One Step Too Far （Frankie Elkin #2）
Lisa Gardner
In loving memory of Pierre O’Rourke, talented writer and amazing friend to authors everywhere. Somewhere in the great beyond, I picture you finally locating your car in the airport parking lot, and yes, I’m totally laughing with you.
Also, to Ruby. Beloved adopted dog, best friend, and writing companion. Each day, you greeted me with a little lick on the hand to say hello. And at the end, you turned and gave me that same little lick to say goodbye. Thank you, love, for saving me when I needed it the most.
CHAPTER 1
The first three men came stumbling into town shortly after ten a.m., babbling of dark shapes and eerie screams and their missing buddy Scott and their other buddy Tim, who set out from their campsite before dawn to get help.
“Bear, bear, bear,” first guy moaned.
“Mountain lion!” second guy insisted.
Third guy vomited.
Maybe, maybe not, Marge Santi thought as she sidestepped the spew of liquid. Marge situated the young men in a corner booth of her diner, then got on the phone and summoned Nemeth. To be polite, Marge also contacted Sheriff Jim Kelley, likeable guy, respected by the locals, but an officer with a whole county to tend and the drive to prove it. For immediate action, Nemeth it was.
Nemeth, former Shoshone National Forest district ranger, now local guide, knew what he was doing. First, he plied the three men with coffee. To judge by the rank odor of fear and booze leaking out of their pores, they didn’t need anything else. Two cups later, he had most of the story.
Five guys set out into the woods for a bachelor party weekend. All friends since college, all with some experience camping, though the trio agreed future groom Tim was The Man. Had been backcountry hiking with his father since he was six. He was the reason they were camping. The other four wouldn’t have minded a golf weekend or quality time at a casino/resort. But for Tim, the woods were his happy place, so into the mountains they’d gone. Fully equipped, packs, tents, sleeping bags, two-burner propane camp stove, cans of beans and franks, and yeah, as much beer and Maker’s Mark as five fit young men could carry. Which was to say, a lot. But they weren’t total idiots. Again, Tim knew his shit and oversaw their packing himself.
They’d hiked in seven miles yesterday, looking for the perfect camping spot in one of the deep canyons, near a broad river. Once they found it, they unloaded packs, pitched tents, and popped open the first six-pack, leaving the other four to chill in the ice-cold water.
Dusk came fast this time of year. But all was good. They built up a fire, roasted hot dogs, and ate baked beans straight out of the can. Many fart jokes ensued.
More beer, followed by whiskey chasers. How much booze can five young healthy men drink? Plenty. But no place to be, no cars to drive, no nagging cell phones to answer given the lack of reception.
Just them and the starlit sky. They killed off the first bottle of Maker’s Mark, started in on the second. Tim sat next to the fire and scratched away on a piece of paper. Working on his wedding vows, writing a letter to his beloved? They teased, but he refused to fess up.
Hour grew late. How late, no one knew and it hardly mattered. They finally turned in for the night, two men each in two tents, Tim, the future groom, in a single shell all by himself. One of his last nights on earth sleeping alone. Should enjoy it while he could, they teased.
Then . . .
A sharp keening wail. Crashing in the trees around them.
“Grizzly,” Neil said now, sitting in the diner.
“Mountain lion,” Josh insisted.
Miggy, short for Miguel, crawled out of the booth and vomited some more.
Maybe, maybe not, Nemeth thought. Marge got a mop.
At the camp, the men had burst from their tents, flashlights bobbing, nerves strung tight, trying to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. Build up the fire, Tim demanded. Make noise of their own. Double-check the food stash they’d strung up in the trees away from their campsite.
Which is why it took a few minutes, maybe as long as five or ten, before they realized their party of five had become four. Where the hell was Scott?
Miggy had been sharing his tent and Miggy had no idea.
“No . . . fucking idea,” Miggy clarified for Nemeth, in between bouts of dry heaving.
Tim, future groom, got serious. Scott could’ve wandered off to pee. Scott could’ve just plain wandered off, drunk and disoriented. But given the cold temps, dangerous terrain, and carnivorous local wildlife, they needed to find him.
Arranging their group into two pairs, Tim directed the first duo to start searching north of the campfire, while the other would cover the woods to the south. Whoever found Scott first would blow their emergency signal whistle.