I rise to standing as Bigfoot Bob’s eyes widen in recognition.
“Wait. Frankie Elkin? As in FElkinFinds?
I nod vigorously, pleased to meet a fellow amateur searcher in person. “You’re conducting an operation in Wyoming? I thought the latest Sasquatch theories were focused on the Pacific Northwest. You’d been working the Olympic Peninsula.”
“If you don’t know where a creature is, then you don’t know where it isn’t. Plus, this search is”—Bob hesitates, glances at Martin—“in an area of particular interest.”
I get it. The other missing hikers Lisa Rowell mentioned. Which would show up on the Bigfoot Society’s national map as a cluster of red flags. A hot zone missed by the official government types, but credible fodder in the fringe community where Bob and I live.
“We need to get back to work,” Martin interjects sharply.
“Just a sec, Marty.” Bob turns to the team leader. “Frankie here is the real deal. We know each other from online. She doesn’t just work cold cases; she solves them. Like dozens of them.”
Closer to sixteen, but who am I to argue?
Martin doesn’t seem to know what to make of that statement. He has his plan, probably months in the making. Viewing it as a series of steps and logistics, versus a mission to bring home his son’s body, is how he’s getting the job done. Now here I am, messing with his tenuous hold on sanity.
I understand. All of my missions start with this moment—coming out of nowhere, ripping the Band-Aid off a family’s wound and hoping it doesn’t lead to arterial spray.
At the other end of the table, Tim’s college friends continue to ignore the interaction, which I find fascinating. They are a group within the group. A separate pod of agitation and grief. One of them, a pale blond, is downing copious amounts of coffee, his hand trembling so hard he can barely bring the mug to his mouth. The friend closest to him whispers something in the guy’s ear. “Easy, now,” would be my guess.
“You have search and rescue experience?” Nemeth speaks up for the first time. His tone is doubtful as he takes in my appearance. I don’t blame him.
“I’ve assisted with line searches. And I’ve worked with dog teams.” I nod toward Luciana. Daisy has returned to her place under the table, leaning her square head against Luciana’s knees and sighing blissfully as her human scratches her neck.
“Got a pack? Camping gear?” Nemeth gestures to my luggage. “This is a backcountry expedition. You need to be experienced, know what you’re doing.”
“I can rent equipment.” Assuming it doesn’t cost more than a hundred and twelve bucks.
“Why?” Martin this time. He sounds less belligerent, more tired. “We don’t know you. You’re clearly not prepared. We don’t have time for this. We’re headed out first thing tomorrow.”
“I’m here to help. I read about your son. I read about your wife.”
A spasm of grief across Martin’s face.
“I’m here to help,” I repeat. “I have experience. I’m good at what I do.”
“She’s good at what she does,” Bob repeats.
“Sorry.” Nemeth this time, clearly not convinced of my bona fides. “Gotta have permission for these kinds of expeditions, and our permit only covers eight.”
“You’ll still be a party of eight,” I say.
Martin looks around. “There’s eight here, which makes you number nine.”
“He’s not going to make it.” I jerk my head toward the shaky blond.
“Josh,” one of the bachelor buddies exclaims sharply as Josh’s hand jerks violently and dumps coffee on the table.
“Shit. Josh.”
Three men, leaping up as hot brew hits their laps.
“What’s wrong? Man, you’re burning up!”
Josh remains sitting, staring at the spilled coffee as if he can’t get it to compute. His face is flushed, covered in sweat. His whole body is now trembling.
“He’s sick,” one of his friends says. “I think he has the flu.”
“He doesn’t have the flu.” I don’t have to be a recovering alcoholic to recognize the DTs.
Martin sighs heavily, exchanges a look with Nemeth. So they both knew about Josh’s drinking. Which he must have recently sworn off in order to assist with the final attempt to bring his friend home.
Except Josh hadn’t been drinking a little heavily before this. By the looks of things, he’d been a hard-core drunk, now entering the first stage of detox.