One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(23)

I fall farther behind.

“You can go ahead,” I mutter to Bob, completely humiliated.

“I’m good.”

“I hate pity.”

“Then stop being so pathetic.”

“I hope Bigfoot kicks your sorry ass.”

“Wouldn’t that be something? Please take video.”

I try to snarl again, but it comes out more as a moan. There’s no fun in insulting someone who refuses to be insulted.

A disturbance up ahead. A figure has stepped to the side of the trail as Daisy and Luciana plod silently past.

Miguel from the college trio. He’s broken from the group to stand off to one side, bent over at the waist as he struggles to catch his breath. His short dark hair is plastered against his skull, his khaki shirt totally soaked through. He looks as good as I feel, which, given his considerably younger age and compact, muscular build, makes me feel slightly better about myself.

He glances up as we near, his hands planted on his thighs.

“Go . . . ahead,” he manages.

“Fuck . . . that,” I gasp back and halt beside him. Bob stops as well. Compared to us, the bushy-bearded Bigfoot hunter appears perfectly refreshed. I have a fantasy of him tossing Miggy over one massive shoulder, me over the other, and carrying us the rest of the way. I really wish he would.

“Water,” Bob suggests now. “Small steady sips till you get your heart rate under control. Otherwise, you’ll further dehydrate yourself vomiting.”

“You think?” I snarl.

Miggy nods wearily. He fumbles with his stainless steel water bottle. I reach over and do the honors. As a show of gratitude, he does the same for me.

Luciana and Daisy have now disappeared from view, leaving the three of us behind. The weak links. Well, two of us, anyway.

Miggy’s ragged breathing is starting to slow. The young man looks terrible, his tan face flushed, his shirt drenched. I wonder if he drinks as much as his buddy Josh. Or if he’s simply a mere mortal, not accustomed to hiking a gazillion miles straight up.

Inhale. Exhale. Drink. The thundering in my ears begins to subside. I remain too hot, physically spent, and incredibly shaky. My feet—I didn’t know they could hurt this bad, and I don’t even have blisters. I’m not sure where I’ll find the resilience to begin again.

Miggy hands me his heavy water bottle. I return it to its side pouch. He does the same for me.

He peers at the steep ridge of dirt punching relentlessly up through the hot, dry woods. Where the rest of our party has gone before us. Where we must now follow.

“I wanted to golf,” he murmurs. “That weekend. I voted for golfing. Why the hell didn’t we just go golfing?” Then, almost savagely: “I hate these goddamn woods.”

Which is when I finally understand the real reason Miggy broke from his friends—there is more than sweat beading down his cheeks.

“I hate these goddamn woods, too,” I tell him after a moment.

He laughs brokenly.

We trudge on.



* * *



—

By the time we reach the top of the endless incline, we have all retreated someplace deep inside ourselves. My mind is a carousel of discordant memories.

Myself dancing under hot lights, whirling, whirling, whirling, till the crowded bar was nothing but a blur of neon and a cacophony of wild laughter but I didn’t care because this wasn’t my body and this wasn’t my life and I’d never have to feel any pain as long as I kept spinning.

First time I woke up in a pool of vomit and didn’t remember how I got there.

First time I woke up in someone else’s bed and didn’t know how I got there.

First time I woke up in county lockup and recalled exactly how I got there but still wanted nothing more than another drink.

My twelve-year-old friend’s dog Shaggy, a big, lovable mutt who roamed the neighborhood with his wagging tail and goofy grin, until one day there was a squeal of tires followed by a terrible thump and my father told me not to look outside. I went to my room and tucked myself way back inside my closet because I didn’t want to know. Later, Sophie came over and I snuck us a six-pack of beers from the fridge. We drank one after another, never talking, and my father had to know what we’d done—two semiconscious twelve-year-old girls staring at him blurrily from my bedroom floor—but he didn’t say a word. And I loved him for that.

The first time I saw Paul.

The last, last time I took a drink.

The sound of Detective Lotham’s heartbeat, solid and steady, then increasingly rapid as I pressed myself against him just last year, after my first successfully completed case in a place that came as close to any as feeling like home.

I’m not sure why I’m recalling these particular memories. The good, the sad, the reverent, the humbling. I just know I have to focus on anything other than the agony that is my body.

By the time we arrive, the others have taken up position before a wide, rushing stream, packs off, bodies sprawled. Nemeth and Martin look like their usual stern selves. Like the rest of us, their shirts are soaked with sweat, hair plastered to their scalps. But unlike, say, Scott and Neil, who have collapsed on the ground and obviously plan on never getting up again, Nemeth and Marty look ready for another eighteen miles. Luciana is somewhere in the middle, withdrawn, marshaling her resources. Daisy lounges in the dirt at her feet. The SAR dog looks up at our approach, thumps her tail in greeting, makes no attempt to rise. I understand completely.