“You’re not qualified for this search party. Do us all a favor and bow out now.”
I take a moment. I can be too cavalier. I can be a total bitch. But I can also be honest, and I think Nemeth deserves that much.
“I’m not as experienced with camping as you would like. But I’m healthier than Josh and I have decent boots and great socks. If you can get me a pack that fits, I can do this. I won’t complain, I won’t slow you down, and I can help. I don’t know why, but finding the missing? I’m good at it. I just am.”
“You’re damn stubborn.”
I smile. “Thank heavens, right? Otherwise, how would those other sixteen people have ever made it home?” I return my attention to Josh’s pack, pulling out more clothes, pants, long johns, items that definitely won’t fit me.
“Martin O’Day.” I return to our previous conversation. “Grieving father, experienced hiker. You like him? Trust him?”
“I do.”
“Which brings us to the bachelor party buddies. What do you think of them?”
“Decent enough young men. Screwed up, paid the price. Are still paying the price.”
“What exactly was their screwup? Drinking?”
That shrug again. “I’ve been a guide long enough to know most camping parties are carrying more booze than water. Drinking happens. Stupid but rarely deadly. Now, splitting up, on the other hand, losing track of each other—”
“Leaving a man behind?”
“Scott’s disappearance was bad enough. After that they should’ve stayed put, regrouped at daylight, not sent another member of their party to stumble around dangerous terrain at night.”
“Scott went missing first, right? They were all roused from their alcohol-induced comas by sudden noises. Looked around frantically with their flashlights, then realized belatedly that Scott was gone. So what happened to him that night? Has he said?”
“Scott claims he doesn’t remember anything after retiring to his tent. My personal theory? Kid was drunk. Wandered out of his tent in the middle of the night and staggered about. Till he came to the river and passed out cold. Which was why he never heard his friends searching or other sounds of commotion. He didn’t regain consciousness till morning, when he did his best to find his way back.”
“Do you believe his story?”
Nemeth shrugs. “Don’t have a reason not to.”
Which is not the same as saying yes. “Okay, so bachelor buddy Scott got lost in earnest. A casualty of the night’s drinking escapades. But what about the reports of animal screams and blood in the trees?”
“We found trampled brush, broken branches, areas of disturbance. Could be from a beast—”
“Bigfoot?”
Nemeth rolls his eyes. “In my expert opinion . . . we found damage consistent with four drunk dudes smashing through the woods in pursuit of their missing friend. Could it have been a grizzly bear or a mythical bipedal beast? Only if they’re very tidy eaters. Same with a mountain lion, which we do spy from time to time. But they’re shy creatures by nature. They don’t bumble all over the damn place, smash up small trees, and drag off their prey without leaving a blood trail. And given Scott wasn’t the target in the end—”
“Timothy O’Day is the one who vanished.”
“Tim was six feet two, one hundred and eighty pounds. Fit, strong, well equipped, and, according to his buddies, packing a handgun.”
“He was armed?” This wasn’t in the paper.
“Glock nine. Carried it with him anytime he was in the woods. Now, most of us locals prefer rifles—you want distance and stopping power. Not to mention Tim carried the handgun in his pack, which is just plain stupid. Like a wild animal is gonna let you pause and retrieve your firearm before attacking. But by all accounts, Tim was experienced. He knew what he was doing.” Nemeth hesitates. “Spend enough time in the wild . . . you know when you’re not alone. You know when it’s time to get the hell out. And you know when it’s time to stop, assess the situation, and prepare to fight.”
“Remove your pack, grab your handgun,” I fill in quietly. I shiver slightly. I don’t have Nemeth’s wilderness savvy, yet I understand what he’s saying. There are things you just know. Myself, walking a family farm, first day of arrival. Three generations prattling on how four-year-old Johnny just up and vanished one night. Kidnapped by strangers, abducted by aliens, who knew? Myself, striding from decrepit outbuilding to decrepit outbuilding, piles of rotten lumber, mountains of cattle refuse, knowing—just knowing—little Johnny never left these grounds. The key to what happened to him existed right here, and space invaders had nothing to do with it. Six months later, I was proved right.