One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

  But I won’t forget. I never do. I just head for the next town.

  I start to tremble then. I shake and I shake. I think of too many things. Past and present. Dreams and terrors. The things I still want. The things I can never have.

  The water goes from hot to lukewarm to cold, and I never want to feel like I’m freezing again. It gives me the incentive to pull myself together and turn off the nozzle.

  Towel dry. My own threadbare T-shirt, feeling like a long-lost lover against my skin.

  I am okay.

  I can handle this.

  I will make it to the other side.

  I finish drying my hair and go to bed.

  CHAPTER 42

  My body is desperate for sleep. My brain will have nothing to do with it. I sink into the broken-down motel mattress. I pull the covers up tight and close my eyes.

  And the kaleidoscope begins. Too many images. Blood and bullets. Pine trees and flashing knives. From an urban liquor store where Paul has died in my arms for the past ten years, to the deep woods where Bob perished just days ago. Location doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t matter.

  My psyche has had enough. Each death is a loss. Each trauma a toll. Is there really a way to measure such things? The death of the man who loved me but I left is two times worse than a gregarious Bigfoot hunter getting cut down before my eyes? While watching a tree man slice into Miggy’s chest is half as awful, and cradling a dying Boston gangster I never really knew is a quarter?

  It’s all macabre math. At a certain point, the spirit rebels against such horrors.

  I give up on rest after an hour. Fucking squirrel brain, I think bitterly. Goddamn fate. Stupid life choices.

  But mostly, I hurt.

  And I can’t bear to sleep in this kind of pain.

  I pull my jeans and tennis shoes back on. I turn my back on the free room Luciana has graciously granted me and the bottled water she left next to my bed. People are kind. People are terrible. People hurt my head.

  I grab the motel room key and walk out the door.

  I wander down the sidewalk toward the picturesque part of Ramsey. Sun is starting to set. Tourists are out en masse. Happy couples, distracted families, laughing friends. So much energy. So much life.

  I could stand in the middle of it forever and none of it would touch me.

  This is my gift, this is my curse. I joined seven people I never knew, and within a matter of days, I learned, loved, and lost. And yet I’m a loner, belonging to no one.

  I’m like a schizophrenic introvert. Does such a thing exist?

  I find myself standing outside the steak house where Luciana, Bob, and I first shared dinner. There’s a line of people out the door, in various stages of staring at their phones as they wait for their tables.

  I want to scream at them to look up. I want to grab them by their shoulders and demand they not take a ridiculously huge and scrumptious plate of food for granted. I want to fall to my knees and beg them to remember this moment, when nothing in their body ached and their biggest worry was what to order for dinner.

  I want a drink.

  It comes out of nowhere. It comes from deep inside.

  I stand on the sidewalk, hands fisted at my sides, and fight the impulse.

  This is the irony of the disease—to pass on a drink at death’s door, only to succumb once I’m still breathing. But this is the nature of me. I don’t need a drink to die. But it often feels like I need a drink to live.

  Mostly, I need a drink to escape being me.

  I turn away from the steak house. I shuffle down Main Street, each footstep more painful than the last. It takes me a while to realize people are staring at me. That my black eye and limping gait aren’t exactly subtle. When the fifth family veers wide and tucks their children closer to them, I give up and head back to the motel. Screw happy, well-adjusted people. I can wallow on my own.

  I can’t. The motel room is too empty, the bed too daunting. I need to settle. I still don’t know how.

  I pay a visit to the registration desk. It’s manned by a pimply-faced young man whom I’m already guessing graduated from the local high school and is very sorry to still be living here.

  “Hey,” I manage.

  “Hey,” he repeats, though his eyes are wide at my straight-out-of-hell appearance.

  “I’m looking for a laundromat.”

  “Okay.”

  “Walking distance. Well, short walking distance.” I glance down at my throbbing ankle.

  “You’re one of them.”

  “Who them?”

  “The group. You went into the mountains looking for the dead dude. Except then more dead dudes happened.” Pimply Face’s eyes widen further. “I shouldn’ta said that.”

  “You’re not wrong. Yeah, I’m a member of that party. And I inherited everyone’s packs, which is to say, a shitload of dirty clothes. We’re talking sweat-soaked, dirt-covered, and blood-spattered.”

  My instincts are correct. Gore is totally this guy’s vibe.

  “Well, you know, given the circumstances, I could make an exception . . .”

  I nod encouragingly.

  “We don’t normally let guests use the motel’s machines. But we got a coupla commercial-grade washer and dryers in the basement.”

  I nod again.

  “You wanna, you know, gather up what you need to wash? Then I could personally show you the machines, get you set up.”

  And this kid could get an inside scoop on what has to be the hottest story in town.

  I’m not opposed. Everyone likes to have the social 411 and this is pure gold. The motel clerk didn’t make the system; he’s just trying to survive it. I respect that.

  “I’ll be back in thirty,” I propose.

  The dude practically levitates. “Good deal!”

  I have to smile. At least one of us is happy. Then I limp painfully back to Luciana’s room, and the pile of backpacks that started out days ago as fresh equipment, and are now a tribute to the injured, the dying, and the dead.

  * * *

  —

  My idea is to launder the dirty clothes. It’s not a well-thought-out or detailed plan. I know simply that most of us destroyed many wardrobe items. Given my agitated, restless state, cleaning those articles of clothing is something to do. I will whip each pack into some semblance of order, so when it’s finally reunited with its rightful owner, it’s not a complete horror show.

  I start with my own pack—which is to say Josh’s—pulling out the sweat- and dirt-saturated clothing that I borrowed from Luciana. Some items I stuffed into my abandoned sleeping bag as we staged the base camp before leaving. But I destroyed several more items after that. And what isn’t specifically dirty doesn’t exactly pass the sniff test.

  In the end, I determine every clothing article in every pack will need to be washed. This approach is going to lead to one helluva laundry pile, but it’s not like I have anything better to do.

  I settle in on the floor of the motel room. Grab a pack. Empty out the clothes. Peruse the rest of the contents. I discover empty granola wrappers, plundered first aid kits, used water bottles.

  I create piles. Laundry. Garbage. Dishwashing. It’s work, and work is good. More time doing, less time thinking.

  I tire quickly but, being the obsessive sort, can’t stop. I recognize most packs by color. I subscribe to no kind of order. I grab whichever pack is closest.

  Realistically speaking, I’ll never get each pack reassembled with the correct items. I discover I don’t care. This project isn’t really about gear, laundry, or proper ownership. It’s about saving me from me.

  I reach the bottom of the final pack. I remove a glass jar partially filled with white tubes. I don’t understand it. It’s definitely not food and clearly not first aid. There’s a label covered in incredibly tiny print.
>
  It takes me a moment to read it all.

  Then I have to sit back.

  I think I might vomit.

  I know, but I don’t want to know. Memories go flying through my head. Things I thought were one thing, but now I realize were another. It all makes sense, and yet it defies understanding.

  I stare at the backpack for a very long time, as if it’s the one who betrayed me.

  Then I slowly rise to standing.

  A calm has settled over me.

  I have work to do.

  CHAPTER 43

  Any child of an addict knows what it feels like to be lied to. “I swear I’ll never do it again.” “I promise this is my last drink.” “Of course I won’t make a scene.” From backyard camping that never happened to a million missed events. You learn to ride the ride.

  But that doesn’t make it any easier to take.

  Night has fallen. At the first contact with the chilly air, I physically recoil, my heartbeat accelerating, a sense of panic building in my chest. What had Neil said about his PTSD being triggered by men in tuxes? I guess mine is now the cold.

  I return to the room for my beloved army coat. While I’m at it, I find myself tucking a small flashlight in one pocket, a butane lighter in another. Then helping myself to someone else’s rigged-out paracord bracelet for my wrist. I have access to my own emergency whistle, which feels like a long-lost friend. I hesitate over one last item. Then I just have to do it.

  I grab the scary serious tactical blade I told Josh I didn’t want and strap it to my waist, beneath the cover of my jacket.

  The weight of it is instantly reassuring. My breathing eases, my panic recedes. I feel complete.

  Maybe I’m a deadly-knife kind of gal after all.

  I need information. I usually meticulously research my target destinations. I never did that for Ramsey, and now look at me, covered in giant splotches of violent purple while hobbling around like a hundred-year-old woman. I might be impulsive, obsessive, and a tad self-destructive, but normally I try to be smart about it.

  This time of night, no public libraries or internet cafés will be open. Which leaves me with one option. Wrapping my arms around my torso for warmth, I limp back to the front office.

  Pimply Face looks up immediately from the counter. His face brightens when he spots me, then falls when he realizes I’m not carrying the promised blood-spattered laundry.

  “I decided it was too late to start now,” I offer by way of explanation. “Can I still use the machines in the morning?”

  “I don’t know.” He’s definitely disappointed. “My shift ends at midnight. Can’t promise what the next person will be willing to do.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Seth.”

  “Hi, Seth. I’m Frankie Elkin. Pleased to officially meet you.”

  This cheers him up. I continue. “I totally understand what you’re saying about permission to use the washers and dryers. I guess I’ll just have to hope the next desk clerk is as helpful as you have been.”

  Seth’s expression says, Don’t bet on it.

  “If it’s not too much, I do have another favor to ask. I need access to a computer. Like, right now. I don’t suppose there’s one in the back office I could use?”

  “Why do you need a computer?”

  “Well, you know, to let family and friends know I’m all right. Figure out my next steps. That sort of thing.”

  “Why don’t you just use your phone?”

  I produce my cheap flip phone and hold it up for his inspection. He nearly recoils in horror.

  “Seriously? I didn’t know they made those anymore.”

  “I could use an upgrade.”

  I remain standing there patiently. This time of night, there’s no real activity, meaning it’s just him and me, and he’s clearly anxious to be part of something bigger.

  He takes a full minute. I count the seconds in my mind. It’s a fair shot at trying to make the management-approved decision. My respect for him ratchets up another notch. Then he caves.

  “I guess I could set you up on the office computer with my password. But you can’t tell, okay? No ratting me out to my boss.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Seth.”

  I walk around the raised counter to the area behind, where sure enough, there’s a door leading to a small office. Admin space. The computer sits smack in the middle of a sea of paper. Forget my research project. My biggest challenge will be not knocking anything to the floor.

  Seth leans over the keyboard, taps a number of keys. Then he launches the computer’s browser, and just like that, I’m ready to roll.

  “You’re not going to visit porn sites, are you?”

  “Can I at least watch one adorably cute cat video?”

  He rolls his eyes, then after an awkward moment, when it becomes clear the only way for him to leave and for me to enter is for him to squeeze by me, he does the world’s most nervous sidestep.

  “Thank you,” I tell him honestly.

  He blushes, ducks his head. “Just, uh, just yell if you need anything.”

  He returns to his post at the reception desk.

  I start typing.

  * * *

  —

  Like any cold case investigator, I specialize in digging up information, especially old and seemingly irrelevant details. Local papers, with their archives of years past, are a gold mine, though fewer and fewer exist.

  I’m lucky this area still has one. It enables me to start out smoking hot and downright cocky. Then I hit the first dead end. Then another and another.

  But I’m obsessive, and it’s not like I’m going to sleep anyway. Pass out cold, maybe, but rest?

  It’s not possible anymore.

  Shortly after ten, I find a record of what I’m looking for.

  “Is it okay to print?” I call out to Seth.

  He’s only too happy to be of assistance again, especially as now both of us are wedged into the tiny space and he gets to rub against me several times as he revs the printer to life and feeds it additional paper.

  I hit “print.” Seconds later, I snatch up the documents before he has a chance to see them.

  More thank-yous, more goodbyes, then I’m on my way.

  I can barely walk, my muscles having stiffened up while I was sitting, and my feet, at first enthusiastic to rediscover tennis shoes, now scream in agony. Which pisses me off, because forget walking, I should be running right now.

  Instead, I hobble along, teeth gritted against the pain.

  It’s time to ask for my next favor.

  * * *

  —

  Luciana and Daisy are back in the room when I enter. Daisy is sprawled on the bed nearest to me. She lifts her head at my entrance, thumping her tail and yawning impressively.

  “Good to see you, too,” I assure her. Then, because the dog did save my life, I give her a good scratching behind the ears.

  “I see you’ve been busy,” Luciana comments, gesturing to the formal lineup of gutted backpacks, each with its contents spewed out in front of it. Then, of course, there’s the pile of sweaty, dirty clothes, which isn’t doing wonders for the air in the room.

  “I thought I’d get everyone’s gear sorted. Do something useful.”

  “Is that the burn pile?” She points to the laundry heap.

  “Exactly.”

  “Frankie, you need to rest. Your body is nowhere near recovered. Hell, Daisy and I are nowhere near recovered and all we did was sprint down a mountain after a brief interval of captivity.”

  “Are you two headed back to Devil’s Canyon tomorrow?”

  “No. There’s more than enough cooks in the kitchen now. And Daisy and I need to recuperate, both physically and mentally. That first day, when we finally emerged from the woods, knowing t
he rest of you remained stranded and vulnerable at base camp . . . we had to go back. Till each and every one of you was rescued. We weren’t stopping before then.”

  “But still no Martin,” I venture, with just enough question in my voice. I’m very curious about her answer but don’t want to show it.

  “A party has been assembled to start scouring the ravine tomorrow. But from what I saw on the map, that’s gonna be a total bitch. Hard to access and almost impossible to navigate given the heavily wooded terrain. Better them than me.”

  I nod. “So we’ll return to the hospital in the morning?”

  “Exactly. I’ll tell you a secret—Daisy isn’t allowed in, not being a service dog. But I put her in her black work vest, then waltz in like we have every right to be there, and no one bats an eye. The fact she’s adorable and well behaved helps, too.”

  “Thank you for coming back,” I murmur. “Thank you for not giving up, for returning to Devil’s Canyon even though you had to be exhausted. Thank you for saving Miguel and me.”

  The words come out thicker than I intended. I can feel my eyes welling up. I’m exhausted. I do need to recover. Luciana’s right—we’re all going to need time to process. But not yet. Not for me.

  Luciana regards me with her rich brown eyes. They hold a sheen of moisture as well. “Anytime, my friend,” she says quietly. “Anytime.”

  Then, while the mood is still warm and fuzzy, I hit her with the question I really wanted to ask from the very beginning.

  “Can I borrow your car?”

  * * *

  —

  Luciana tries to refuse. I shouldn’t be going out, there’s no kind of errand that can’t wait till morning. But in the end, my unwavering patience wears her down. She slams the keys into my hand. Orders me to be careful, then watches me with genuine concern as I leave the comfort of the motel.