One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(6)

“Search party found an area of disturbance, but no blood. Also, Tim was around for that part, not to mention Scott was found safe and sound afterwards.”

“Maybe the disturbance was from an animal who’d wandered nearby, tempted by the scent of food. Maybe the fire kept it at bay, though.” I’m thinking out loud. Bullshitting, really. Another one of my superpowers. “But then, when Tim hiked out, away from the safety of the fire . . .”

Rowell snorts. “You sound like the Bigfoot hunter.”

“There’s a Bigfoot hunter?”

“I thought you were part of the search party.”

“I will be. Once I meet them and work my charm.”

“Who are you again?”

“Trust me, the more I answer that question, the less anyone believes me. A Bigfoot hunter? Seriously?”

“From the North American Bigfoot Society.”

This niggles at the back of my mind. I should know this. “Does Martin O’Day seriously believe Bigfoot took his son?”

“You’d have to ask him that question.”

“And you?”

I’m expecting a sardonic retort, or even an eye roll. So Lisa’s hesitation catches me off guard.

“What?” I finally prod.

“You say you find missing persons?”

“Yes.”

“Then are you looking for all of them?”

“All of them . . . in the country?”

Lisa glances at me. “All of them who’ve gone missing in the Popo Agie Wilderness. There’s more than just some drunk groom. At least five people in the past twenty years.”

I realize again how much I don’t know. “Is that a lot for an area this size?”

“To never be seen again? It’s not a little, that’s for sure.”

“Bigfoot?” I can’t help myself.

Again the pause, followed by a shake of her head. “Or something. But take it from a local, you want to be damn careful headed into those woods.”





CHAPTER 3





The town of Ramsey, Wyoming, looks like an Old West movie set transported to the dusty foothills of very real mountains. The picturesque Main Street is lined on both sides by wooden storefronts whose jutting rooflines appear like puzzle pieces against the deep-blue sky. I spot a yellow-painted general store nestled shoulder to shoulder with a deep-green five-and-dime and a faded red saloon. Coffee shop, feed store, touristy T-shirt depot, leather goods, and of course a storefront advertising all things cowboy.

On a bright, sunny August afternoon, the sidewalks are jammed with people. Some clearly tourists, families in shorts and flip-flops. Some probably locals, given their denim and cowboy boots. Mostly white, many strolling hand in hand, smiling and carefree.

In my line of work, it’s been a long time since I’ve been surrounded by a sea of Caucasians. It’s interesting to me, then, that I feel as self-conscious here as I do in a Haitian community in Boston or a predominantly Black housing project in Memphis. These people with their shiny lives and fashion-forward clothes and FOMO vacations . . . I don’t know how to identify with them.

I wonder sometimes if there’s anyplace that would feel like home to me. I started out playing the outsider. Now I simply am one.

I drum my empty water bottle against my leg restlessly.

“Make sure you drink plenty of fluids,” Rowell comments. “Summers are arid, with afternoons prone to scattered thunderstorms. Don’t know what you got in that bag, but you’re gonna want layers. Temperatures can swing fifty degrees in a day, and nights are damn cold, even this time of year.”

I nod. I travel light, meaning my roll-along suitcase contains just the basics: three pairs of pants and six shirts, all interchangeable. For shoes, I have a pair of sneaks and a pair of sturdy brown boots. I also have pj’s—really men’s boxers and Paul’s old T-shirt—plus seven days’ worth of socks and underwear.

My boots will work for hiking. The socks are definitely too thin. And I have only one coat, a medium-weight green army jacket. In the winter months, I add a hat, gloves, and scarf for warmth. I hadn’t thought to make those purchases yet, given that it’s August.

I should stay here, I think, to work and build up money if nothing else. But maybe, also, I’m tired. That kind of exhaustion that never really goes away. I think of Paul, as I often do when the weight of the years catches up with me.

But I also think of a Boston detective and former Marine, Dan Lotham, the whisper of his hands across my body. I think of a silent bar owner, as steady as his name, Stoney. And Piper, the homicidal cat, and an energetic fry cook and a sixteen-year-old Haitian girl, Angelique, the first and only person I’ve ever found alive.

My thoughts scatter and spin. I feel both keyed up and totally spent. And as is my nature, I think how much I’d like a drink right now. Maybe an ice-cold beer to quench my dry throat. Or a tangy margarita where the liquid warmth of tequila is followed by the refreshing bite of lime. A rum and Coke. A gin and tonic. I was never picky about my booze. I just wanted lots of it. Till my nerves dulled and my racing brain became pickled and I didn’t have to think so hard because I no longer cared.

As fast as I feel the impulse, I push it away. My sobriety is one of my only accomplishments over the past ten years. I can’t afford to give it up now.