One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(20)

Yet here we are, tramping through the woods, halting when Nemeth tells us to halt, force-feeding protein bars when he orders us to snack. I find it fascinating how the three guys keep to themselves: Scott, Neil, and Miggy.

They introduced themselves this morning, their manners perfunctory. I haven’t heard them speak since, though our party of eight has quickly broken into a series of separate groupings. Nemeth and Martin are in the front, a twin pair of leaders, with Nemeth hiking ahead with the rifle, then passing it off to Martin to do the same.

The three buddies drift along behind them in a tidy row. They keep their heads down, their faces shuttered. They do what they’re told, question nothing. Have all three of them returned every summer on this same hopeless mission? I wonder if it’s the yearly searching that drove the fourth member of their group, Josh, to drink. Or the guilt over that one night.

Or something else entirely?

Luciana and Daisy follow the young men, a separate unit of two. Luciana is letting Daisy relax off leash, though I notice she’s quick to call the dog back anytime Daisy darts into the woods after squirrels. Luciana is the dog-manager version of Nemeth, forcing her charge to pace herself.

I follow shortly behind Luciana and Daisy. So far, so good. My calves ache slightly and I’ve been out of breath since we started, but not in an awful sort of way. Of course, it’s still early in the day. I have no idea how many miles we’ve covered and I don’t want to. Like any addict, I’ve spent the past ten years perfecting the one-step-at-a-time approach. I refuse to surrender my only competitive advantage now.

Bob brings up the rear. When we pause for snacks, he confers with Nemeth and Martin, which leads me to believe he’s third man on the leadership totem pole. As a Bigfoot hunter, he should be nearly as wilderness savvy as the other two. Hence his strategic position as sweeper—ensuring no member of the team falls behind.

He doesn’t speak much as he idles along behind me, but there’s an energy about him that’s reassuring. Of all of us, only he and Daisy appear to be enjoying themselves. Nemeth is an eagle-eyed scout, never resting for a moment. Martin appears to be strung tighter than a drum. The three college friends are shut down, and Luciana is in work mode even if she’s given her dog the day off, while I’m in my own little world of What the Fuck, which, to be honest, is my norm.

Which makes us an interesting group as we trudge along. The trail winds through the woods, a ribbon of hard-packed earth lined with sagebrush and grasses, dusted here and there with pine needles. The air smells like sun-soaked sap and icy streams, with an undertone of bug spray, sunscreen, and human sweat. It feels green and blue and brown, a caress against my face.

The occasional whine of insects. The whisper of wind among towering pines. The chatter of squirrels fussing over our intrusion. Timothy O’Day loved these woods. Tim chose here, these mountains, these trails, to celebrate his final days as a bachelor with his closest friends.

Which makes me aware of the deeper, darker shadows lurking around the edges. The relentless pounding of boots striking the ground, the sight of the rifle, slung over Nemeth’s shoulder, the silence of friends who won’t even speak as they set out once more to search for their buddy’s remains.

What can I add to this somber funeral party and recovery mission rolled into one?

Maybe in this case it’s not about asking the right questions or having an ear for the wrong answers. Maybe it’s simply that I know and accept in ways most people never do that for everything going on in this nearly impenetrable wilderness, the biggest danger comes from the eight humans who just hiked into it.





CHAPTER 8





We break next at a small clearing at the top of a knoll. We are encircled by woods still thick enough to block any scenic views. Sadly, that means we’re nowhere close to emerging into the so-called Devil’s Canyon. Given we haven’t passed the midday mark, we probably haven’t even started the challenging second half Nemeth warned us about. Meaning that refreshing feeling of working leg muscles, which is quickly turning into a burning fire, is a pain I’d better get used to.

Nemeth has a point: Hiking is not the same as walking. But speaking as one of those people who would let hell freeze over before admitting the other guy is right, I remain confident in my ability to carry on. If only to piss off the boss.

In contrast to their behavior at our earlier stops, which involved short pauses for warm drinking water and gummy energy bars, Nemeth and Martin head over to a downed tree, remove their packs, and take a seat. Does this mean we’re on lunch break? Do backcountry expeditions get a lunch break?

The others quickly follow suit, college buds collapsing to one side, Bob, Luciana, and Daisy decamping on the other. My first instinct is to head over to them. I like them, not to mention we’re a logical grouping of our own. The odd men out.

But it’s not my job to belong. Meaning I gird my loins and cross over to where Marty and Nemeth sit, their heads nearly touching as they regard Martin’s ubiquitous map.

Nemeth glances up first, his narrow blue gaze performing an immediate scan of my figure, then the surrounding woods. It’s possible the veteran guide is part cyborg. Wouldn’t surprise me at all, given I’m currently drenched in sweat, while his weathered features are covered in a light sheen of moisture.

His attention returns to me.

“How’s the pack?” he demands.