One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

  “Daisy always bounces back. Hence her name. I’ve never seen anything that could keep that dog down.”

  Daisy wags her tail at Bob again. He stubbornly shovels several sporkfuls of oatmeal into his mouth.

  I wonder if he or Martin and Nemeth have broken the news to the group yet about our missing food. Judging by everyone’s sleepy looks, I doubt it. The mood is much too mellow for people who have woken up to impending doom.

  Scott is rubbing absently at his chest.

  “How are you?” I call over to him.

  “I’ll live.” His tone is subdued. He doesn’t look happy this morning, but neither do Miggy and Neil. I wonder if the three of them were able to go back to sleep last night. Or if they lay awake, thinking of that other night, five years ago. When Scott also went missing. And nothing was ever the same again.

  Will they be relieved to learn their mission just got cut short? Or at this stage, do they just want to keep on trucking till they finally locate Tim’s body and can then get on with their lives? I know which way Miggy would vote. Neil, I have no idea. And Scott . . . Assuming we stumble upon Tim’s remains and Scott gets to gaze at last upon his best friend’s sun-bleached bones . . .

  How in the world was he going to go from that to his new life with Tim’s former bride-to-be?

  Scott rubs his chest again, stares at the glowing fire.

  I finish my coffee, then hobble over to the breakfast pickings. Instant oatmeal it is, topped with almonds and brown sugar for extra energy. One thing I will say for this level of physical exertion, it makes all food taste amazing. I already want seconds and thirds—which isn’t going to happen given last night’s events.

  I flicker a gaze at Martin, who is still avoiding us, then stare hard at Nemeth. He seems to take the hint, clearing his throat, rising to standing.

  “We’ve had a development,” he states. One by one, the guys look up at him. Across the way, Martin finally ceases his puttering. “Last night, an animal got into our food supplies, shredding two of the bags. Daisy’s stash is fine. The rest of us are down several dozen meal kits.”

  “What?” Neil stands up. “Some beast got into our food? I thought those were animal-safe bags.”

  “What matters is that the same animal didn’t enter our camp—”

  “You mean like a bear?” Miggy, also rising to standing.

  Nemeth’s jaw tightens. “We’re safe. We were also able to recover most of the MREs—”

  “How much is most?” Neil again.

  I have to admit, I’m enjoying the show.

  “Several dozen—”

  “We’re a party of eight.” Miggy, doing the same math I performed last night. “We’re going to need at least sixteen a day. So basically you’re saying we have, what, a two-day supply?”

  “Three. Four if we’re careful.”

  “Careful? What the fuck is careful? Last night, we supposedly did everything careful and Scott here is missing half of his chest, while you lost half our food.”

  Nemeth clearly doesn’t appreciate that comment. He’s just opened his mouth to argue, when Martin steps forward.

  “Stop it.” There’s a tone to his voice. Nemeth, Neil, and Miggy shut up, and Scott finally looks up from the fire.

  “I’ve counted the meal kits. We’re good for four days. This might shorten our trip, but it doesn’t change our immediate plans.” Martin turns to Scott. “Can you still hike?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then there’s nothing else to discuss. Finish up, get dressed. We head out in thirty.”

  With that, Martin is done. He turns back to his tent. After another tense moment, Nemeth follows.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Luciana murmurs beside me.

  “You have no idea,” I tell her.

  The college buddies are already on the move. They may resent Martin, maybe even hate him, but they clearly feel obligated to obey him.

  I finish up my oatmeal, down the last of my coffee. My entire body hurts. The idea of slipping my feet back into my boots almost has me undone. It’s a two-hour walk to the caves, Martin said last night. I have no idea how I’m going to do that, given I can barely make it to my tent.

  “Today, I’m grateful for this beautiful morning,” I murmur, drawing upon my AA training. “Today, I’m grateful for the sun, and my new dog friend, Daisy, and the opportunity to be out in the great outdoors. Today, I’m grateful I haven’t had a drink.”

  I give it a moment. For my shoulders to come down. For my buzzing brain to center.

  Then I pull on my still-damp clothes from yesterday, strap my badass blade to my belt, and prepare for another long trek through the woods.

  * * *

  —

  Luciana helps me reorganize my pack with enough supplies for a day-trip versus a weeklong expedition. I refill my water bottles, reload snacks. Belatedly, I discover I never handed over Josh’s secret stash of chocolate or dozen protein bars. Given the food bags’ fate, I’m grateful I kept the snacks to myself. Though I may have to change my mind if I wake up to a grizzly in my tent.

  Nemeth and Martin finish up the camp chores. Food secured, fire banked, tents zipped shut. Then we’re off.

  We start out much as we did yesterday morning, which was only twenty-four hours ago and already feels like another lifetime. Nemeth, slinging the rifle over his shoulder, takes point. Martin follows close behind. Then the guys, all of them wincing with each step. Next come Luciana and Daisy, with Daisy now clad in a black duty vest and trotting happily. The dog clearly knows she’s off to work and is excited about it.

  I trudge after them, grateful for my significantly lighter pack and telling myself my stiff, sore muscles will loosen up anytime now. Just one more step. And another. And another.

  Bob plays sweeper, his long legs effortlessly gobbling up the trail. I slow to put a little distance between us and Luciana.

  “You okay?” he asks as we start to lag.

  “How long have you been a member with the North American Bigfoot Society?” I ask him.

  “Ten years. Wait, maybe twelve. Awhile now.”

  “Isn’t it a volunteer organization?”

  “We have an elected board, that sort of thing. Given our size, most meetings are online. But local members often come together for group hikes, organized searches of a target area, that sort of thing.”

  “Help with lost hikers?”

  “Sure. Most of us spend lots of time in the woods. If there’s anything we can do to help . . .”

  “Are there paid positions?”

  He laughs. “Don’t I wish. I’m currently the secretary. Trust me, it’s all for love, not money.”

  “Then why did Martin write you a check for five thousand dollars?” I twist enough so I can catch the expression on Bob’s face as he walks behind me. His red-gold beard is either that thick, or he’s that cool under pressure, because he gives nothing away.

  “Marty didn’t pay me any money. Marty did”—Bob pauses to emphasize the next phrase—“write a check to the North American Bigfoot Society. A thank-you, for all the help we’ve offered over the past few years with his search.”

  “Five thousand dollars is one helluva thank-you.”

  “That would be a question for Marty, not me.”

  There’s a note of tension in Bob’s voice now. A curtness at odds with his normal easygoing manner. The Bigfoot hunter’s sensitive on this subject. Why, if the check was nothing but an appreciative gift to his group?

  I don’t know Bob well. We are online acquaintances, virtual comrades in arms when it comes to seeking what others haven’t found. But I know a liar when I hear one, and Bob is lying to me.

  “Do you really believe there’s a Sasquatch in these woods?” I ask after a second, as we pass the tip of the lake, start to loop around to the other side, en
route to the caves.

  “It would be a happy surprise, but I’m partial to the Pacific Northwest as natural Bigfoot habitat.”

  “But you’re here, and not just because of Martin and his son. The other missing people?” I ponder. “The additional data points on your map that make these mountains an area of interest?”

  “Searching for a mythical beast is like hunting for a lost hiker—you don’t just look for the person; you look for signs of the person. Clusters of unusual activity in remote wilderness areas are as good a hint as any that something more may be living in those woods.”

  “Do you think Sasquatches are a threat to humans? That that’s what happened to the six other missing hikers?”

  “I think if Sasquatches were nothing more than giant bipedal apes, then they would’ve been spotted by now, snacking on local populations. They haven’t. Meaning we’re talking about a creature who’s not just smart, but sophisticated enough to avoid discovery.” Bob shrugs. “Call me romantic, but if they’ve gone this long without hurting us, then I’d like to believe they’d have an instinct to help us.”

  “Then why track lost hikers?”

  “If you saw an enormous hairy beast rise up out of the woods ahead of you, what would you do?”

  “Pee my pants. Wish I had eaten that last piece of chocolate cake.” I concede his point. “Run for my life.”

  “Leading to possibly plunging over a cliff, or careening face-first into a boulder, or getting well and truly lost in the woods.”

  “So hikers end up dead, but not because of any evil intent on Bigfoot’s part?” I arch a brow dubiously.

  “You never know.”

  I’ve had enough. I stop suddenly, bringing us both up short. “I don’t know about Bigfoot, but you’re lying to me, Bob. Why are you lying to me?”

  “I am here to help Marty.”

  “For five thousand dollars?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did. Someone saw. The check was in your name. Admit it.”

  “Who?”

  I smile. He just proved my point.

  “What happened last night?” I ask him, point blank. “The food bags. They appeared to be shredded by claws, but what kind of animal leaves no prints? I know of only one creature clever enough to cover its tracks, and it’s of the Homo sapiens variety.”

  “You think someone in our party did it. Sabotaged our supplies. Why?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m grilling you.”

  “I didn’t touch the food bags. I wouldn’t do such a thing.” For a moment, he sounds so earnest, I want to believe him. He sounds like the Bob I thought him to be, which is a joke, because I only just met him in person forty-eight hours ago. Maybe Miggy’s suspicions are correct, and Bob’s lovable-giant routine is a ruse designed to put the rest of us at ease till he reveals his true diabolical intentions. Except what would those be?

  “I wasn’t the only one who took off last night,” Bob continues now. “Last I saw, everyone was headed into the woods, trying to figure out what was going on. Meaning the food was left unattended for a good twenty, thirty minutes. Would’ve been easy enough for any one of us to cycle back, tamper with the bags.”

  “Luciana stayed behind. Last I saw, she and Daisy were zipped up tight in her tent. She didn’t want Daisy getting out and getting hurt.”

  Bob says what I’m already thinking. “None of the dog food was touched.”

  “What would Luciana have to gain from destroying our food stash? She needs to eat as well.”

  “What do I have to gain? And I need to eat, too. Even more than the rest of you.” Bob pats his large frame self-consciously. He has that overgrown-puppy-dog vibe working again. The sweet blue eyes, the faintly pleading expression.

  I can’t buy it; I can’t reject it. Did I hike too much yesterday or not sleep enough last night? Because my instincts are failing me. My ability to quickly size up people is one of my few life skills. But now my thoughts are clouded, my brain spinning.

  I scrub at my temples, willing some semblance of plausible narrative to gel in my head. I got nothing. I’m heading deeper and deeper into the wilderness, beyond all contact with the outside world, and I have no idea who these people truly are, and what their real intentions might be.

  I feel vulnerable in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  “Do you know what it takes to spend your life looking for Bigfoot?” Bob speaks up abruptly.

  I look at him.

  “Faith. It takes huge bucketloads of faith. I have no idea what happened last night, how Scott got injured or our food stash destroyed. But I’m not the problem here.”

  I smile. I want to believe him, if only so I can sleep better at night. But what I notice most in his little speech is that he doesn’t mention the check Marty wrote to him. Yet more proof that payment did happen and Bob is hiding it.

  Why?

  Eight people head into the woods. A grieving father, a hiking guide, three college friends, and three semiprofessional searchers. On the surface, it makes sense. So why do I have a feeling eight of us won’t be coming back out?

  A disturbance up ahead. Neil appears, the person I’m hoping to speak with next.

  “Are you two okay?” he calls out.

  “Just adjusting our packs,” Bob answers. Covering for us and our conversation. He doesn’t look at me; I don’t look at him.

  “Then hurry up. We’ve found something. Straight ahead.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The group has discovered a makeshift campsite about twenty feet off the main trail. Martin spotted it first—though, how, I have no idea. It’s a crude setup: a barely body-sized lean-to fashioned from hand-cut pine branches. A few feet from its narrow opening are the charred remains of an old campfire.

  “Placing the fire at the opening captures the heat,” Martin murmurs to no one in particular. “It may not look like much, but a shelter like this can maintain a temperature above fifty degrees, regardless of conditions. I taught him this. For a while, he’d practice them in the backyard, teach his friends on the school grounds. Kids love building forts.”

  There’s a tone to his voice. A man who is seeing both the present and the past. A father who is feeling both proud and gutted.

  The site is too small for eight people, so the rest of us stand back, letting Martin walk the area.

  “You think Tim made this?” I ask Nemeth in a low voice.

  He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze scouring the surrounding area. “It’s possible,” he allows at last. “Could be five years old, could be from earlier this summer, though.” He frowns, stares at the shelter, frowns again. “I doubt that. I’m thinking it’s at least a year old. How much beyond that, I can’t tell.”

  “Why at least a year old?”

  Martin is now walking around the lean-to. He pauses occasionally, touching the dense covering of pine needles, the sliced ends of the gathered tree limbs. Nemeth is looking at the scene, but Martin is feeling it.

  “The ground, for one thing. Notice the light covering of detritus. Whoever built this would’ve disturbed the entire area. We’d see churned-up earth, impressions from a person sitting before the fire. We don’t. It looks . . .”

  “Ghost towny?” I fill in. “Not just abandoned, but in a long-gone sort of way?”

  “Exactly.” Nemeth squats down, regards our surroundings from this new vantage point. “Then again, five years later, I’d expect more of the shelter to have collapsed, branches to be knocked down. This is in pretty good shape for a ramshackle construction.”

  “I thought you mountain-guru types were supposed to be able to sniff the dirt, lick a pine cone, then state unequivocally who came here at what date and time, not to mention their favorite food and astrological sign.”

  Nemeth stares at me. “I know you’re a Virgo; does
that help?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Cuz you’re a pain in my ass. Stubborn, critical, overthinking—”

  “Okay, okay, okay, let’s call it a draw.”

  Martin has moved from the lean-to to the fire. He picks up a piece of charred wood, turns it over in his hand.

  Luciana and Daisy, I notice, are now walking a larger circle around the campsite—as best they can, given that we’re in the middle of a clump of straggly, half-dead pines. Bob trails behind them. Neil, Scott, and Miguel are standing to the side, doing what they do best, which is nothing at all.

  “Why build it so far off the trail?” I ask.

  “Generally, you look for some kind of natural starting point. Say, a few collapsed trees that already form a frame for the structure, that kind of thing. But to leave the trail and walk this far in . . .” Nemeth glances behind us, where the hiking path is barely visible through the fence of matchstick tree trunks. His expression is troubled. “I don’t know,” he says at last.

  I think of the screams we heard yesterday when hiking up. The cries Nemeth said came from an animal but didn’t sound like any kind of cute, four-legged creature that I know. I wonder if the person who sheltered here heard those shrieks as well and felt a need for a less conspicuous shelter.

  Nemeth rises to standing, dusting off his pants. He directs his next comment to the group: “While Devil’s Canyon is hard to access for your average hiker, a fair number of people still pass through here during any given season. Best bet is to see if we can find some trace of Tim’s gear or remnant of the person who stayed here. Otherwise, all we got is evidence of a single person who camped here at some point at least a year ago.”

  Martin speaks up. “It’s his.”

  We all look at him.

  “The tree branches forming the lean-to. They haven’t been just hacked down. Their tips are cut at a precise forty-five-degree angle, as one might expect from an engineer. Then there’s the way the stones are arranged around the fire pit. They’re all similar in size and shape. No need for that. Requires extra effort. But Tim liked things uniform, balanced to the eye. Son of a carpenter, you know.”