by Lisa Gardner
“Someone should stay with Neil,” Luciana points out.
I raise my hand. “I can do that.”
Another moment. Then, short nod from Martin, short nod from Nemeth. We all exhale.
Miguel, Scott, and Bob move toward Martin. Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy become a team of three. And Neil and I are now bosom buddies.
Neil starts laughing softly again.
“Saint Timothy,” he murmurs. “Oh, Saint Timothy, Saint Timothy. Everyone loves Saint Timothy.”
“Shhh,” I try to tell him.
But he only laughs harder as the others walk away.
CHAPTER 19
Enjoy . . . the show?” Neil asks me, as the others depart, leaving him and me tucked in a domed shelter created by a pile of collapsed boulders. Luciana produced an instant cold pack, which I wedged between the back of Neil’s skull and the rock he’s leaning against. His hair and neck are too bloody for me to tell if the laceration is still weeping or not, but at least he’s conscious.
“I put my money on Martin,” I say as I take a seat on the ground beside him. Smaller, scrabbly stones dig into my butt, and I shift around to get comfortable. “Nemeth is tough, but Martin is just short of crazy, and I never bet against crazy.”
“Nemeth is unbeatable.”
“You know this how?”
“Local gossip. Hiking group got lost twenty-something years ago, end of October. Volunteers were activated, Nemeth leading the charge. An unexpected blizzard hit above nine thousand feet, caught Nemeth and his team. They were a party of eight. Four days later, only Nemeth was recovered alive. Pretty much a human Popsicle, but he recovered fully in the end. He isn’t from the wilderness, the locals like to say. He’s of the wilderness. And mountains never die.”
I’m impressed, then notice my charge’s drooping eyelids. “Uh-uh-uh. Eyes open. Sorry, but that’s the way it’s gotta be. More water?”
Neil’s eyes open. He sighs harder. “Fine.”
“Have Nemeth and Martin gone at it before?” I ask him as I remove the cap from the thermos. He drinks long and hard. His color appears normal, but I’m worried he’s running on the adrenaline rush following his initial injury. Once that fades . . .
“Directly? Not that I know of. But both are stubborn old farts. Tim used to say . . . his mother survived cancer first time cuz Martin willed it.”
“I don’t think his will is working out so well these days,” I say quietly.
“Guess not. Or maybe he’s stopped telling his wife what to do. Poor Patrice.”
Neil shifts restlessly, then promptly winces from the pain.
I give him more water. Nemeth left us with one of the largest bottles. Now is not the time to be stingy.
“Nauseous?” I ask my charge. “Headache? Bellyache? What’s your name?”
“Fuck you,” he mutters without any heat.
“That would be my name. I asked for yours.”
A reluctant smile. He blinks his eyes several times, seems to be forcing himself to rouse. “Last time I split open my scalp”—he fingers the top of his caked hair—“they used staples to close it up. I still have the dents. Six of them. Duh, duh, duh. That hurt. This . . . I’ll live.”
“You’ve broken your skull that much?”
“Let’s just say . . . I was a clumsy kid.” He emphasizes the word clumsy enough for me to understand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. My old man was a drinker. The stronger the booze, the quicker his fists. At least he finally drank himself to death. Couple of decades later than my sister and I would’ve liked, but done is done.”
“Younger or older sister?”
“Younger. Four years. Baby of the family.”
“I take it you were especially clumsy when she was around?”
“Ding, ding, ding, give the woman a prize.”
“My father loved his beer,” I volunteer. “And Jack Daniel’s and anything else he could get his hands on. He wasn’t a violent drunk, though. Just an unemployed one.”
“Your mom?”
“Worked two jobs. Hated him, loved him, resented him. But didn’t kick his sorry ass out the door. I’ve never known why. First, I was too young to ask the question. Then I was too drunk to care. And then . . .” I shrug. “They were too dead for me to ask.”
Neil twists his head to study me, moving slowly to keep the ice pack in place. “You got the drinking gene?”
“Started early and went at it hard,” I assure him. “I don’t remember most of my twenties. Given I spent them in LA encouraging strange men to pay my bar tabs, it’s probably better that way.”
“Drugs?”
“In my drinking days, I’d take whatever you were offering. But liquor remains my first love. The rest, I can walk away from. I’m lucky that way.”
“My sister, Becca, loved it all. Drink it, snort it, smoke it, inject it. Nothing she didn’t try. I blamed my father. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. But then he died, and she was still a train wreck. Lost her license. Lost her job. Picked up a new loser boyfriend. The two of them . . . like the meth-head version of Bonnie and Clyde, racing their way to the bottom. My mom and I tried. Interventions, rehab, AA, substance abuse counselors. For a while, every penny I earned went to my sister’s latest treatment. But Derek the Douche always reappeared. And she always went away with him.”
“You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”
“You?”
“Sober ten years, five months, and”—I’ve lost track of dates—“eighteen days. Took me a couple of tries, though. And I did have help, someone who believed in me until I was strong enough to believe in myself. I take it your sister . . . ?”
“Drank herself to death?” Neil smiles thinly. Despite my best efforts, his eyes are at half-mast. I snap my fingers, forcing him to focus.
“Remember. No sleeping.”
“No dying,” he finishes.
“That’s the spirit.”
“She OD’d. My sister. Two years after I graduated from college. Police found her body in some abandoned warehouse. Derek the Douche was long gone. Probably grabbed the rest of their drugs and booked it while her body was still warm. I always thought the call would come in the middle of the night, but no. Eleven a.m. on a Tuesday. I was sitting at my desk at work. Saw my mother’s number and picked up without suspecting a thing.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Called Tim next. I didn’t know what to do. My mom was sobbing hysterically. And I was just . . . numb. After everything we’d done. It’s like half of me knew this was always going to happen. But the other half . . . She was my baby sister, the one who’d sneak me Popsicles after my father passed out. The girl who saved her Jell-O from school lunch because she knew how much I liked it. She used to swing so high, my mother would scream at her to get down. I loved her. Even when she was at her worst.”
Wordlessly, I wipe the first tear, followed by the second, third, and fourth, from his cheeks.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Did Tim help you? When you called him?”
“Tim took care of everything. Called the other guys, spoke to his parents, organized the funeral. My mom was useless. I knew I should be helping, but I just . . . couldn’t.”
“Sounds like Tim was a great friend,” I say at last.
“Saint Timothy.”
“ ‘Because the heavens opened up and choirs started to sing every time he walked into a room,’ ” I quote. “At least, that’s what Scott told me.”
“Scott’s an asshole.” But Neil’s smiling faintly.
He sighs, eyelids drooping again. I shake his shoulder till he peers at me groggily.
“Your head hurt?”
“Like a son of a bitch.”
Adrenaline’s worn off. Here we go. “N
auseous? If you’re going to vomit, please do it in the other direction.”
“Don’t suppose you have a stapler?”
“Sorry, this is a superglue-only ER. Come on. I know it’s hard, but you gotta keep talking. Tell me about Tim.”
“Can’t.”
“He was your best friend. First one you called when you got terrible news. Guy you introduced to his future bride. I wanna hear all the details.”
“Latisha was my date. He was supposed to entertain her friend.”
I pause, remember Scott’s earlier coyness, and feel like an idiot for not connecting the dots sooner. “You’re the one who dated Latisha first.”
“Only a couple of times. Took me forever to work up the courage to ask her out. Then I was so damn nervous, couldn’t get out of my own way. Spent the first date tongue-tied. The second sweating like a freak show. She was so nice about it, too.
“I was desperate to succeed. So I consulted Tim. His idea, turn the next outing into a double date. Less pressure. I’d relax, make a better impression. So I did. And it was way less pressure. Especially once Latisha stopped paying any attention to me. One look, and just like everyone else, she was all about Saint Tim.”
“Awkward.”
“Yep.” Heavy sigh.
“You must’ve been very angry with him.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. He knew how much I liked her. But then, not really his fault if she didn’t feel the same about me. That’s what I told myself. Once I stopped crying into my pillow.” A feeble smile.
“He could’ve backed off,” I say quietly.
“Not his style.”
“He could’ve excused himself from the date, given you more time to work your magic.”
“Not his style.”
“He wanted what other people had. Even what his best friends had.”
“Tim was one of those guys . . . you could love him even when you hated him. Which we all did, sooner or later.”
“Love him or hate him?”
“I’m tired. Can’t I just take a nap?”
“No sleeping. Come on, Neil. Keep talking. Saint Timothy who stole your date. What about Scott? Clearly, he wanted Latisha, too.”
“Scott was a putz, pining for something he was never gonna have.”
“But he did end up with her. Once Tim was out of the picture.”
“I don’t think a rock fell on my head,” Neil says abruptly. He rubs his temple, winces, squeezes his eyes shut against the pain. “I wasn’t that close to the cliff.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I heard a noise. I turned. And then . . .” Neil shudders, shifts uncomfortably. “Water, please.”
I give him the bottle, watching as he drinks deeply. He’s definitely paler now, with a sheen of moisture across his face. My concern ticks up several notches.
“This is it,” Neil mutters. “The four of us, we agreed. After this trip, we’re done. No more looking for skeletons. Once we walk out of these mountains, we’re never coming back. It’s what motivated Josh to crawl out of the bottle. Make one last push. Except then he got out of the trip. Lucky bastard.”
“Why is this the last time?”
“Because we can’t take it anymore. None of us. Josh is the most obvious, but all of us . . . He knows. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows. And now . . . This isn’t a recovery mission anymore. This . . .” He stares at me blearily. “This is a reckoning.”
I have a sinking feeling. Followed by a chill. I have to ask the next question, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“What did you guys do, Neil? What really happened five years ago?”
Then, just as I feared:
“We lied. We lied about everything.” Heavy, heavy sigh. “And our lies killed Tim.”
CHAPTER 20
Neil’s eyes shut. He slides sideways. I grab his shoulder before he can hit the ground and jerk him back to sitting.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up.” I’m still in the process of chanting when Nemeth suddenly appears out of nowhere, looking tense.
“We gotta go. Thunderstorm rolling in. We need to take shelter at the tree line.”
“I don’t think he can walk.”
“Not an option. Slap him if you have to, but he needs to move.” Nemeth peers over his shoulder, as if the storm is right behind him. Now I’m spooked. If Nemeth is worried about something, then the rest of us should be terrified.
“Neil!” I shout. His eyelids flutter. I tap at his face, then give up and throw water on him.
“Wh-what?”
“Come on. Time to stand. We’re going for a little walk.”
Nemeth gets on the other side of Neil and helps me heft him to standing. It’s awkward, especially given I’m half their size. But Nemeth is already dragging Neil forward, forcing both Neil and me into motion. Is the torrential downpour about to pour through the boulder field? I don’t want to find out.
Together, we manage to get Neil out of the den. Luciana and Daisy are already waiting. Luciana appears as agitated as Nemeth, while Daisy prances nervously beside her.
I feel a gust of cooler wind. Peering into the horizon, I can see the dark clouds. A line of them headed straight toward us, a black wall devouring the blue sky. It is both beautiful and horrifying. I can’t help but stare, even as my skin prickles with the promise of impending lightning.
“Luciana,” Nemeth barks. “Take Frankie’s place. Frankie, grab the gear.”
Luciana and I quickly switch places. Daisy whines again.
“What about the others?” I ask.
“Marty’s in charge. Hopefully he’s paying attention.”
Nemeth grits out the last sentence. Because Martin’s focus has been one-dimensional all day. Hell, maybe for the past five years.
Neil is trying to lift his feet. The cool wind has pulled him back to consciousness, helping him muster his reserves. With Nemeth and Luciana serving as walking sticks, he starts hobbling forward. Daisy remains glued to Luciana’s side, head down, tail tucked between her legs. I wouldn’t think a SAR dog would be put off by weather. Or is it something else? Because Luciana’s expression remains shuttered, which isn’t like her at all.
I’m still trying to sort through what Neil told me. Or sort of told me. Lies. Which means secrets. One of which most likely stole our food and bashed Neil over the head.
Scott had been missing when the food bags were sabotaged, and present when Neil was struck. Meaning I’ll be starting my next round of questions with him. In front of others. Whatever happens next, I want witnesses.
A fat raindrop lands.
Then a crack of lightning forks across the bruised sky, followed almost immediately by a concussive boom of thunder, so close it causes me to jump. Dark roiling clouds sweep over us, casting the entire canyon into immediate shadow. No more time for admiring the wild beauty. We gotta hustle.
“Just need to get to the trailhead,” Nemeth says, encouraging. “We can hunker down in the trees, let the storm pass. Few more feet. You got this.”
He’s totally lying. The trailhead is at least thirty yards, if not more. But Neil picks up his feet again.
People, straight ahead. I make out Martin and the others. They’re shouting and waving their arms to get our attention. They’ve already made it to the woods. Bob, however, clearly recognizes our predicament and immediately bolts from cover to help. Within minutes, he’s taken over for Luciana, and together he and Nemeth half carry Neil the rest of the distance.
We make it to the woods just as a fresh bolt of lightning electrifies the sky. Then, with a second massive boom, the thunderstorm explodes into the canyon. Rain falls in sheets, soaking our hair, sluicing the dust from our skin.
Nemeth and Bob get Neil situated under a small cluster of pines. The spindly branches aren’t thick enou
gh to block out the downpour, but Neil doesn’t seem to mind. He lifts his face to the sky, the dried blood on his head turning fresh crimson, then running off him in gory rivulets.
Washing away his injury. Cleansing him of sin. If only.
He looks at me then, with the bone-deep exhaustion of a person who’s been carrying a heavy load for far too long. I want to tell him I understand. I want to promise him it’ll be all right. But I don’t want to add to the lies.
He smiles wanly, as if he can read my mind. Then he closes his eyes and surrenders to the rain.
* * *
—
The storm disappears as quickly as it struck. The clouds roll past us, taking their light show with them. Soon the thunder is a distant boom and the air no longer tingles with electricity.
Bob shakes out his hair and beard, then brushes the beaded raindrops from his pack. Just like that, the Bigfoot hunter is ready to go. The rest of us follow suit much more slowly. No one is talking. I go from face to face, searching for any hint of what’s going on. I stare the longest at Scott. His face flushes. With guilt? Remorse?
I turn my attention to Miggy next, who quickly becomes equally flustered.
When we get to base camp, there’s going to be one helluva discussion.
“We need to fashion a travois to get Neil back to camp.” Nemeth steps into the middle of the trail, already pulling a blue emergency blanket from his pack. “You two,” he snaps at Miggy and Scott. They jump to attention. “I need two sturdy branches of roughly the same diameter and approximately three feet longer than your friend here. Move it.”
They hustle away, clearly motivated by Nemeth’s urgency.
“You.” He pins me with his gaze. I’m tempted to twist around to see if there’s anyone standing behind me, but I already know better.
“Time to learn how to use that knife.”
Dear God.
He tosses me a coil of thin nylon rope. “Cut this into segments eight feet long. Next, I need you to make holes along the edge of the tarp Martin’s going to hand you. A simple X will suffice, big enough for the rope to pass through.”