrow for Bob, and Miggy’s afraid of heights.”

“What about Marty?” Because I could see the man scaling the Empire State Building if he thought it would help him find his son.

“Bob ruled him out. Told him he needed to stay below and help direct my path.”

“And Martin accepted this?”

“A chance to watch me suffer more? You bet.”

“You seem to have a complex on this subject.”

“What did Neil tell you?”

“What do you think?”

Scott doesn’t take the bait. He falls silent, then, abruptly: “I couldn’t do it. Follow the cliff trail? There’s this section, only way to continue is to jump.”

I nod, having seen it myself.

“I wanted to. I tried to. But every time I went to launch . . . I kept seeing Latisha, and all I could think was, what if I slipped and fell? What if she had to receive that phone call a second time? I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t do that to me.”

I don’t say anything, letting the silence drag out. Soon enough:

“I want to do better,” he whispers. “I want to be better. You have no idea. Ever since that night . . .” A deep, shuddering sigh. “Goddammit.”

Again, I wait.

“I didn’t make it all the way up the path. I couldn’t retrieve whatever’s there. Marty screamed at me. Bob physically restrained him from attacking me. Then we felt the wind change, glanced to the south, and bolted out of there. Thank God.”

“Martin will want to go back.”

“Yep.”

“You?”

“I want to do better. I want to be better,” he repeats with a sad grimace. “Goddammit.”

“Did you brain Neil with a rock?”

“No! Why would I do that?”

“You tell me, because clearly you and your friends have been holding back.”

Scott shakes his head. “I didn’t attack Neil. I have no reason to hurt him. I found him already bleeding on the ground. Swear on my unborn child.”

“And the food bags?”

“No idea. Last night happened just as I said. I left my tent, thought I saw Tim, and took off into the woods, and then . . . you found me. And Luciana superglued my chest. You don’t think . . .” Scott pauses, finally turns toward me with wide eyes. “You don’t think it could’ve actually been Tim? That somehow, after all these years, he’s still alive?”

“Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Oh Jesus.” Scott sounds more terrified now than ever before.

“What did Josh lose?”

“What?”

“Tim was generally a good guy and a great friend. But he had a habit of wanting what others had. And you guys had a habit of forgiving him. Until you didn’t. Was it Josh? Was that the breaking point? What did Josh lose?”

I don’t think he’s going to answer me, but then, suddenly, bitterly:

“His faith in his friends. His trust in humanity. His self-respect. After that, what’s left?”

I don’t have an answer, which is just as well, because Scott refuses to speak again.

We trudge back through the woods to base camp. One man down. Seven people lost deep in their own thoughts.

And one terrible suspicion growing in my head.





CHAPTER 21





I’ve never been so grateful to arrive anywhere as our damp collection of tents. The sun is starting to set as we enter the campsite, light falling, temperatures cooling. My rain-soaked clothes that felt refreshing two hours ago are now cold and clammy against my skin.

After the physical and emotional exertion of the day, I want nothing more than to crawl into my sleeping bag and collapse. Camping, however, doesn’t work like that. Neil needs tending; the fire demands building; water requires fetching.

No one speaks as we fall into our roles. Nemeth and Scott unbundle Neil from the travois. Miggy hits the fire, working some kind of magic that gets wet wood burning. I fetch pails of water, while Luciana tends to Daisy. Martin retrieves our food. We’re like a dysfunctional family, ignoring the nearly palpable tension till chores are finished and food is on the table.

When I return with the final two buckets, Neil is situated in front of the now roaring fire, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a blue shawl while Luciana carefully rinses the back of his head. She touches. He flinches. She touches again. He flinches again. Still, no one says a word.

Martin appears with the scentproof bag of remaining meals. He sets it down, opens it up, and just like that, dinner is served. We take turns choosing main courses and adding boiling water. I am both hungry and not hungry. I have a squirrel brain under the best of circumstances. After today’s events, I can’t concentrate. My mind hums, my skin feels too tight, and my nerves thrum wildly. These are the moments I most crave a drink. To save me from myself. Or at least escape for a little while.

Fortunately, there are no bars in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, there’s no cell phone reception, sat phones, or radios either.