One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(35)

Nemeth keeps the rifle at the ready as he squats down, inspects the ground, then the scattered trail of MREs. I click on my headlamp and do my best to illuminate the surrounding area.

The bags were suspended by ropes to about eight feet off the ground. The rope is still intact and tied to its anchor point. Just the food sacks seem to have been destroyed, the plastic sliced into ribbons.

“I thought they were bearproof,” I say.

Nemeth glances at me but doesn’t answer. He duckwalks closer to the epicenter of the damage.

“Nothing is a hundred percent bearproof,” Bob answers at last.

“Why hang everything up? Don’t bears climb?”

“Bears aren’t the only wildlife we’re trying to dissuade.”

I peer up eight feet again. “That’s one big bear.”

Bob shrugs, as if not particularly impressed. Maybe compared to Bigfoot, eight feet doesn’t seem so big. Or compared to his own massive self. Personally, I’m rethinking my policy of relying on a plastic whistle.

Bob unties the rope now, lowering the surviving sack to peer inside. “Dog food,” he declares. “At least Daisy still has her dinner.”

“We’ll need to gather what we can,” Martin announces, indicating the tossed rations. “Take inventory.”

“There are extra bags in my tent.” Nemeth looks at Bob. “Grab a couple.”

Bob heads off. I remain, bobbing my headlamp over all available surfaces. I do three or four passes before it finally comes to me. What I’m not seeing. What Nemeth has most likely already noticed.

“There are no paw prints.” To be sure, I bang the toe of my boot against the dirt. The ground is hard and dry, but my efforts still yield results. One earthen dent, no problem.

Which is terribly confusing. Whatever beast did this had to leave evidence behind. Except I’m not seeing any prints on the ground, nor any fresh scratches on the pine tree.

Nemeth and Martin exchange one of their looks.

Bob returns, fresh bags in hand. Bit by bit, we collect the remaining meal kits. I don’t need an exact count to know this is much less than what we started with. Eight people, two MREs a day . . . This is not a week’s worth of food. At best, we now have enough for a couple of days.

“There are no paw prints,” I whisper to Bob as we crawl on the ground side by side. “What doesn’t leave a print?”

“Something light. Or”—he glances up at the canopy of trees—“something that flies.”

“And brought its own grocery bag to cart off dozens of meal kits?”

He doesn’t have an answer, but whereas I’m anxious on the subject, his expression is much more . . . considering.

We grab the final few MREs, climb to our feet. Martin and Nemeth have been huddled together in low conversation. Now they break apart, fall silent at our approach.

“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to the others,” Martin states.

“As in, we’re now missing half our food and need to abort our mission?” I retort.

“It’s been a long night. No need for alarm.”

“Further alarm.” I’ve never liked being told to stay silent. “First Scott, now this. Which would be cause for further alarm.”

“We can take stock in the morning.” Martin’s tone remains placating, though I notice Nemeth appears less convinced. “Everything looks better in the morning.”

“What is this, the bumper sticker guide to emergency management?” I’m revving up just as Bob lays a hand on my shoulder.

“There’s no course of action that can be taken right now,” he states calmly. “Safest option is to remain at the campsite. Regroup in the morning.”

I scowl. He’s basically agreeing with Martin, meaning I want to object on principle. Except the way he puts it, the decision makes more sense. As Scott and our flayed food bags prove, the mountains are no place to be wandering about after dark.

“Fine,” I bite off. “But we need a team meeting.”

“First thing in the morning,” Martin agrees.

Then he, Nemeth, and Bob all share a look. Good job calming the hysterical female?

I don’t like it. As we return to the beckoning glow of the campfire, I wonder more and more about what I’ve gotten myself into.





CHAPTER 14





Morning arrives too bright and too early. Noises drag me forcefully to consciousness. I fight the pull, a lifetime of staying up half the night and sleeping through half the morning making the early bird hour especially egregious.

A bark, followed by two or three more. I rouse to sitting, raking a hand through my tangled hair, then rub my forehead. My head pounds; my mouth tastes like ashes. I haven’t felt this bad since my heavy-drinking days and find myself reaching automatically for a bottle of vodka to ease my pain. Muscle memory is a bitch.

I crawl to the front of my tent, manage the zipper, and stare bleary-eyed at the outside world. Sun is up, sky is blue, birds are chirping.

Fuck it. I want to go back to sleep for about another six days. And Advil. I’d sell my soul for a couple of tablets of over-the-counter painkiller. I knew my body would be sore this morning, but this . . .

Daisy appears, wagging her tail and barking again.