One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(44)

“I need this to end,” Scott declares with a final rub of his tear-stained face. “I need Daisy the SAR dog to be brilliant. I need all of us to get this done. Then I need to go home to my wife and baby and never think of these damn mountains again.”

“Sounds good.”

A sniff and a nod. “All right, let’s do this.”

We can hear talking. The rest of our party is just beyond this wall of trees. Scott points himself toward them.

At the last second, I grab his arm. “Quick question. Do you know anything about Bob the Bigfoot hunter?”

“Never met him till two days ago. Why?”

“Luciana and Daisy?”

“Also just met. More acquaintances of Martin, I guess. He never quits this. Never.”

I let his arm drop, just in time for him to now stop me.

“Wait, does this have something to do with our diminished food supplies?” he asks.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“I thought an animal did that.”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Scott studies me. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“No idea. But if I ever solve the puzzle, you’ll be the first to know.”

He blinks at me, but I really don’t have answers. I shrug. He stares at me and I shrug again. Then, finally, we thread our way through the line of ghost trees and join the others.





CHAPTER 17





In the end, our impromptu search is a bust. Daisy doesn’t pick up any scent trail. The humans don’t stumble upon any visual evidence. We have the makeshift campsite, that’s it. Daisy is clearly forlorn and requires much patting, as well as a twenty-minute break. Martin is equally frustrated, but nobody pats him. I eye the chocolate in my pack with longing but, figuring the day will only grow more torturous, settle for another protein bar instead.

Day two in the wilderness and I’m already making deals with myself: If I just survive this trek, I will never eat protein bars ever again. It’s the little things that get you through.

Nemeth must be timing us, because I no sooner crumple up my wrapper than he’s standing expectantly. There’s a collection of low groans, then one by one we rise to our feet, adjust our gear, and stagger forth.

We are a wordless procession, snaking through the woods, then crossing a broad stream into a vast meadow. The sun has climbed higher, warming our faces and glittering off distant snowy peaks. In this moment, it’s easy to believe we are enjoying a gorgeous day hike, complete with dancing wildflowers and gentle flowing streams. After the desolation of our last search area, I want to appreciate this beauty. Bask in the scent of meadow grasses, the singing of birds, the feel of the wind on my cheeks. The sky so impossibly blue and stretching out . . . forever. So very different from the last few places I’ve stayed. It beckons and I can feel our answering call in the fresh bounce of our steps. Even Daisy has recovered and is prancing along, snapping at blowing grasses and pouncing on random insects.

Walking through this section of the canyon, I can understand the mountains’ appeal. What would draw someone like Tim—restless, adventuresome, confident—to test himself against the great outdoors. I am starting to build a picture of him in my mind. I can imagine him striding along, knowing he was lost, but still taking a moment to admire the scenery, still upbeat enough to think he was one footstep away from solving this latest problem. From saving himself.

I can see him thinking if he could just make it to those cliffs . . .

Did he amuse himself by thinking of the stories they’d soon be telling of this camping weekend gone awry? Or was he still panicked and worried about his missing buddy, Scott? At what point did he realize—or did he ever realize—that it was his survival that was now at stake?

We can walk his last steps. We can retrieve his bones to be laid to rest next to his mother’s. But we’ll still never know everything that happened to Tim. Sooner or later, his father and his friends will have to come to terms with that. That the quality of their future sleep won’t be determined by a visit to his grave, but by their ability to let go.

I’m panting by the time we complete our meadow crossing, traverse more patches of evergreens, then start winding our way back up. I don’t know why we’re going up. I’m very sorry to be hiking up.

Once again, Miggy, Neil, Scott, and I fall back, Bob slowing to maintain his position as rear guard. No one talks. We’re all swiping tiredly at our sweaty, dripping faces when we finally clear the rise and discover ourselves in the middle of a dusty boulder field, face-to-face with a solid wall of jutting rock.

The cliff. Taller and broader than I ever imagined from the other side of the canyon. Like trying to take in the entire length of a football stadium in a single glance from five feet away. Can’t be done.

“Holy shit,” Miggy breathes as we stagger to a halt beside the forward members of our party.

Already I can see the dark opening of a cave here, then another there, peppering the base. Some appearing to bore into the cliff face itself, others formed from collapsing piles of rock. Easily a dozen if not several dozen possible shelter sites.

“Fuck me,” Scott groans.

For once, his friends don’t argue.



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