One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(29)

Miggy appears genuinely startled. “Aren’t I supposed to want that?”

“That’s not the question. You can want whatever you want. Just you and me here, and I won’t tell anyone.”

He pauses, remaining silent for so long I’m not sure he’s going to answer me. Then: “I want to never walk these mountains again. I want to no longer wake up screaming in the middle of the night. I want to stop thinking of my best friend and breaking down from the guilt. I want . . . to feel human again.”

He looks at me. “Is that even possible? If we succeed this week, is any of that finally going to happen?”

“For some people it does.”

“In other words, I’m shit out of luck.”

I smile, then state as gently as I can: “In my experience, you won’t ever feel the same. But eventually, you may find some things about the new normal that aren’t so bad. One day, you might even like what your life has become. Then you’ll know you have moved on, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.”

He tosses another frustrated pebble. “If only it was that simple.”

“It’s not really that complicated.”

“Don’t make me fucking hate you, too.”

I grin at him, understanding completely. We sit in silence a moment longer, then Miguel rises to his feet, dusts off his butt. “We should head back. Before Nemeth comes to find us.”

“Do you like him?”

“No. I don’t like any of them. But then, I think we just established I don’t like myself very much either. The search dog, Daisy? I can root for her. Otherwise, I’m just counting down the days till we head back to civilization.”

“I like Bob,” I offer, standing up as well. “He seems genuinely cheerful.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

This catches me off guard. “Sorry?”

“Isn’t it your job to ask questions? Because why Bob? Why a Bigfoot hunter?”

“Because the Bigfoot Society has some of the best data on missing persons in America’s wildlands?”

“And they get paid how much for that interest?”

“Paid? It’s a hobby, an after-hours-enthusiast kind of thing—”

“Try five thousand dollars.”

I’m totally baffled now. “Bob was paid five thousand dollars?”

“From Martin. I saw the check myself.”

“But . . . why?”

“Based on what I overheard, to bring us out alive. Or really, to bring Marty out alive.”

“But . . . I don’t . . .” I frown, not quite able to make sense of this revelation. Bob was paid to ensure Martin’s safety? From what?

Miggy follows my line of thinking perfectly. “Exactly,” he says. “Still happy you joined our merry band?”

Then he picks up an armful of dried kindling and heads back to camp. I follow a moment later and quite a bit slower.

Martin’s obsession, Miggy’s guilt, and Bigfoot Bob’s payday? My squirrel brain races and spins with all this new information. But try as I might, I can’t make any sense of it.

Day one down. I’m already nervous for what happens next.





CHAPTER 12





The campsite takes shape quicker than I can imagine. By the time Miggy and I return, the tents are up in three clusters around a larger clearing with a ring of stones in the middle for the campfire. I drop my load of wood beside it as Miguel does the same. He takes the liberty of setting up the kindling, clearly knowing what he’s doing.

I notice Neil and Scott staggering out of the woods with a massive section of tree trunk between them. They position it in front of the fire the way one might arrange a sofa, then disappear without a word to fetch more seating.

I walk over to my tent, which Bob has erected next to Luciana’s. Daisy is sprawled on the ground before Luciana’s small blue-domed shelter. She thumps her tail in greeting as I approach.

“Tired, girl?” I ask her, pausing long enough to scratch behind her ears. She yawns contentedly. The dog is clearly tuckered out by the long day but seems in good spirits. Puts her ahead of most of us.

Luciana pokes her head out of her tent. “Just in time.”

“For what?”

“Water duty.” She holds up several portable buckets. “I volunteered us.” She gives me a conspiratorial look. “Grab fresh clothes, then follow me.”

Who am I to argue? I sort through my pack till I find a long-sleeve T-shirt and my black yoga pants. The air is already starting to cool, dusk coming quickly now. I remember what Lisa Rowell said about nights being chilly this time of year. After the hot, sweaty day, I’m looking forward to it.

Luciana has her own bundle tucked under her arm as she leads me away from the camp. I’m really sorry to be moving. The ache in my feet has reduced each step to a painful hobble, let alone the sore muscles defining the rest of me. I don’t have to be an experienced hiker to know that tomorrow will feel worse, especially after a night of sleeping on the ground. So I grit my teeth and remain quiet as Luciana threads her way through a bank of trees to the lake’s edge, out of sight of everyone else.

She sets down her clothes, shakes out the collapsible canvas buckets. She hands me two, and I’m immediately impressed by the design. Hard metal rings give structure to the top and bottom, as well as pail handles. But the waterproof material folds down to almost nothing in the middle. Pretty ingenious.