One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(7)

Lisa slows the truck. We’ve reached the far edge of town, where the pretty buildings end and the more commercial structures begin. A squat budget motel. A huge outdoor gear and apparel shop. And across from the motel, a diner. The diner, I realize. Where Tim O’Day’s groomsmen arrived that first morning five years ago, babbling about bears and mountain lions and things that go bump in the night.

“I’ll get out here,” I tell Lisa as she stops at the traffic light near the diner.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck,” she tells me. Then, when I reach into my pocket for the promised gas money: “Don’t worry about it. I was driving through town anyway.”

I smile in gratitude. She pulls away, leaving me outside the corner diner with my rolling luggage in one hand, my leather satchel in the other.

No time for hesitating. I head through the doors.



* * *



—

The diner smells of coffee, bacon grease, and grilled hamburgers. Immediately my stomach growls. I had a stale Danish for breakfast, a chocolate bar for lunch. I could use food. As well as hiking gear, a night’s lodging, and a fountain of youth.

It’s nearly three p.m. now. According to the sign, that’s fifteen minutes before closing, which would explain the nearly empty interior and the lone white-aproned fry cook scraping at the griddle.

At the rear of the diner, however, I spy a group of eight people sprawled across two booths, deep in conversation over an open map, with a collection of dirty lunch plates pushed to the side. Martin O’Day and his assembled search party. Has to be. They’re all outfitted in serious outdoor wear, scuffed hiking boots, cargo pants, and flannel. On first glance they look rugged, healthy, and ready to go.

I glance down at my decidedly non-mountaineering ensemble of tennis shoes, faded jeans, and a threadbare T-shirt. At least I’m covered in a film of travel dust and sweat. It gives me an air of authenticity as I roll my suitcase toward the group.

The man sitting in the middle is doing most of the talking. He looks to be mid-fifties, with the whip-lean build of a person always on the move. Across from him sits an older gentleman with steel-gray hair and equally weathered features. A bushy-bearded, redheaded male and a dark-haired female are to their left, four younger men to the right. Up close, I spy a ninth member of the party: a yellow Lab mix wearing a bright orange scarf, sprawled under the table, head on paws.

The dog looks up at my approach. Thumps its tail. The lone woman, a stunningly gorgeous Latina with almond skin and thickly lashed dark eyes, glances in my direction; I’m guessing the dog is hers.

I have a sense of déjà vu. Three years ago, different woods: a missing six-year-old boy who’d been playing tag with his eight-year-old brother around their campsite before he disappeared. Me, tramping through those woods with fellow volunteers day after day. Still searching, weeks later, long after all hope of recovering the child alive was gone. Because having started the hunt, we couldn’t give it up. We had to seek. We had to find.

A family has to know.

I remember the mom’s scream when news of the discovery reached her. I remember the father, a guy in his twenties, face ashen, voice thick as he shook the hands of all the volunteers and thanked us for bringing his little boy home. As if anyone could be grateful to have their child back for a proper burial. And yet, you can be. You absolutely can be.

I understand the woman’s role now. I know what her Lab mix does. Cadaver dog. Because five years later, Timothy O’Day’s bones are all that will be left.

Why do I do what I do? Searching for the missing long after hope is lost. Town to town. Heartbreak to heartbreak.

At any given time, hundreds of thousands of people have disappeared. Some left of their own volition. Some ran into trouble. And some, given the circumstances of their birth, never stood a chance.

For me, the question isn’t why have I dedicated my life to this? The question is why hasn’t everyone? So many of our children, who deserve to come home. Loved ones who need to know what happened to their family member. Communities forever haunted by what might have happened, paired with what could’ve been.

I know who I am. I know why I do what I do. It’s the rest of the world that’s confusing to me.

Now I approach. The man leading the discussion finally looks up. He has hazel eyes to go with his thinning dark hair.

“Martin O’Day?” I ask, plopping down on the closest counter stool. This is it. I am both excited and nervous. Determined and fearful. It’s always like this.

I stick out my hand. “My name is Frankie Elkin,” I state. “I specialize in working missing persons cold cases. And I’d like to help bring your son home.”



* * *



—

An older woman clad in a white apron comes bustling out, gray-shot hair pulled up in a pile of curls, wiry build speaking of a lifetime on the move. I recognize her immediately from her photo in the paper: Marge Santi, owner of the diner and participant in the main event. She frowns at me, then looks askance to the table, as if I might be bothering them. Protective, then. Five years later, I wonder how many of the locals feel the same: This is their tragedy; outsiders need not apply.

No one in the group speaks right away. Martin O’Day, the clear leader, glances at my travel garb, rolly luggage. He scowls.