One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

  Miggy manages to pull himself closer, moaning slightly. He looks even worse by the light of the fire. He has a savage slash across his face, but the true damage is to his chest. Tree man turned Miggy’s torso into something out of a zombie flick.

  My issues are my arm, shoulder, and ankle. Interestingly enough, neither of them would normally be life-threatening. Except, of course, when you’re stranded in the middle of the wilderness with no access to the civilized world.

  We’re both still shaking with the cold. I lean over the fire better to warm my hands. Miguel’s movements are more feeble. He’s fading fast and knows it.

  “Tell me a story,” he says at last.

  “About a princess and a frog?”

  “Maybe about a band of brothers. Who set out in the woods.”

  I play along. “A wild beast emerges. He roars and attacks.”

  “One brother is separated from the others.”

  “But he doesn’t give up. He journeys the forest looking for a way out. He’s determined to survive.”

  “The other four search for him. But the beast comes back. They fight. One by one. They fall.”

  “But the first brother is still watching over them,” I counter. “He wants his brothers to live.”

  “They were lousy brothers. They never should’ve separated in the first place.”

  “He understands. He still wants them to live.”

  “But the forest is the forest.” Miggy sighs. “It wants the brothers to be together again. For all of eternity.”

  “The first brother fights the forest.”

  Miguel looks at me. “The first brother is already dead.”

  “You are not very good at stories, Miggy.”

  “What did you expect? I’m an engineer.”

  “More water?” I offer. Because Miggy’s not wrong. In terms of happily ever afters, we’re shit out of luck.

  “Tell my father I went down fighting.”

  “Nope. You want him to know, show up and show off your battle scars yourself.”

  “You shouldn’t have joined our mad little party.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Die with strangers?”

  “Honestly? I always figured I’d die alone. So all in all, this is progress.”

  “Did you do something terrible?” he asks me curiously. “Or did someone do something terrible to you? Is that why you now drift from place to place?”

  “No. Though once there was a man who loved me more than I could love him. And he ended up dying because of that love, but it wasn’t really my fault, or even his fault. Just one of those things. But I’d started wandering even before that. It hurt him that I didn’t love him enough to stay. And hurt me that he didn’t understand my need to leave.”

  “I haven’t cared about someone that much yet.”

  “Maybe your new face will do the trick.”

  “Chicks dig scars?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Frankie, in the bottom of my pack. There’s a flask. Get it.”

  I assume he means another stainless steel water bottle, so it takes my fingers a moment to register the shape. A real flask. The old-fashioned, thin, rectangular kind with a screw-off cap. I free it from the backpack and find myself staring. I talked to Neil about being an alcoholic. But I’ve never mentioned it to Miggy.

  “I brought it,” Miguel murmurs, the whistle building in his chest. “For when we found Tim. One last toast. A fitting farewell, I don’t know.”

  My fingers are trembling as I hand it over. I inhale deeply as he loosens the cap.

  “Maker’s Mark,” he supplies. “Our final drink together as friends.”

  I can only nod.

  I’m suddenly so thirsty. Ravenously thirsty. I’m in my parents’ backyard, watching my father bob and weave his way back to our ramshackle tent. I’m a little girl, licking bourbon from my fingers in the privacy of my bedroom. Trying to know. Trying to understand.

  Trying to discern the flavor of love.

  “No more rainy days,” Miggy exhales. “No more hellos. No more goodbyes.”

  “No more pain, no more sorrow,” I contribute.

  “A drink for the brave.”

  “A drink for the fallen.”

  “Goodbye to the past.”

  “Goodbye to tomorrow.”

  Toast complete, he tips back the flask and swallows deep. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. I imagine the smooth whiskey burning down his throat, warming him from the inside. Even with our little fire, it’s so cold, we are so cold.

  Soon enough, we will each fall unconscious. The fire will fail. The cold will take over. And our shivering will cease altogether.

  Miggy coughs harshly. Spits up blood. Studies the fresh red drops on the palm of his hand.

  “Goodbye to tomorrow,” he repeats.

  He extends the flask toward me. I inhale once more the beguiling scent of whiskey. My greatest desire, my deepest fear.

  I take it.

  CHAPTER 40

  Have you ever pictured your own death?

  Are you old and frail, tucked in a sea of plump pillows, surrounded by the ones you love? Spouse, children, grandchildren?

  Or do you prefer a blaze of glory? Young and stupid as you plummet down a cliff, crash into a barricade, slip under a bull’s thundering hooves?

  Do you imagine a clinical hospital room or the comfort of your own home?

  Are you alone and desperate?

  Or holding the hand of that one person who made your entire life worth living?

  Do you pray?

  Do you beg?

  Do you think, This is nothing like I ever imagined?

  I don’t have the answer to any of these questions. Maybe I am loved, maybe I’m alone. Maybe I made it to old age, maybe my questionable decisions have finally caught up with me. But I have one single desire:

  To die sober.

  I think, as I return the flask to Miguel to finish alone, at least I got that part right.

  The fire dies down. The cold digs deeper. We curl into each other. I stroke Miggy’s dark hair till his eyes close and his shivering ceases. I kiss his temple. I assure him he went down fighting.

  Then I close my own eyes, and let the freezing night have its way.

  * * *

  —

  Kisses. Slobbery. Wet. Panting in my face. The world’s worst breath.

  A voice. “Shhh, don’t move, don’t speak. We got you.”

  I try to say Miguel’s name. I struggle for Scott, Neil, Bob. I think my lips move.

  More kisses across my cheeks, sloppy wet.

  “Daisy, stop that!”

  Then I fling out my arms and discover a warm, furry form. A fresh tongue bath. I don’t mind one bit.

  “It’s okay, Frankie. Just relax.”

  Luciana is here, too. I clutch her hand.

  Miggy, Neil, Scott, Bob. I try so hard to speak the names. Maybe I succeed. It’s hard to know.

  I’m moving. Lifted from the ground, carried through space. My shoulder screams; my entire body aches. But I grab onto the pain, hold it close, relish the sensation of still being alive.

  “How is he?” Another voice.

  “We need immediate evac.”

  A sound overhead. The thunder of rotor blades. Chopper.

  Our rescue. At last.

  * * *

  —

  Lights. Too bright. I open my eyes, then shut them.

  Surroundings. Too white. I glance, then look away.

  Sounds. Too loud. I hear, then burrow down.

  Miggy. Neil, Scott, Bob.

  Miggy. Neil, Scott, Bob.

  Names I keep thinking. Names I keep saying.

  Names I’ll never forget.

  * * *


  —

  When I next open my eyes, I find myself in a narrow space, surrounded by white curtains. I’m clearly in a hospital bed and attached to a variety of beeping objects. I have a dim memory of my last medical emergency and instinctively try to rub my shoulder. My hand has too many lines sprouting from it to move.

  “You’re awake.”

  I blink my eyes a few more times and discover Luciana standing in front of me.

  I try to croak out my litany of names, but my throat is too dry.

  She seems to understand, pouring me a cup of water, then bringing the straw to my lips. I have to take several long sips before I feel the moisture return to my mouth.

  “Miguel?”

  “Made it out of surgery. They think they got most of the internal bleeding. He’s listed in critical. Another day or two and hopefully we’ll know more.”

  I almost can’t say the next two names. “Neil? Scott?”

  “A second canine team found them. The sheriff has every available SAR team working those woods right now. Neil is going to be okay. Just needs to rest and recuperate from a pretty severe concussion. Scott.” She hesitates. “They got the bullet out, but he’s lost a lot of blood. His wife is on her way. Best we can do is pray.”

  I can’t look at Luciana anymore. I suffer a debilitating sense of failure. I never should’ve suggested my stupid plan. We never should’ve left Scott and Neil. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. The terrible trio that haunts all survivors.

  “You?” I ask at last.

  Luciana smiles, brings the straw back to my lips. She looks close to her usual gorgeous self, just bruised and battered around the edges. And tired. Very tired.

  “I was attacked,” she provides. “Nemeth and I had just completed the steepest portion of the descent. He and Daisy were both ahead of me. And something snagged my ankle. I was upright, then in the next instant went down hard. I thought I’d tripped, tried to get my hands beneath me, when something hard nailed me from behind. I don’t really know what happened after that. When I regained consciousness, I was tied to a tree. No idea where I was or what had happened.

  “I was still trying to figure out how to break free, when Daisy appeared. She was missing her vest and covered in mud and twigs, but she’d found me. My pockets had been emptied out. I still had my paracord bracelet, however. I managed to unclasp it and use the razor part to cut through the cords. Then, basically, I followed Daisy back down to civilization. Once I reached Sheriff Kelley, he started planning the rescue. Daisy and I joined the chopper crew, arriving at the top of Devil’s Canyon. A separate group launched from the base. It’s . . . it’s been really busy since then.”

  Another hesitation. “They found Bob,” she says softly. “They’re bringing down his body today.” Then her own question: “Marty?”

  “There was a man hunting us. Probably who attacked you. He’s the one who killed Bob and hurt Scott and Neil. Miguel and I were trying to get help when he caught up with us. Martin, he came out of nowhere, tackled the man. They both went over the edge of the ravine. Nemeth?” I ask. The fact that she hasn’t mentioned him already has me worried.

  Luciana takes a deep breath. “He, uh . . . he’s in pretty bad shape. Looks like he must’ve run back to help me—they found his pack near where I was attacked. But it didn’t go so well for him. Either the hunter left him for dead or he somehow escaped, but he managed to stagger a fair way down the mountain before collapsing near the trail. Marge Santi found him, first thing. Good thing, too, because I don’t think he would’ve made it much longer.”

  I wince, being able to picture it too well.

  Luciana continues quietly, “Chances are, he saved my life. By the time the attacker finished with Nemeth, he didn’t have the energy left to deal with me immediately.”

  Or the time, I think, knowing that ambushing Luciana and Nemeth had been only the opening act for the hunter’s busy day.

  “But it cost him,” she finishes at last. “Gunshot wound, broken bones, pulverized face. It’s not . . . it’s not looking good.”

  I want to squeeze her hand, but I’m attached to too many lines. I understand how she feels, though. I need Miguel, Scott, and Neil to pull through, because the thought of them dying while I get to live is too terrible to contemplate. Both a burden and a grave injustice.

  “Bodies,” I manage at last. “In Devil’s Canyon. There’s a chamber, filled with eight mummified remains.”

  Luciana nods. “One of the teams discovered it this morning. I don’t know if you remember, but you were talking about it as you drifted in and out of consciousness. The mummies needed you, the mummies were coming to get you, hunted humans, human hunter. We didn’t understand it all, but it was enough to know something else was going on near the cliff face. I remembered the area where Daisy had first picked up a scent trail before becoming confused, and provided a rough direction. If we’d had more time on our expedition, I’m sure Daisy would’ve made the discovery herself. Of course, our party had things going wrong from the very beginning.”

  The hunter had been outplaying us from the start, no doubt about it. And yet still hadn’t truly appreciated the depth of a father’s love, or the power of a father’s rage. Neil would approve: Martin had made his death count.

  “How long?” I ask—as in, how long have I been in the hospital?

  “Thirty-six hours.”

  I’m startled by this, mostly because it feels like I could easily sleep another year. Beneath the hospital sheets, I can feel the nearly concave shape of my hollowed-out stomach.

  “They have you on fluids and glucose,” Luciana provides. “Now that you’re awake, I’m sure a doctor will be in to see you shortly. This is a small hospital, so having five major trauma cases at once is straining their resources, hence your ‘room’ ”—she gestures to my curtained-off space—“which is actually a temporary bed in the ER. The way I understand things, your injuries aren’t that serious, so you don’t need to stay. Mostly, you need a week’s worth of sleep and probably a month’s worth of food. Your body will take care of the rest.”

  I nod, because I don’t know what to say. In all honesty, I have no idea where to go or what to do next. Luciana once told me a week in the woods would change me. She had no idea.

  Now Luciana places a gentle hand on my shoulder: “I have a room for Daisy and me back at the original motel in Ramsey. You’re welcome to crash with us again. When you’re ready to be discharged from here, let me know and I can give you a ride.”

  “Thank you.”

  There’s a rustle from the curtains behind us. Some kind of signal Luciana must understand.

  “Sheriff Kelley would like to speak to you now,” she states.

  I nod. The debrief. I have done such things before. I’m tired and hungry, and yet still in better shape than my companions.

  And someone has to tell the story.

  * * *

  —

  Sheriff Kelley has the same trim, wiry build I associate with Martin and Nemeth. He’s full-on cowboy: boots, jeans, impressive silver belt buckle, and cream-colored Stetson. It really works for him. He strides into my curtained-off space and I already feel slightly safer. Penetrating blue eyes, weathered face, hard lined features. I’m convinced—you want a good-looking man, come to Wyoming.

  He positions himself on my right-hand side, shoulders square, feet spread for balance.

  “How ya feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  “Docs’ll fill you in more. I understand your shoulder was dislocated. Fixed now. Sprained ankle will take a bit longer. Rest is mostly bruises and lacerations, though your face won’t look so pretty for a bit.” He pauses, as if to see if that news bothers me. I think it’s charming he assumed I was pretty to begin with. He continues bluntly: “Your friends weren’t so lucky.”

  “My friends weren’t so lucky,” I agree.
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  Sheriff Kelley rocks back on his heels, peers at me intently. “What the hell happened up there?”

  I start laughing. I just can’t help myself. Except maybe I’m crying. I can’t tell anymore.

  My silly impulse just three, four days ago. Join a search party, head into the mountains, enjoy the great outdoors.

  I laugh/cry harder.

  Then, finally, I start to speak.

  CHAPTER 41

  I fill in Sheriff Kelley as best I can. The threats and sabotage Martin experienced months before the expedition even launched. His hiring of Bob, who in addition to being a Bigfoot hunter was also a licensed PI. The issues we encountered almost immediately—our stolen food, Scott’s midnight race through the woods. I wonder now whether it hadn’t been triggered by our stalker playing some kind of trick.

  Neil being smashed over the head with a rock. The last of our food being snatched. Our party’s pivotal decision to break up—Luciana and Nemeth going for help while the rest of us remained behind.

  Bob and me returning with Martin to the cave he was convinced had once been occupied by his son. Followed by my terrible discovery behind a fake-rock foam door. Returning to Martin, only to have the hunter open fire.

  I deliver the tale in a clipped, steady voice. Even as I discuss our disastrous plan to lure the hunter into the open using Daisy’s torn vest as bait, resulting in Bob’s death and Scott’s and Neil’s injuries. Then my and Miguel’s desperate flight down the mountain. The hunter catching up with us. Martin appearing and plunging both of them to their doom.

  “You’re sure you saw Marty O’Day and this fellow fall over the edge of the ravine?”

  “Yes. Have you found the bodies?”

  “Not yet. But accessing that area will take some time. Now, can you describe this so-called tree man?”

  I give the sheriff a look at his dubious tone. “Don’t make me climb out of my hospital bed to hurt you.”

  “Good to know you’re feeling better.”