One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(13)

“When do we leave?”

“Six a.m. tomorrow.”

“Given that you’ve already searched most everywhere, what’s our target?”

“Devil’s Canyon. Will take us a whole day of hard hiking just to reach it. Long shot, but it’s one of the few places never thoroughly explored.”

“And once we get there?”

“We let Daisy take the lead.”

The cadaver dog, Martin O’Day’s final hope of discovering his son’s remains.

“Not too late to learn how to shoot a rifle,” Nemeth tells me.

I reach the bottom of the pack, feeling beneath the piles of MREs to pull out a final item in a long black sheath. I yank on the handle to reveal a viciously serrated knife. Like something a Navy SEAL would carry. Or Rambo. It’s both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

“I don’t normally play with sharp objects,” I inform Nemeth, my hand already shaking slightly. But I don’t put it down. The double-edged blade, jagged on one side, razor-sharp on the other, gleams wickedly.

“Word to the wise.” He nods at the blade. “Bottom of the pack is piss-poor planning. Gonna bring it along, at least strap that to your leg, where you can grab it instantly. I might not believe in Bigfoot, but where we’re headed . . . Mother Nature is a fickle bitch and don’t you ever forget it. Now, let me see what I can do about getting you a right-sized pack.”

Nemeth stands up, heads for the door. I’m left alone in the guys’ hotel room, holding a deadly tactical knife jammed into the bottom of the pack by a drunk.

I wonder what Josh was thinking when he threw this in. His idea of basic survival gear? Something more?

Or something worse?





CHAPTER 5





Twelve hours before our early morning departure, I’m starving, nervous, and clueless as to where I’m spending the night. The motel, I suppose, except I’d prefer not to spend that kind of money.

I wonder if Luciana, as the only other female, would let me crash on her floor for the evening. Nemeth had shown me the party’s street-level row of hotel rooms, so I start knocking. The third time is the charm, as Luciana appears in the doorway. Behind her I spot Daisy, sitting before the shuttered closet, one paw raised in the air, body taut with expectation.

“You’re just in time,” Luciana informs me.

“I am?”

“Yes. Daisy is showing off her skills, and she always appreciates an audience.”

Luciana gestures for me to enter. Daisy remains perfectly poised, staring so intently at her target it makes the fine hairs rise on the back of my neck.

“Is there a dead body in your closet?” I ask.

“Close.” Luciana draws back the accordion-style door. In the next instant, Bob bursts from the tiny space in full bushy-bearded glory.

“Ta-da,” he booms.

Luciana rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning ear to ear. “Okay,” she declares brightly, and Daisy leaps to her feet, tail wagging wildly. The Lab mix prances all around Bob, who fusses over her accordingly. Then Daisy races over to me for additional praise.

“Daisy is a fully trained SAR dog,” Luciana informs me as she produces a long, brightly colored squeak toy for her ecstatic charge. “She’s skilled in live, cadaver, and water searches. Our team specializes in disaster recovery, meaning we don’t know what we’ll discover on-site—could be living people, could be deceased, could be both. Our canines need to be able to identify all. Even dogs prefer happy endings, however—too many cadaver recoveries in a row make them depressed. Given Daisy’s next week will be about human remains, we’ll need to take turns letting Daisy ‘find’ us to keep her morale up. Bob was so taken with the idea he volunteered to be her first target.”

“She’s certainly very excited,” I observe as Daisy tosses her squeak toy in the air and catches it again.

“She has a natural drive to find. You can’t train a dog without it.”

Bob goes down on his knees to scratch the yellow Lab’s entire body. She huffs in pleasure. “Who is the best dog? You are the best dog. Yes, you are. Yes, yes, yes!”

I’ve never seen such a huge man reduced to baby talk, but I like it. After my very sobering conversation with Nemeth, this room is a happy place to be.

“I thought search dogs normally barked to signal they’d found something,” I say to Luciana.

“Many do. It’s a trainer’s prerogative. I’m not a fan of the barking myself; I think that can be scary for the missing person. Can you imagine being a lost child in the woods or someone buried under rubble, and having a strange dog suddenly appear and bay at you? I teach my dogs to sit as an alert system. Daisy added the raised paw. She has a flair for the dramatic.”

Daisy wags her tail again. She is clearly quite pleased with herself. Given my last animal roommate liked to rake her claws across my ankles and leave trails of disemboweled mice across the floor, Daisy seems particularly charming.

“I’m starving,” I state now. “I was thinking of one last, ginormous hot meal before a week of freeze-dried rations. Any takers?”

“I can always eat!” Bob climbs to his feet.

“How much food do you have to carry with you to last seven days?” I ask him in wonder.