One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(15)

“I’ll bring you extra bread,” she says.

“Excellent!”

She walks away, still appearing a bit nonplussed. I smile, already imagining the stories she’ll be telling in the kitchen.



* * *



—

    The bread arrives. Bob dives in, butters up. None of us are talking, but it feels companionable. Luciana is texting someone on her phone. Bob is happy with his bread basket. I’m content to study my fellow diners and imagine how happy and perfect their lives must be, even if I, of all people, should know better.

Eventually the food arrives: a plate for myself, a plate for Luciana, half a table for Bob. Luciana puts away her phone and we all dive in.

Between bites of food, I learn that thirty-something Luciana is from Colombia, though her family moved to the States when she was eight and she doesn’t remember much before that. She always loved animals and started out volunteering at the local animal shelter, where she met a woman who specialized in animal training. Eventually, Luciana started working with Belgian Malinois, which led to SAR dogs, which led her to Daisy.

Rescue work pays as well as my job does—or Bob’s for that matter. Many people don’t realize this, but even supplying world-class SAR dogs is a volunteer gig. Luciana doesn’t frequent missing persons boards such as Bob and I do. Being part of a larger disaster response team, when her phone rings, she and Daisy are off. There is a network of volunteer pilots who ferry the teams for free. In international situations, the primary agency, say, the Red Cross, might pay for food and lodging—but that’s about it.

Professional project manager for an online insurance company by day—she smirks—training in the Batcave at night.

Bob’s turn. He grew up in Idaho, one of five kids, and swears he’s the runt of the family. We don’t believe him till he produces a family photo on his phone. Technically speaking, his mother and sister are slightly shorter, but they also appear significantly rounder. His father and brothers are truly massive, looking like the defensive line of a professional football team. The entire family gravitates to horticulture and animal husbandry, which makes Bob’s interest in cryptozoology understandable.

Bob lives in Washington now, where his daytime gig is teaching: biology at a local high school. Summers are reserved for Bigfoot hunting.

“Why Sasquatch?” I ask now, expecting some personal story of a close encounter of the ape-like kind.

“Why not Sasquatch?” Bob replies, scarfing down the last of the nachos. Then, when I’m still peering at him skeptically, “Why missing persons cold cases?” he challenges me.

“Because someone has to find them, and sadly, the authorities often aren’t looking.”

“Exactly.” Bob beams at me. He has cheese in his copper-colored beard. If anyone can pull off the look, it’s a Norse god.

I turn to Luciana. “How did you become a member of this party?”

“I’ve worked with Nemeth before, finding an elderly man who wandered off into the mountains. Nemeth called, I answered.”

“And you?” I quiz Bob.

“Marty contacted me a few years ago, looking for information. We’ve been in touch ever since.”

“And you know about the other missing hikers?”

“Yep. Six in total.”

Lisa Rowell had said at least five. So six sounds right.

Luciana is nodding, so apparently she’s familiar with the bigger picture as well.

“What do you put our odds of success at?” I ask no one in particular.

Luciana does the honors. “I think we’ll find something—or really, Daisy will find something. Want to know an interesting fact involving large-scale searches of wilderness areas?”

“Sure.”

“Volunteers almost always discover a body. Just not the body they’re looking for. There’s that many human remains in the woods.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Bob, on the other hand, has no such issues. He regards both of us hopefully. “So . . . dessert?”



* * *



—

It’s nine p.m. by the time we return to the motel. True to Rowell’s prediction, the temperature has dropped sharply, and I have my arms tucked tight against my torso for warmth. The sun has set. Above us, the stars spread out against the dark blue sky like a scattering of diamonds. It is beautiful and mesmerizing and humbling.

And I have that fizzy, restless feeling I get right before a new case. Nerves. Anxiety. Basic personality. Even as a kid, I couldn’t sit still. I was always seeking something more, looking for anything but what was in front of me. Which translated to twenty-plus years of hard-core drinking before I met Paul and he showed me the patience and acceptance I couldn’t show myself.

Now I have this, a job few understand. Standing in the parking lot right now, however, Bob to one side and Luciana to the other, I think this might be the closest I’ll ever come to discovering like-minded souls. The only difference being they pursue their efforts as side projects, whereas I’ve walked away from everything most hold dear just to be here, with people I’ve never met, looking for a person who’ll never come home alive.

I’m tired. I’m hyper. I want to plunge into the woods and recover Timothy O’Day’s body so his mother can die in peace. I want to run all the way back to Boston and place my head against Detective Dan Lotham’s solid shoulder and . . . let go. Fall just so he can catch me. My body will melt into his. He will stroke my skin and it will feel better than anything I’ve ever found in a bottle.