One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(97)

“Maker’s Mark,” he supplies. “Our final drink together as friends.”

I can only nod.

I’m suddenly so thirsty. Ravenously thirsty. I’m in my parents’ backyard, watching my father bob and weave his way back to our ramshackle tent. I’m a little girl, licking bourbon from my fingers in the privacy of my bedroom. Trying to know. Trying to understand.

Trying to discern the flavor of love.

“No more rainy days,” Miggy exhales. “No more hellos. No more goodbyes.”

“No more pain, no more sorrow,” I contribute.

“A drink for the brave.”

“A drink for the fallen.”

“Goodbye to the past.”

“Goodbye to tomorrow.”

Toast complete, he tips back the flask and swallows deep. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. I imagine the smooth whiskey burning down his throat, warming him from the inside. Even with our little fire, it’s so cold, we are so cold.

Soon enough, we will each fall unconscious. The fire will fail. The cold will take over. And our shivering will cease altogether.

Miggy coughs harshly. Spits up blood. Studies the fresh red drops on the palm of his hand.

“Goodbye to tomorrow,” he repeats.

He extends the flask toward me. I inhale once more the beguiling scent of whiskey. My greatest desire, my deepest fear.

I take it.





CHAPTER 40





Have you ever pictured your own death?

Are you old and frail, tucked in a sea of plump pillows, surrounded by the ones you love? Spouse, children, grandchildren?

Or do you prefer a blaze of glory? Young and stupid as you plummet down a cliff, crash into a barricade, slip under a bull’s thundering hooves?

Do you imagine a clinical hospital room or the comfort of your own home?

Are you alone and desperate?

Or holding the hand of that one person who made your entire life worth living?

Do you pray?

Do you beg?

Do you think, This is nothing like I ever imagined?

I don’t have the answer to any of these questions. Maybe I am loved, maybe I’m alone. Maybe I made it to old age, maybe my questionable decisions have finally caught up with me. But I have one single desire:

To die sober.

I think, as I return the flask to Miguel to finish alone, at least I got that part right.

The fire dies down. The cold digs deeper. We curl into each other. I stroke Miggy’s dark hair till his eyes close and his shivering ceases. I kiss his temple. I assure him he went down fighting.

Then I close my own eyes, and let the freezing night have its way.



* * *



—

Kisses. Slobbery. Wet. Panting in my face. The world’s worst breath.

A voice. “Shhh, don’t move, don’t speak. We got you.”

I try to say Miguel’s name. I struggle for Scott, Neil, Bob. I think my lips move.

More kisses across my cheeks, sloppy wet.

“Daisy, stop that!”

Then I fling out my arms and discover a warm, furry form. A fresh tongue bath. I don’t mind one bit.

“It’s okay, Frankie. Just relax.”

Luciana is here, too. I clutch her hand.

Miggy, Neil, Scott, Bob. I try so hard to speak the names. Maybe I succeed. It’s hard to know.

I’m moving. Lifted from the ground, carried through space. My shoulder screams; my entire body aches. But I grab onto the pain, hold it close, relish the sensation of still being alive.

“How is he?” Another voice.

“We need immediate evac.”

A sound overhead. The thunder of rotor blades. Chopper.

Our rescue. At last.



* * *



—

    Lights. Too bright. I open my eyes, then shut them.

Surroundings. Too white. I glance, then look away.

Sounds. Too loud. I hear, then burrow down.

Miggy. Neil, Scott, Bob.

Miggy. Neil, Scott, Bob.

Names I keep thinking. Names I keep saying.

Names I’ll never forget.



* * *



—

When I next open my eyes, I find myself in a narrow space, surrounded by white curtains. I’m clearly in a hospital bed and attached to a variety of beeping objects. I have a dim memory of my last medical emergency and instinctively try to rub my shoulder. My hand has too many lines sprouting from it to move.

“You’re awake.”

I blink my eyes a few more times and discover Luciana standing in front of me.

I try to croak out my litany of names, but my throat is too dry.

She seems to understand, pouring me a cup of water, then bringing the straw to my lips. I have to take several long sips before I feel the moisture return to my mouth.

“Miguel?”

“Made it out of surgery. They think they got most of the internal bleeding. He’s listed in critical. Another day or two and hopefully we’ll know more.”

I almost can’t say the next two names. “Neil? Scott?”

“A second canine team found them. The sheriff has every available SAR team working those woods right now. Neil is going to be okay. Just needs to rest and recuperate from a pretty severe concussion. Scott.” She hesitates. “They got the bullet out, but he’s lost a lot of blood. His wife is on her way. Best we can do is pray.”