One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(100)

More nodding. The sheriff takes a step back, his most immediate concerns addressed. “When we find Martin O’Day’s remains, do you know who I contact?”

“His wife, Patrice.”

“You understand she’s not doing so great. Relaying the news of Marty’s passing was difficult enough. Burdening that poor woman with the logistics of body transport feels just plain cruel.”

I understand the sheriff’s point.

“Neil,” I murmur at last. Of the friends’ group, it sounds like his injuries are the least severe, putting him in the best position to step up to assist. Not to mention, once Tim had planned Neil’s sister’s funeral, making it even more fitting for Neil to handle Martin’s remains. Soon enough, after proper identification, Tim’s body would be released for burial as well. And inevitably, given Patrice’s diagnosis, three tombstones in a single line. Mother. Father. Son.

I want to find romance in the notion that they will be together forever. I don’t. Tim should’ve lived. Any parents will tell you that. Their child should not lie in the cemetery plot next to them.

I have a question of my own for the sheriff. “There’s another friend, Josh . . .” I didn’t have enough time to learn everyone’s last names, making this awkward. “He was admitted to a hospital to detox. I’m guessing this hospital?”

Sheriff Kelley nods. “He’s here. Docs were about to ship him to rehab when the reports came in of injured hikers. He’s been bouncing from room to room ever since, checking on buddies. In the beginning, the nurses tried to get him to stay put. No one pays him no mind anymore. You see a guy wandering the halls with his ass hanging out of a hospital johnny, that’s your man Josh.”

“Okay.” I think I’ll go looking for him. Though why, I can’t really say. Maybe I just want to talk to someone who’s also begging the universe to let Scott and Miguel pull through. It’s presumptuous of me. I knew them a matter of days. Josh was their best friend for more than a decade. But in a weird way, I also feel I know him, having heard all the stories. The final member of Dudeville. The quiet one, whose tendency toward silence has clearly taken its toll.

“Any new word,” I ask now, “on Miguel and Scott?”

“Miguel Santos just got upgraded to stable, I’m told. Scott Riemann . . . I’m not gonna lie. He’s in bad shape. Wife should be here shortly.”

I nod, feeling each word like a punch to my gut. “Luciana said Nemeth is also seriously injured.”

“By rights, Nemeth should already be dead,” the sheriff states bluntly. “But that man . . . he isn’t a legend around these parts for nothing. He’s got a community pulling for him. And I don’t bet against any man whose been through everything he’s been through. If anyone can shake this off, it’s him.” I hope what the sheriff says is true. Losing Martin was hard enough. For both him and Nemeth to be gone would create a hole in the universe—this is where the tough bastards used to be. The world would be an emptier place.

“Stay close,” the sheriff informs me. “Still some unraveling to be done.”

He wants contact information. All I can offer him is my Tracfone number and a vague reference to the motel across from the diner in Ramsey, room registered in Luciana’s name. Sheriff Kelley nods as if this all makes perfect sense. Maybe around here it does.

Then the sheriff is gone. A doctor appears. True to Luciana’s assessment, I can leave anytime I want. My right shoulder, recently dislocated, will hurt like a son of a bitch for the next couple of days. Same with my sprained ankle, not to mention my swollen and discolored face. But all in all, my injuries are superficial and time is on my side.

Just let them know when I’m ready to be discharged, says the doctor, who appears to be approximately twelve. I get the hint they need my bed sooner versus later.

The doctor departs. I’m left struggling with basic questions, such as where are my clothes? Or the rest of my worldly possessions, most of which were in my backpack, because I’m that kind of girl?

I last an entire thirty minutes before I just can’t take it anymore. Screw lying around, waiting for a nurse to assist me. I pull out the IV needle myself. A little bloody, but compared to the past few days . . . I disconnect the pulse monitor on my index finger. Then, when machines start screeching, I unplug them, one by one.

I pull back the first curtain and, feeling the wind beneath my johnny, venture forth.



* * *



—

    I hurt. I knew I would, but the first few minutes still take my breath away. I’m pretty sure my heavily bandaged ankle spews fire every time I take a step. But so much of me erupts in excruciating pain, it’s hard to be sure. Muscles, joints, limbs, torso, face.

I haven’t had the courage to look in a mirror yet. I already trust I won’t like what I see.

For now, I shuffle. Out of the curtained area, down a corridor where actual rooms exist. Some doors are open, some closed. I spot a variety of people in various stages of sleep, socialization, and distress, but none are the persons I’m seeking.

Finally, I come upon a room with a johnny-garbed male sitting in the spare chair. Bingo. I stride—limp—through the doorway.

I immediately recognize the unconscious form lying in the hospital bed: Miguel. His eyes are closed, his face half covered by an oxygen mask. But those features, that dark hair . . . I instantly want to touch his forehead, caress his cheek, hold his hand. Not lover to lover. More like mom to pup, except I’ve never been a mother in my life.