One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(25)

A third cry. Shrill. Building, higher, higher, higher. Then, a sudden sharp cutoff. Like a blade severed the sound. Or the creature making it.

Daisy whines, presses closer to her handler.

Another exchanged look between our two leaders, but no words spoken.

Nemeth shoulders the rifle, takes point. Bob prepares to bring up the rear.

They’re lying to us. Wild animals, my ass. But why? What don’t they want us to know?

Nemeth hops boulder to boulder over the broad stream before disappearing into the thick copse of trees beyond. Martin follows, then the others, one by one vanishing into the woods.

I grip my tactical blade. Very reluctantly, I follow suit.





CHAPTER 10





When I was ten, I became obsessed with camping. I don’t remember why. Probably the other kids in my class were talking about fun-filled family adventures and I grew jealous.

I pestered my parents relentlessly. My mom was firm on the subject: “You know I don’t have time off, and if I did, I’m certainly not spending it sleeping on the ground.”

My father, the appeaser, never said no, but also didn’t say yes. So around and around we went, me convinced that I couldn’t live another day without sleeping in a tent, my parents convinced that eventually I’d grow out of it.

My father had recently lost his job. Downsizing, he said as he popped open another beer. His unemployed days turned into weeks, his body slowly merging with the sofa into one hops-scented blob, while my mom, currently working two positions, returned late each evening in a state of tight-lipped rage. Furiously cleaning the kitchen, throwing in loads of laundry, collecting all the empties. She never said a word, but my father, watching her through his drunken haze, would do the talking for both of them.

“You’re right. Absolutely right. I should find work. Get off this damn sofa. Tomorrow, honey. I promise. Tomorrow.” Then he’d crack open another beer and return to his Naugahyde bliss.

One afternoon, I took it upon myself to tend the house. I scrubbed the counters, scoured the bathroom, vacuumed the floor. Was I protecting my father? Saving my mother? Can any child answer that question?

My mother arrived home late, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. She peered tiredly at the spotless kitchen, then at me, sitting patiently at the table, even though it was nearly midnight. I thought she might smile in gratitude. Give me a huge hug. Burst into song?

She said, “For God’s sakes, Frankie, at least learn from my mistakes.”

Then she headed for her bedroom.

Later, I listened to them fight: “I mean it, Ron. Seven days from now if you’re still like this, I’m out. And I’m taking Frankie with me. You’ll never see either one of us again.”

Then I listened to my father cry.

The next afternoon after school, I returned home to my father sitting upright, his back ramrod straight on the edge of the sofa. He had his hands clasped tightly before him, clearly waging some kind of internal war with himself. A tremor snaked through his frame. He screwed up his face in fierce concentration till the shaking stopped. Though his hands still gave him away.

Finally, he noticed me standing in the doorway. “You’re home. Thank God, you’re home!”

He exploded into a whirlwind of nervous energy, fixing me a snack, unloading my backpack, fussing over my schoolbooks. I must have homework. Didn’t I have homework? Let’s do homework!

I didn’t have homework. But I found some math worksheets and spread them out on the table. We did the problems together, first giggling lightly, then laughing hysterically because we were both so terrible at it. For weeks afterward, the phrase carry the one had us rolling on the floor all over again.

My mom came home to dinner. Frozen pizza, but still, my father took it out of the wrapper and baked it himself.

That night there was no fighting. That night, the house was so quiet, I couldn’t sleep from the sheer agony of the unknown.

The following afternoon, my father had collapsed back into the sofa, covered in sweat and shivering uncontrollably. I bathed his forehead with a wet washcloth, fetching him blanket after blanket.

Eventually, my mother arrived. I waited for the yelling, the blame, the torrent of rage. But to my surprise—my father’s surprise?—she took a seat next to him. She rubbed his back.

She said, “I’m so proud of you.” She murmured, “I’ve missed you, Ronnie.”

She whispered . . .

That I couldn’t hear.

Couple of days later, my father’s sweating and vomiting stopped. His color returned. He once more achieved the vertical position. I came home to more snacks. My mother gained a clean house and evening meal. And the house existed in a perpetual state of peace and quiet. So much peace and quiet. I couldn’t figure out how people did it, living day after day with this amount of peace and quiet.

One day my father greeted me with a huge grin on his face. Surprise! He and I were going camping. Well, actually, we were going to spend the night in a borrowed tent in our backyard, but close enough, right? I bounced all over the house in excitement. Yes, yes, yes!

My mom actually smiled, caught up in our enthusiasm.

Saturday morning was all about prep. We were going to need all the makings for s’mores, plus hot dogs and baked beans. I thought we should definitely have a fire. My father thought we should definitely not. He spun some yarn about mythical forest sprites who would carry away our food and return it magically cooked. I was offended. What? Did he think I was still five?