by April Henry
Some time later, he lifted his head. And blinked. It was getting dark. He turned in a slow circle. Pools of shadow lay under the trees. He had forgotten about daylight savings time, about how night suddenly crowded in.
George had no idea how close he was to the end of the trail or, for that matter, to his car. He checked his backpack as if a flashlight might appear, but all he had was his lighter, his smokes, and a bottle of water. He uncapped the water and took a long drink, turning a bit to look at the darkening sky, then put the bottle away with a sigh. He was going to have to head back for his car. Maybe he would still tell Doreen he had done the whole route.
He started back the way he had come. After a half dozen steps, he stopped. Was this the right way?
George looked one way and then the other. They both looked exactly the same. Trees, a faint path, deepening shadows. He tried holding up his lighter, but the tiny flame just revealed how black it all was now.
Something cold landed on his cheek, but it was gone by the time he raised his fingers to it. Then another flecked his nose. In order to see the numbers on his digital watch, he had to press the button on the side to light it—5:22. He was lost. In the woods. In the dark. And it was starting to snow.
Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, George called home. “Doreen, it’s me.”
“Where are you?” She sounded both anxious and relieved. “I thought you would be home by now.”
“The truth is, I’m a little lost.”
* * *
The 9-1-1 dispatcher told George to stay where he was, that help was on its way. She asked what he was wearing. Jeans, a T-shirt, a light jacket. Now that he was no longer moving and the sun had completely slipped below the horizon, he was cold. So cold. In response to her questions about supplies, he told her that he didn’t have a pocketknife, a first aid kit, extra clothing, rain gear, food, or matches. He didn’t have a flashlight or a headlamp or a compass. And he was no longer even sure that he was actually on the trail.
George was no longer sure about anything, except it suddenly seemed possible he might die.
CHAPTER 27
SATURDAY
IN GOOD SPIRITS
Search in Columbia Gorge. Lost hiker. Meet time 1830.
Nick’s mom was making a big pot of chili when he showed her the text. “Can I borrow the car?” He knew she wouldn’t be going out. She never did. She said one man had been enough for her. On Fridays and Saturdays, she stayed home and watched old movies on TV.
She turned with a frown toward the window. “But it’s already dark out.”
“People get lost at night, too, Mom. In fact, that’s probably why this guy got lost. Once it gets dark, people tend to panic.”
“I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Of course it’s safe. It will be a big group. Almost everyone else has done dozens of searches.”
Kyle came into the kitchen. He lifted the wooden spoon to his lips and took a taste, something their mom would never let Nick get away with. “Let him go, Mom,” he said, to Nick’s surprise. “He’s not a baby. And it’s not like you’re using the car.”
She grabbed back the spoon. “I notice you’re free enough handing out my car, but you would never let your brother use yours.” Kyle had his own car, a 1996 GTI.
“Because I need mine tonight, and you don’t need yours. Besides, what if this guy dies because Nick’s not there to save him? You don’t want that on your conscience.”
Nick couldn’t tell if Kyle was mocking him. He sure hoped not.
* * *
Deputy Chris Nagle drove them out to the Columbia Gorge. Jon was riding shotgun, half turned in his seat so he could address the people in the van, a mix of Alpha and Beta teams, of certifieds and uncertifieds. “Look, everyone, I know that right now you might be feeling tired of SAR and burned out, what with the hasty search on Tuesday and the evidence search yesterday, plus class last night, plus today’s search. That’s a lot. I’ll be the first to admit that this has been a tough week. Even so, we need to be careful that we don’t end up with short tempers, or compromising our judgment, or not paying attention. All those things are easy traps to fall into, so we’ll have to watch for them.”
Everyone nodded, with different degrees of enthusiasm. Nick thought Ruby and Mitchell looked a little too eager, while Alexis seemed distracted.
Then Jon told them more about the lost subject, George Hines. George had no map, compass, flashlight, food, extra clothing, knife, first aid kit, signaling device, or emergency blanket.
Next to Nick, Ruby gave her head a disapproving shake at each deficiency.
On the plus side, George Hines had no known medical conditions, unless you counted him being overweight and a smoker. His supplies consisted of a lighter, a cell phone with a dying battery, and a half bottle of water.
“According to his cell phone pings, he’s at about the two-thousand-foot level,” Chris added as the van’s windshield wipers swiped at fat flakes of snow.
“Even though this is a hasty search, we’re going to run containment,” Jon said. “There’s three trails in that area that could all be used to reach the spot where we think he’s at. Since cell phone coordinates can be unreliable, we’re going to break into three teams and go up all three routes. That way we won’t end up chasing him if he gets confused or freaks out and starts hiking away from us.”
“Didn’t he get told to stay in one place?” Alexis asked.
“Of course,” Jon said. “I told him myself. But people don’t always do what they’re told. Not when they’re scared. Sometimes they decide they can’t wait any longer and try to get themselves out. Once when I was sixteen, we got put out for a hasty search. This couple had called 9-1-1 and told us exactly where they were. But when we got there, there was a piece of paper with an arrow pointing down the trail.” He smiled ruefully. “What was supposed to be a four-mile hike tuned into a twenty-five-mile slog in the middle of the night, with us basically chasing after them. We finally found them at a cabin they had broken into. Know what the first thing they said to us was?” He shook his head and snorted. “‘What took you so long?’”
Jon started working out logistics and naming people to teams. When Nick got assigned to Team One, he hid his grin. Led by Jon, Team One was going to take the most likely route, the one that matched up with the cell phone pings, the one George had started up before he got lost. When the van stopped to let them out, it was eight forty-five, and a light snow was falling.
They started out. Ahead of Nick, Jon was talking on his personal cell phone to George, trying to reassure him, telling him they would be there soon, telling him to stay put, telling him how to keep warm. Judging by Jon’s end of the conversation, the guy was not dealing with things well. Jon finally had to end it to make sure they didn’t run George’s battery down to nothing.
In the light of Nick’s headlamp, the snow was falling faster, the flakes getting smaller as the temperature dropped. Iraq was always hot, Nick was pretty sure about that, but still he could imagine he was with his unit, off on some sort of mission. Maybe they were an elite band of soldiers, hiking into the Alps to kill an evil mastermind in his mountain hideout, a man bent on destroying the world. All of them trained. All of them prepared to face death at any moment. Nick scanned the trees around them, pretending he might spot a sniper.
They hiked in silence, snowfall muffling their steps. Fifteen minutes passed, then a half hour. An hour. Two.
They smelled George before they saw him. Or smelled his desperate efforts to keep warm. A smoky odor that mingled cigarette smoke with scorched nylon.
They all lifted their heads, but Nick was the first to spot the wavering light. “I think that’s him!” he called out, pointing. Without discussing it, they began to hurry, nearly running.
The fire was tiny, small enough that the big man who was trying to keep warm was able to sit with his legs on either side.
When he saw them, he stood u
p and started to cry. He had a large round face and short dark hair. His cheeks were very red, and the rest of his face was nearly as white as the snow beginning to blanket the ground.
“George Hines?” Jon asked.
For an answer, he wrapped his arms around Jon, who made a startled “Oof!”
Despite Jon’s advice, he had been sitting right on the ground, not even using branches or leaves to protect himself from the cold earth. The back of his pants were wet. They were jeans, and as SAR had drummed into Nick, cotton killed.
“Are you hurt at all?” Jon asked, untangling himself.
“I’m cold.” George rubbed his hands up and down his arms. “I burned my backpack. I burned my smokes. And then I burned my hat.”
His hat. Nick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why hadn’t he just burned the rest of his clothes? How long would a hat burn, anyway? A minute? Two? And then you just had no hat and you weren’t any warmer.
“These guys will set you up while I call in and let Base know you’re okay,” Jon said, as people began rooting through their packs. He unclipped the microphone from his jacket, pushed the button, and waited a second to speak. “Team One to Base.” After a long pause, Jon tried again. “Team One to Base.” Silence.
Max handed George an energy bar and got a hug in return that lifted him off his feet.
Meanwhile, Jon was unzipping layers. He pulled the radio out of the rat pack. Radio reception could be affected by trees, the radio’s position, the strength of the battery, water in the microphone, weather, rocky or hilly terrain—the list was endless. He had taught them that only when they had a straight line of sight less than five miles away were they guaranteed good radio reception.
Dimitri gave George two pairs of dry socks. George put his arms around Dimitri, who tried to worm out of it. “Not necessary for that, please, man.” He still got a big hug.
Jon had climbed a nearby hill. Now he held the radio above his head with the antenna pointing straight up and repeated his call to Base. This time, he got a response.
“Go ahead, Team One.”
“We’ve located the subject,” Jon said as Jackie offered George a fleece pullover. Next to the big man, it looked comically small. Thinking he might have something larger, Nick started digging through his own pack. They all carried dry clothes, not just for themselves but also for any victims.
A crackle and then, “Copy. Can you give us a medical status and coordinates?”
Jon said, “Subject is mobile, cold and wet, in good spirits, and able to walk out.”
In good spirits was an understatement. George was trading hugs for all kinds of things: a headlamp, a handheld flashlight, a pair of gloves.
“Copy, Team One.” A pause, and then, “Base to all teams, subject has been found. Please return to Base.”
Teams Two and Three acknowledged the instructions.
Jon said, “Team One to Base.”
“Go ahead.”
“We have coordinates when you’re ready.”
“Go for coordinates.”
Jon rattled off a string of numbers and the word easting.
“Copy. Go for northing.”
Another string of numbers, followed by northing. It all meant nothing to Nick, since they hadn’t covered coordinates yet.
“Copy. Go ahead and take care of your subject, and extract down when you’re ready.”
Jon grinned at his team. “Copy.”
Nick gave George a large fleece. Even though he knew what was coming, he still was surprised by the fierceness of the other man’s hug. He kept a poker face, but inside he was smiling.
“I feel like a kid on Christmas morning,” George said as he pulled it on.
“And I’ve got a hat for you,” Jon said as he rejoined them. “But don’t go burning this one. I want it back in one piece.”
It was six A.M. by the time they made it back down to the trailhead. It had taken them hours to return because a small landslide had blocked part of the trail and they had to slowly circumnavigate it. George Hines rested in the van for a bit and then drove himself back home to Beaverton while the SAR folks returned to the sheriff’s office.
In the back seat of the van, sandwiched between Ruby and Alexis, Nick let himself grin like a fool. Sure, it could have been any of them who had spotted George. But it had been him.
It had been him.
He imagined his father’s pride.
CHAPTER 28
SATURDAY
NO TIME TO BE SURPRISED
Tiffany Yee woke in the middle of the night. It took her a minute to remember where she was. Someplace dark and warm and soft. Slowly, the realization seeped into her consciousness. She was in the guest room of that man’s house, where she’d been a week or two earlier. It was the only place since she left home that she had been able to sleep, truly sleep. Two good nights out of sixty or so.
He was a nice enough guy, if a little weird. He hadn’t put his hands on her. Yet. She was sure he would. Either that or talk about Jesus. Or maybe both. That was how it worked. A trade.
At least Tiffany existed for him. For many people she passed or who passed by her, she was like a ripple in the ocean. There and gone, without a trace.
Sleep grabbed her by the ankles and tried to pull her back down, but Tiffany wanted to know what time it was. How much longer she would be able to drift in the peaceful river of slumber. She reached under the pillow for her phone.
Only it was gone. More awake, she slid her hand back and forth, up and down, over the smooth, clean sheet. Nothing.
Tiffany sat up, electricity sparking in her veins. Her phone was her life. She would rather skip a meal or even a whole day of eating if it meant she could keep paying for her phone. Her brother called her on that phone. Maybe sometime he would say it was safe to come home.
Her caseworker called on that phone, too. And Tiffany put that number on job applications, although so far no one had called her, not since she had been caught getting high in the bathroom of the doughnut place while she was on break.
The inside of her head felt bruised and slushy, like someone had stuck a spoon in there and stirred. He had made her some Kahlua and cream earlier. She must have drunk more than she remembered. She made herself get out of bed. The world canted, and Tiffany had to brace herself against the bedpost until the dizziness passed. Then she ran her hands over the wall—as smooth and cool as the sheets—until she located the light switch. She flipped it up and stood blinking in the light.
Even the cheapest hotel rooms usually had bad framed prints on the wall. Here there was nothing. Just ivory-colored walls, tan-colored flat carpeting, and a big white bed, now smudged in places from her clothes. This guest room was more sterile than a hotel room. So sterile that she could smell herself.
She got down on her knees, ignoring how it made her head spin, and looked under the bed. Nothing. She pulled aside the small table that held only a lamp. Her phone was definitely gone. Still, she checked the pockets of her jeans and hoodie one more time.
Tiffany didn’t know what time it was. Late. Maybe three in the morning. Finally she turned off the light and prepared to tiptoe down the hall. Had he taken it? But why would he want it? It was at least three generations behind, awkward and heavy compared with the phones rich people had. And he was rich. He threw away food without thinking about it, had big piles of new hardcover books, and kept the house as warm as if was spring outside, not closing in on winter.
Two days ago, three of her brother’s friends had caught her digging in the big Dumpster outside Safeway, looking for food. It had been one of the lowest moments of the last few months, and there were many to choose from. But Tiffany could tell by the expression in their eyes that they thought this was absolutely the worst thing she had ever done. They didn’t know she broke into cars, sometimes just to sleep, sometimes to steal iPods, laptops, or GPS units she could sell. They didn’t know she couldn’t shoplift from stores anymore—she stank so bad, everyone knew she was homele
ss. They didn’t know she was on heroin and any Xanax or Valium she could steal. They didn’t know that she had once found a gun in a shopping cart under the freeway and thought about killing herself, before hiding it in some bushes and making herself walk away.
Her brother’s friends were good boys, though. One of them pressed three limp dollar bills into her hand and told her to buy herself something to eat at Mickey D’s. She hadn’t even had to ask for money, although she was getting pretty good at it by now. The combination of her baby face and a sign that read TRYING TO GET HOME usually worked, bringing her pity and a few bucks.
Sometimes people just gave her food, like they were doing her a favor, but what she really needed was money. For drugs, sure, but for other stuff, too. Could she trade a hamburger for tampons? Or credit on her cell phone? TriMet bus fare? You couldn’t buy toothpaste or socks or a comb with a hamburger. All you could do was eat it. You couldn’t even save it for later.
Tiffany crept down the hall. Had she left her phone in the bathroom?
When she got to the end, her eyes caught a faint glow downstairs.
It was the man. He had told her to call him Mr. Smith. He was sitting at the dining room table. In front of him was her phone. He was bent over it, occasionally tapping his index finger.
Her phone was personal. More personal than Tiffany’s body, which hardly felt like it belonged to her anymore. But her texts, her emails, her photos, her contacts, her notes—those were hers, and hers alone.
“What are you doing with my phone?” She had meant to say it in a voice that would echo through the whole house, but instead it came out little more than a whisper. “Give it back.”
He barely turned to glance up at her, then went back to looking at her phone. She made it down the stairs—holding tight to the handrail for balance—and went up to him with her hand outstretched.
With a swipe of his finger, he made whatever he had been looking at disappear.