One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(12)

“Remove your pack, grab your handgun,” I fill in quietly. I shiver slightly. I don’t have Nemeth’s wilderness savvy, yet I understand what he’s saying. There are things you just know. Myself, walking a family farm, first day of arrival. Three generations prattling on how four-year-old Johnny just up and vanished one night. Kidnapped by strangers, abducted by aliens, who knew? Myself, striding from decrepit outbuilding to decrepit outbuilding, piles of rotten lumber, mountains of cattle refuse, knowing—just knowing—little Johnny never left these grounds. The key to what happened to him existed right here, and space invaders had nothing to do with it. Six months later, I was proved right.

“You never found any of Tim’s gear,” I say now. “Not his pack, headlamp, coat, nothing.”

Nemeth nods. “Which is unusual. Forty years ago, when I first started guiding, search and rescue focused on bodies. Did you see the person or not see the person? Some real tragedies later, we revised tactics. SOP when we launch now, we’re not just looking for the missing hiker; we’re looking for signs of the hiker. PLS is place last seen—say, the campsite. Part of the search, however, is to refine that to LKP—last known position. Which could be miles from that campsite, given a broken branch here, discarded water bottle there.”

“It’s like losing an earring,” I think out loud. “You start by retracing your steps from the entire day. Then you stop and think about it. Wait, I remember wearing it at this restaurant, or while watching TV. You narrow your search field, which allows you to focus more intently. Comb every square inch of the sofa, versus tossing the entire house. And voilà, you emerge with pretty bauble in hand.”

“Assuming people are jewelry,” Nemeth deadpans. “First step of any rescue operation is to deploy hasty teams. As their name implies, they start broad and move fast. Generally speaking, they have a fifty to sixty percent probability of detection rate—POD. Meaning we’re sixty percent sure our missing hiker isn’t here. Good enough in the beginning when you’re racing from strategic area to strategic area.”

“What’s a strategic area?”

“That’s one of my first jobs. Looking at a topographical map, I consider where the lost person was last seen, then identify places where he or she would’ve most likely gone off course. For example, trail intersections where Tim might’ve headed left instead of right. Or areas of low vegetation where, given nighttime conditions, he confused an opening between the trees for the continuation of the trail and headed deeper into the woods. There’s not enough manpower in the world to comb through the entire Popo Agie. My job is to consider areas that are most likely and deploy my teams accordingly. With luck, that gets the job done.”

“Except it didn’t.”

Nemeth nods. “At a certain point, it’s time to slow down and switch gears. Think about dropping a quarter in a sandbox. First step is to quickly run your fingers through the sand—the hasty searches. Failing that, you break the sandbox into quadrants and go through each one grain by grain.”

“Line searches,” I speak up. “That’s what I did. We were like the sweepers, scouring the area for every last crumb.”

“Which hopefully results in locating the person. Or . . .” Nemeth eyes me expectantly.

“Or signs of the person.” I get it now. “Which would refine their last known position. Allowing you to revisit the map, identify more high-probability areas, and adjust efforts accordingly.” I bounce on the balls of my feet. I’m getting this. “Except”—my enthusiasm dims—“you didn’t find Tim.”

“Not even signs of Tim. Hundreds of volunteers, weeks of effort. Dog teams, pilots, people on ATVs, locals on horseback, the National Guard. At a certain point, these woods were crawling with able-bodied volunteers. Myself and Sheriff Kelley, we pored over these maps. There’s science to these kinds of operations, but there’s also instinct.” He eyes me. “Generally speaking, I have damn good instincts.”

“Small children take shelter,” I murmur. “The elderly head downhill. The inexperienced follow the path of least resistance.”

“And the tech addicts head up. We have no cell coverage here. As in zero. But civilized folks can’t fathom such a thing. They think if they just get up high enough—say, the peak of that chimney formation—they’ll magically find reception and can call for help. Unfortunately, it can also result in them falling to their death. We considered all the factors and searched accordingly. Five years later, we haven’t found so much as a boot print. A discarded carabiner. A strand of hair. It’s as if Tim, a well-experienced, well-equipped young man, left that campsite and dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Is that why we’re now looking for Bigfoot?”

Nemeth gives me a look. “That’s Marty’s deal. I don’t care. The Bob guy knows how to conduct a proper wildland search.”

“In other words, is more qualified than me. So if you don’t believe in Bigfoot, what do you believe happened?”

“I don’t know.” Nemeth’s glacier-blue eyes are troubled. He shakes his head. “Go home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

“Then take a vacation.”

I have to smile. “This is my idea of vacation.” I return my attention to Josh’s pack, removing the last of his clothing, to reveal a final layer of dehydrated meals.