One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(21)

“Good.” Feels like a ten-ton house strapped to my shoulders, but I figure that’s as it should be. Now that it’s off, I’m acutely aware that my borrowed high-performance shirt is plastered to my back. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

“Boots?”

I glance down. “Great. My feet are very happy with the socks.”

“Knees, lower back?”

I hadn’t even thought about those body parts, but now that he’s calling attention to them I realize my entire body aches. “I feel fantastic!” I bite off and dare him to argue as I hobble closer.

He continues to study me up and down as if in search of an obvious problem. Apparently, the children are allowed to approach the adults only if they need something.

Martin hasn’t even bothered looking up from the map. In his world, I might as well not exist. Is he that obsessed? Focused? Grief-stricken?

Or is it just me?

“I was wondering how you were doing,” I say.

Nemeth blinks, clearly flummoxed by my question. Martin finally glances up, as if just now noticing my approach.

“What do you mean?” Nemeth asks warily.

“Are you pleased with our progress so far?”

“We’re on pace.”

“Trail conditions seem good,” I comment, as if I know anything about such things. “Weather pleasant, skies clear, temperature not too hot, not too cold.”

“Yes.” He remains suspicious.

“No complaints or group arguments,” I continue.

“No.”

Martin cocks his head to the side and stares at me as if I’m some alien life form. Why is this underling still talking?

I don’t actually have a point. I’m simply trying to engage the two men in conversation. I spend so much time operating outside of my comfort zone, I don’t expect to know what I’m doing. But I’ve learned to listen to my instincts. Nemeth, who holds our survival in his hands. Marty, who organized this party but won’t speak to any of us. I want to know these men. It matters, even if I don’t know why yet.

I take a seat before them, as if they’d sent me a personal invitation. Then I say nothing at all. Have you ever attended an AA meeting? We are experts at silence. So much of our drinking is about filling those gaps, smoothing over awkward moments, trying to feel like we belong when most of us have gone through our entire lives feeling alone in a crowded room. Meaning, it’s one of the first things we must overcome. It’s not enough to stop drinking. We must change who we are, because who we are, are drunks.

Now I retrieve from my pant-leg pocket some coconut almond high-energy power bar I’ve been chewing on since this morning. Being an actual human being, I don’t care for it; mostly, I crave Josh’s stash of peanut butter cups. But given I’m only four hours into a seven-day death march, I figure I should have something to look forward to.

Chew. Swallow. Chew.

Chug water, because to be honest, no matter how much you grind away, the bar still goes down as a solid lump.

“How are the others?” Martin says abruptly. Now he’s the one who has caught me off guard.

“The others? Luciana and Daisy seem fine and dandy. Bob is clearly enjoying the hike. As for the guys . . . Do they actually speak?”

Martin glances across the small clearing, his expression troubled.

“They blame themselves,” he states abruptly. “For what happened.”

“Do you?”

“My son was doing what he loved to do. He . . . disappeared . . . doing what he enjoyed most.”

I notice he doesn’t use the word die.

“Do you know how I ended up meeting Bob and the North American Bigfoot Society?” Martin asks me.

I shake my head.

“I read about another case they were working. A young man who went missing in the mountains of Washington. The Bigfoot hunters are particularly focused on that area. Knowing the trails well, they volunteered to assist. Years later, they’re still combing the woods. One of the guys gave an interview saying they didn’t know what had happened to the young man, but they could see him taken in by a family of Sasquatch and living happily ever after.

“I am a carpenter by trade. A man who works with his hands, believes in things that I can feel and touch. But that quote . . .”

Martin looks at me. “When you lose your child, and I mean lose your son, as in you have no idea where he is, no idea what happened to him, what his last moments might have been like, you need some kind of hope to get you through the day, before the terror finds you again at night. I never even thought about Bigfoot five years ago. Now, I want nothing more than to believe.”

“What was Tim like as a child?”

Martin smiles reluctantly, as if even the happy memories are now forced out of him. “Tim was one of those kids—why walk when you can run, why sit on a sofa when you can jump on the cushions, why talk when you can roar? He drove his mother crazy. That amount of energy . . . he was a force to be reckoned with from the moment he opened his eyes.

“It’s why I took him camping for the first time. Tim had started kindergarten and was already getting into trouble—sitting still just wasn’t his thing. School wanted to hold him back. But Patrice and I could tell that he was plenty smart. He just needed to move.”

Martin shrugs. “I did some asking around and several of my friends suggested camping. Get the boy out, away, into the wild. The activity alone would be good for him. Plus, for many of us . . .” Martin pauses, looks at the towering trees, the endless expanse of underlying green, green, green. “Here is where we belong.”