One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(99)

“Thank you.”

There’s a rustle from the curtains behind us. Some kind of signal Luciana must understand.

“Sheriff Kelley would like to speak to you now,” she states.

I nod. The debrief. I have done such things before. I’m tired and hungry, and yet still in better shape than my companions.

And someone has to tell the story.



* * *



—

Sheriff Kelley has the same trim, wiry build I associate with Martin and Nemeth. He’s full-on cowboy: boots, jeans, impressive silver belt buckle, and cream-colored Stetson. It really works for him. He strides into my curtained-off space and I already feel slightly safer. Penetrating blue eyes, weathered face, hard lined features. I’m convinced—you want a good-looking man, come to Wyoming.

He positions himself on my right-hand side, shoulders square, feet spread for balance.

“How ya feeling?”

“Okay.”

“Docs’ll fill you in more. I understand your shoulder was dislocated. Fixed now. Sprained ankle will take a bit longer. Rest is mostly bruises and lacerations, though your face won’t look so pretty for a bit.” He pauses, as if to see if that news bothers me. I think it’s charming he assumed I was pretty to begin with. He continues bluntly: “Your friends weren’t so lucky.”

“My friends weren’t so lucky,” I agree.

Sheriff Kelley rocks back on his heels, peers at me intently. “What the hell happened up there?”

I start laughing. I just can’t help myself. Except maybe I’m crying. I can’t tell anymore.

My silly impulse just three, four days ago. Join a search party, head into the mountains, enjoy the great outdoors.

I laugh/cry harder.

Then, finally, I start to speak.





CHAPTER 41





I fill in Sheriff Kelley as best I can. The threats and sabotage Martin experienced months before the expedition even launched. His hiring of Bob, who in addition to being a Bigfoot hunter was also a licensed PI. The issues we encountered almost immediately—our stolen food, Scott’s midnight race through the woods. I wonder now whether it hadn’t been triggered by our stalker playing some kind of trick.

Neil being smashed over the head with a rock. The last of our food being snatched. Our party’s pivotal decision to break up—Luciana and Nemeth going for help while the rest of us remained behind.

Bob and me returning with Martin to the cave he was convinced had once been occupied by his son. Followed by my terrible discovery behind a fake-rock foam door. Returning to Martin, only to have the hunter open fire.

I deliver the tale in a clipped, steady voice. Even as I discuss our disastrous plan to lure the hunter into the open using Daisy’s torn vest as bait, resulting in Bob’s death and Scott’s and Neil’s injuries. Then my and Miguel’s desperate flight down the mountain. The hunter catching up with us. Martin appearing and plunging both of them to their doom.

“You’re sure you saw Marty O’Day and this fellow fall over the edge of the ravine?”

“Yes. Have you found the bodies?”

“Not yet. But accessing that area will take some time. Now, can you describe this so-called tree man?”

I give the sheriff a look at his dubious tone. “Don’t make me climb out of my hospital bed to hurt you.”

“Good to know you’re feeling better.”

Which makes me smile feebly. The sheriff is testing me. Maybe I’m passing, maybe I’m not, but it’s nice to feel like my normal, contrarian self again.

“He wore full facial coverings,” I relate now. “A black mask over his nose and mouth, some kind of goggles protecting his eyes. I’d say he’s around your height and build. He was extremely well equipped. Someone who frequents gun shops and/or army surplus stores.”

“That’s half my county,” the sheriff informs me.

“Which is the point. He’s a local. Has to be to know the area so well. And longtime roots. Timothy O’Day was five years ago, but I saw remains that had to be older than that.”

“We got a top forensic anthropologist team working the site now. Not to mention whatever other PhDs the feds feel like throwing at it. Crime scene doesn’t lack for resources.”

Common sense, seems to be the implied insult, but that doesn’t surprise me coming from a county sheriff. “Have any good ol’ boys been reported missing lately?” I ask him, as local knowledge still applies.

“I got eyes on the lookout for any new reports. Been only two days, though. Not so long in these parts to worry about a loved one who set out on a backcountry trek. Might take a few more days. We’ll hear something.”

“Or find the body.”

“Or find the body,” he agrees.

“I want to see it,” I hear myself say. “When you, whoever, brings that dead bastard in, I want to personally inspect his body. I want to know he’s dead. I want him to know we won.”

“You’d like an opportunity to identify the remains as belonging to your attacker?” the sheriff asks, speaking as a man who knows how to navigate multijurisdictional investigations.

I’m becoming a big fan of the sheriff. I follow his lead. “Yes. As a witness, I’m in a position to state unequivocally the dead man is the same one who killed Bob, shot Scott, and attacked Neil, Miguel, and myself.”