Then we all get to work.
* * *
—
In this context, I’m not a great searcher. Ironic, given my job. But working cold cases generally comes down to people skills. Knowing who to ask what, how to spot a lie. Why someone might do what they did. This kind of discipline—peer underneath a rocky outcropping here, stick my head in this opening there . . . Let’s just say I wasn’t the kid who excelled at Easter egg hunts.
I’m feeling extra squeamish now that Nemeth has planted the image of snakes in my head. I also have a difficult time maintaining focus. The more I plod along the brown, gritty rocks, the more my mind wanders. I pay less attention to particulars, while contemplating larger issues.
Would Tim really hunker down here? Sure, the collection of caves makes for natural shelter, but it’s so dry and desolate. Where’s the water supply? Possibilities for food?
Knowing the importance of finding shelter in a survival situation doesn’t mean Tim acted accordingly. According to Nemeth, leaving his companions and taking off in the middle of the night was already a break from the safest course of action. Meaning that when push came to shove, Tim’s first instinct wasn’t to wait and see but to go and do.
Assuming he made it all the way to Devil’s Canyon, I can definitely see Tim continuing on to the cliff face, as it dominates the landscape. Upon discovering the network of caves, maybe he chose one to hunker down in. The nights were cold when he vanished, winter already nipping at fall’s heels. From that point of a view, a nice sun-warmed cave made sense.
It’s the hunkering-down part I’m having trouble picturing. By all accounts, Tim was the kid who could never sit still and who grew into a man of action. A guy like that, staring at this massive rock wall . . .
I remember Nemeth’s comment on how people often assume they can get cell phone reception if they just get up high enough.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced Tim wouldn’t be looking to shelter in this rock wall. He’d be looking to climb it.
Watching my footing—snakes, snakes, snakes, please God no snakes—I strike a path perpendicular to the cliff face, trying to get far enough back to view it more as a whole. Then I drift over to where our trail first opened up into the rocky terrain.
Tim O’Day would’ve been hiking for miles by the time he hit Devil’s Canyon. An entire day spent traversing a ridge while knowing he was lost and that Scott needed help. Night would have been falling by the time he made it this far. So maybe he did build that lean-to once it grew too dark to keep moving. Marty certainly seemed convinced it was his son’s handiwork.
Which meant if Tim set out the next morning, he would’ve hiked a mere mile before arriving here. Day was young. Tim was fit.
I stare at the wall. Shift left, stare some more. Then head even farther right, study that portion. The cliff face isn’t sheer, but layers upon layers of rocky protrusions. I can spot a wide outcropping here, decent enough ledge there. Bit by bit, I can piece together some semblance of a workable path, rising to the top. Skinny, to be sure. And too scary for me. But Tim? Worried about his friend? Knowing he was lost with limited supplies?
He would’ve tried that path. I just know it.
I walk closer to the wall, where the first logical upward path protrudes. I follow the line of rocks to the next outcropping. From there it would be tricky, but if Tim trusted himself enough to jump, he’d land on a narrow ledge that ran a solid thirty feet northwest. More protrusions, another rocky outcropping. Tim’s a third of the way up the wall now, going strong. He’s gonna make it. Climb to the top, phone for help, rescue himself and his friend . . .
Oh, the stories they’d tell after this. A bachelor party that would forever live in infamy.
There, a glimpse of green on that top ledge, where no green should be.
I get out my whistle, preparing to blow in triumph, when:
A different whistle sounds. Shrill. Three times in rapid succession. The universal signal for help. The sound bounces off the canyon wall, echoing all around me. But by the third shriek, I’m pretty sure it’s coming from the northwest, where Martin and Neil had set out.
I grab some of the smaller rocks at my feet and quickly build a cairn on a larger boulder to mark this location.
The whistle again. One. Two. Three.
Followed by the sound of a male voice, booming down the canyon.
“Help, help, help. Someone, we need help.”
I forget about snakes and race toward them.
CHAPTER 18
I am gasping for breath by the time I find them. I spot Scott first, standing up on a huge boulder, waving his arms frantically with a bright orange whistle pursed between his lips. I have a moment of confusion—Scott was supposed to be headed in the opposite direction with Miggy. How the hell did he end up here? And how did he cross from south to north without me seeing him?