One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(107)

Neil, from behind me: “Oh, about that . . .”

I give Miggy’s hand a final squeeze, then leave him and Neil to sort through the mess.

When I phoned earlier, I was given another piece of good news: Scott had been upgraded to stable and moved out of intensive care. Now I ease open the door of his room. He’s sound asleep, tucked in tightly in the middle of the bed. His color looks better, the rise and fall of his chest steady. A huge bandage obscures most of his right shoulder, but he’s still with us. Against the odds, he survived those damn mountains after all.

Latisha didn’t have to go through that phone call again.

I tiptoe back out and turn around just in time to collide with Josh, who’s dressed in street clothes.

“You got bored with bare-assed life?” I ask him.

“Not nearly as comfortable as I thought.” He nods toward Scott. “How is he?”

“Sound asleep. Definitely looks better than yesterday.”

Josh nods.

“How are you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, the silent one being asked to speak up. Finally: “Managed to start the day with a cup of coffee instead of a shot of tequila.”

“That’s excellent, Josh. One day at a time.”

“Yeah. Got that.”

The polite thing to do now would be to inform him I’m also an alcoholic and tell him he can call me anytime. But I don’t. One of the first things you learn in recovery is to set boundaries. I’m in no position to prop up Josh during a weak moment. I can barely prop up myself.

My Tracfone chimes. My cue to depart.

“I’ll try to visit later when Scott’s awake,” I assure him, then turn back down the long glaring-white corridor. I pull out my phone. Sure enough, on the tiny screen:

We’re ready.

I take a steadying breath, then pat my coat pocket to make sure I still have what I need.

I pause just long enough to text back, Fredericka.

Then I push through the ICU doors.





CHAPTER 45





Nemeth looks much the same when I ease myself into the room. I’d heard he’d regained consciousness briefly in the middle of the night, which was a positive sign. Now, however, he appears like a human mummy, most parts of his body bandaged or casted, while machines beep and whir around him.

Marge Santi still occupies the chair next to him. Like Neil, she seems to have slept there overnight. Probably a violation of most ICU rules, but things seem looser here.

She is why I called this morning.

Marge is who I’m truly coming to see.

“How is he?” I murmur as I creep into the space. The wall behind her contains a giant window, allowing the staff to monitor their fragile charges. Standing on the other side of Nemeth’s bed, I can see Marge and anyone who enters the ICU. I slip my right hand into my coat pocket. My tender shoulder squawks, but I ignore it.

“He made it through the night,” Marge allows quietly. She looks terrible. Drawn features, bruised eyes. She must really, truly love him.

“How long have the two of you been together?”

She smiles wanly at my acknowledgment of their relationship. “Twenty years. But we’ve known each other most our lives. Grew up here. Some of the last few true locals in these parts.”

I nod, edging closer to the bed. I can’t see what I’m doing, having to go by feel to slip the small tube out of my pocket and tuck it under the section of top sheet closest to me. I’d removed the cap since first exiting the lobby, letting the open vial trail with me through the hospital.

“You a hiker, too?”

“When I can. Though running the diner and all . . .”

“Hunter?” I ask casually.

Marge nods absently. “Sure. Grew up hunting with my dad. Still tag a buck from time to time.”

The main doors of the ICU are thrust open. The charge nurse is just opening her mouth to object when Daisy comes barreling through, Sheriff Kelley and Luciana hot on her heels. The sheriff is frowning; Luciana is confused. The nurse throws up a hand as if to stop them. One look at the sheriff’s face and she backs off quickly.

A second later, paws scrabble urgently at the door of Nemeth’s room. The low whine of a dog.

I don’t move. I just watch Marge’s face as Luciana quickly pushes open the barrier and Daisy darts in, head moving, moving, moving. She sniffs at me, then zeroes in on the bed.

Then she sits.

Holds up a paw.

Stares at Nemeth intently.

Luciana draws up short. It’s crowded with both her and the sheriff trying to squeeze into the space. The nurse is now in the hallway, clearly at a loss for what to do.

Luciana focuses on me. “I don’t understand.”

“Daisy is a good dog. She found her target. You can reward her now.”

Sheriff Kelley is more succinct. “That man is not dead.”

“No, but his mattress is.”

I withdraw the tiny tube, hold it up. Daisy whines, her gaze never leaving it as I hand it over to Luciana.

“What is this?” Then, as she reads the label: “Pseudo-Corpse Scent. This is synthetic decomp for cadaver dog training. Why the hell do you have synthetic decomp?”

“The real question is, why did Nemeth have synthetic decomp? I found that in his pack. Survival gear I get. But eau de decomp?”