by Lisa Gardner
But I also think of a Boston detective and former Marine, Dan Lotham, the whisper of his hands across my body. I think of a silent bar owner, as steady as his name, Stoney. And Piper, the homicidal cat, and an energetic fry cook and a sixteen-year-old Haitian girl, Angelique, the first and only person I’ve ever found alive.
My thoughts scatter and spin. I feel both keyed up and totally spent. And as is my nature, I think how much I’d like a drink right now. Maybe an ice-cold beer to quench my dry throat. Or a tangy margarita where the liquid warmth of tequila is followed by the refreshing bite of lime. A rum and Coke. A gin and tonic. I was never picky about my booze. I just wanted lots of it. Till my nerves dulled and my racing brain became pickled and I didn’t have to think so hard because I no longer cared.
As fast as I feel the impulse, I push it away. My sobriety is one of my only accomplishments over the past ten years. I can’t afford to give it up now.
Lisa slows the truck. We’ve reached the far edge of town, where the pretty buildings end and the more commercial structures begin. A squat budget motel. A huge outdoor gear and apparel shop. And across from the motel, a diner. The diner, I realize. Where Tim O’Day’s groomsmen arrived that first morning five years ago, babbling about bears and mountain lions and things that go bump in the night.
“I’ll get out here,” I tell Lisa as she stops at the traffic light near the diner.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck,” she tells me. Then, when I reach into my pocket for the promised gas money: “Don’t worry about it. I was driving through town anyway.”
I smile in gratitude. She pulls away, leaving me outside the corner diner with my rolling luggage in one hand, my leather satchel in the other.
No time for hesitating. I head through the doors.
* * *
—
The diner smells of coffee, bacon grease, and grilled hamburgers. Immediately my stomach growls. I had a stale Danish for breakfast, a chocolate bar for lunch. I could use food. As well as hiking gear, a night’s lodging, and a fountain of youth.
It’s nearly three p.m. now. According to the sign, that’s fifteen minutes before closing, which would explain the nearly empty interior and the lone white-aproned fry cook scraping at the griddle.
At the rear of the diner, however, I spy a group of eight people sprawled across two booths, deep in conversation over an open map, with a collection of dirty lunch plates pushed to the side. Martin O’Day and his assembled search party. Has to be. They’re all outfitted in serious outdoor wear, scuffed hiking boots, cargo pants, and flannel. On first glance they look rugged, healthy, and ready to go.
I glance down at my decidedly non-mountaineering ensemble of tennis shoes, faded jeans, and a threadbare T-shirt. At least I’m covered in a film of travel dust and sweat. It gives me an air of authenticity as I roll my suitcase toward the group.
The man sitting in the middle is doing most of the talking. He looks to be mid-fifties, with the whip-lean build of a person always on the move. Across from him sits an older gentleman with steel-gray hair and equally weathered features. A bushy-bearded, redheaded male and a dark-haired female are to their left, four younger men to the right. Up close, I spy a ninth member of the party: a yellow Lab mix wearing a bright orange scarf, sprawled under the table, head on paws.
The dog looks up at my approach. Thumps its tail. The lone woman, a stunningly gorgeous Latina with almond skin and thickly lashed dark eyes, glances in my direction; I’m guessing the dog is hers.
I have a sense of déjà vu. Three years ago, different woods: a missing six-year-old boy who’d been playing tag with his eight-year-old brother around their campsite before he disappeared. Me, tramping through those woods with fellow volunteers day after day. Still searching, weeks later, long after all hope of recovering the child alive was gone. Because having started the hunt, we couldn’t give it up. We had to seek. We had to find.
A family has to know.
I remember the mom’s scream when news of the discovery reached her. I remember the father, a guy in his twenties, face ashen, voice thick as he shook the hands of all the volunteers and thanked us for bringing his little boy home. As if anyone could be grateful to have their child back for a proper burial. And yet, you can be. You absolutely can be.
I understand the woman’s role now. I know what her Lab mix does. Cadaver dog. Because five years later, Timothy O’Day’s bones are all that will be left.
Why do I do what I do? Searching for the missing long after hope is lost. Town to town. Heartbreak to heartbreak.
At any given time, hundreds of thousands of people have disappeared. Some left of their own volition. Some ran into trouble. And some, given the circumstances of their birth, never stood a chance.
For me, the question isn’t why have I dedicated my life to this? The question is why hasn’t everyone? So many of our children, who deserve to come home. Loved ones who need to know what happened to their family member. Communities forever haunted by what might have happened, paired with what could’ve been.
I know who I am. I know why I do what I do. It’s the rest of the world that’s confusing to me.
Now I approach. The man leading the discussion finally looks up. He has hazel eyes to go with his thinning dark hair.
“Martin O’Day?” I ask, plopping down on the closest counter stool. This is it. I am both excited and nervous. Determined and fearful. It’s always like this.
I stick out my hand. “My name is Frankie Elkin,” I state. “I specialize in working missing persons cold cases. And I’d like to help bring your son home.”
* * *
—
An older woman clad in a white apron comes bustling out, gray-shot hair pulled up in a pile of curls, wiry build speaking of a lifetime on the move. I recognize her immediately from her photo in the paper: Marge Santi, owner of the diner and participant in the main event. She frowns at me, then looks askance to the table, as if I might be bothering them. Protective, then. Five years later, I wonder how many of the locals feel the same: This is their tragedy; outsiders need not apply.
No one in the group speaks right away. Martin O’Day, the clear leader, glances at my travel garb, rolly luggage. He scowls.
“I’m not taking questions at this time,” he says.
“I’m not a reporter.”
“I’m still not taking questions.”
The older man with the cap of thick silver hair has twisted around to regard me. Gotta be Nemeth, the legendary local guide. He gives me an assessing glance, then glances up at Marge.
“We’re good,” he says, clearly speaking one local to another.
Marge gives me the side-eye, clearly less convinced. But when Nemeth continues to be unconcerned, she finally stacks up a pile of dirty dishes along one arm, then disappears.
I notice the four younger men remain disconnected from the entire exchange—present but distant. They must be the bachelor party buddies, given the palpable weight of their collective guilt. That left the gorgeous female dog handler and the massive, red-bearded male for me to sort out.
I peg Bushy Beard as the North American Sasquatch hunter, though I’m cheating a little. Add body hair, and Bushy Beard could be the Sasquatch. An interesting example of owners matching their pets.
So this is the dream team. An experienced local, a grieving father, four guilt-stricken friends, a search-dog handler, and a Bigfoot hunter. Interesting combination.
“I have experience in woodland searches,” I volunteer now.
“No, thank you.” Martin O’Day returns his focus to the map, tapping the tabletop pointedly. Just like that, I’ve been dismissed. Not the first time. I’m an unknown variable. People don’t care for unknown variables.
I start my case with the least judgmental member of the group. I slide off the stool, squat down
, and stick out my hand toward the yellow Lab. The dog, not currently garbed in its working vest, gets up and crosses to me. The dog isn’t leashed, but apparently no one—including diner owner Marge—cares.
“Name?” I ask, scratching the dog’s ears.
I was right; the gorgeous Latina is the dog handler. She answers immediately: “Daisy.”
“You named a cadaver dog Daisy?”
The fact that I recognize Daisy’s role earns me a longer assessment from the exotic beauty, and a frown from Martin O’Day, who clearly wants to get back to the business at hand.
“Daisy is a rescue from the Philippines,” the woman provides. “My partner and I started feeding her scraps while we were working a mudslide there with our professional canine crew. We ended up bringing her home to be a pet. But she gravitated toward training immediately. Next thing we knew, she’d outpaced our official roster of Belgian Malinois. Her problem-solving skills are second to none.”
“Your name?”
“Luciana. Luciana Rojas.”
I flash her a smile, then turn my attention to the enormous redheaded male. Want to know a trick for dealing with unfriendly alphas such as Martin O’Day? Don’t deal with them. Ignore them completely. Ultimate power play.
“You’re from the North American Bigfoot Society,” I address Bushy Beard.
“Bob,” he provides cheerfully, ignoring Martin O’Day’s warning grumble.
It clicks then, what I’d been trying to remember earlier: “Your organization has the most complete picture of missing persons on national public lands,” I burst out. “You guys know more about what’s going on in the woods than even the authorities do.”
I’m not making this up. If your loved one goes missing in the wilderness, the best data on potentially related cases comes from Bigfoot hunters, not the federal government. The world works in mysterious ways.
Then the second piece of the puzzle falls into place.
“Hang on. You’re BFBob, aren’t you? In the missing persons forums. Bigfoot Bob. You’re working on the North American Project, mapping all the disappearances in this hemisphere. So nice to meet you!”
I rise to standing as Bigfoot Bob’s eyes widen in recognition.
“Wait. Frankie Elkin? As in FElkinFinds?
I nod vigorously, pleased to meet a fellow amateur searcher in person. “You’re conducting an operation in Wyoming? I thought the latest Sasquatch theories were focused on the Pacific Northwest. You’d been working the Olympic Peninsula.”
“If you don’t know where a creature is, then you don’t know where it isn’t. Plus, this search is”—Bob hesitates, glances at Martin—“in an area of particular interest.”
I get it. The other missing hikers Lisa Rowell mentioned. Which would show up on the Bigfoot Society’s national map as a cluster of red flags. A hot zone missed by the official government types, but credible fodder in the fringe community where Bob and I live.
“We need to get back to work,” Martin interjects sharply.
“Just a sec, Marty.” Bob turns to the team leader. “Frankie here is the real deal. We know each other from online. She doesn’t just work cold cases; she solves them. Like dozens of them.”
Closer to sixteen, but who am I to argue?
Martin doesn’t seem to know what to make of that statement. He has his plan, probably months in the making. Viewing it as a series of steps and logistics, versus a mission to bring home his son’s body, is how he’s getting the job done. Now here I am, messing with his tenuous hold on sanity.
I understand. All of my missions start with this moment—coming out of nowhere, ripping the Band-Aid off a family’s wound and hoping it doesn’t lead to arterial spray.
At the other end of the table, Tim’s college friends continue to ignore the interaction, which I find fascinating. They are a group within the group. A separate pod of agitation and grief. One of them, a pale blond, is downing copious amounts of coffee, his hand trembling so hard he can barely bring the mug to his mouth. The friend closest to him whispers something in the guy’s ear. “Easy, now,” would be my guess.
“You have search and rescue experience?” Nemeth speaks up for the first time. His tone is doubtful as he takes in my appearance. I don’t blame him.
“I’ve assisted with line searches. And I’ve worked with dog teams.” I nod toward Luciana. Daisy has returned to her place under the table, leaning her square head against Luciana’s knees and sighing blissfully as her human scratches her neck.
“Got a pack? Camping gear?” Nemeth gestures to my luggage. “This is a backcountry expedition. You need to be experienced, know what you’re doing.”
“I can rent equipment.” Assuming it doesn’t cost more than a hundred and twelve bucks.
“Why?” Martin this time. He sounds less belligerent, more tired. “We don’t know you. You’re clearly not prepared. We don’t have time for this. We’re headed out first thing tomorrow.”
“I’m here to help. I read about your son. I read about your wife.”
A spasm of grief across Martin’s face.
“I’m here to help,” I repeat. “I have experience. I’m good at what I do.”
“She’s good at what she does,” Bob repeats.
“Sorry.” Nemeth this time, clearly not convinced of my bona fides. “Gotta have permission for these kinds of expeditions, and our permit only covers eight.”
“You’ll still be a party of eight,” I say.
Martin looks around. “There’s eight here, which makes you number nine.”
“He’s not going to make it.” I jerk my head toward the shaky blond.
“Josh,” one of the bachelor buddies exclaims sharply as Josh’s hand jerks violently and dumps coffee on the table.
“Shit. Josh.”
Three men, leaping up as hot brew hits their laps.
“What’s wrong? Man, you’re burning up!”
Josh remains sitting, staring at the spilled coffee as if he can’t get it to compute. His face is flushed, covered in sweat. His whole body is now trembling.
“He’s sick,” one of his friends says. “I think he has the flu.”
“He doesn’t have the flu.” I don’t have to be a recovering alcoholic to recognize the DTs.
Martin sighs heavily, exchanges a look with Nemeth. So they both knew about Josh’s drinking. Which he must have recently sworn off in order to assist with the final attempt to bring his friend home.
Except Josh hadn’t been drinking a little heavily before this. By the looks of things, he’d been a hard-core drunk, now entering the first stage of detox.
“I can help,” I repeat to Marty. “I can use Josh’s gear. I won’t slow you down. I promise.”
“Shit!” Fresh exclamation as Josh now slumps to the side, then slowly slides onto the floor.
Martin doesn’t say a word. Just closes his eyes.
Nemeth does the honors. He turns toward me. “Guess you’re in. Goddammit.”
CHAPTER 4
Can you shoot a gun?”
“God no. I rely on my charm.”
“And when a bear charges?”
“Um, run faster than the next person?”
Nemeth glances at my scrawny form, as I observe his sinewy build. He looks like he’s been hewn from the mountains themselves, a blend of rippling tree limbs and hard granite formations. He’s average height, around five ten, but there’s not an ounce of fat on him. I didn’t look that good in my twenties and certainly can’t imagine being that fit in my late sixties, early seventies. Nemeth may be my new hero. Though I kind of want to toss a brownie at him just to see what he’ll do.
“Last time I had a conversation this stupid was with an arrogant ass by the name of Bobby Monfort. Moved here from back east, swearing he’d grown up in the mountains and there was nothing he couldn’t handle
. We tried to warn him these woods were different, but he set off on a seven-day hike anyway. Know what happened to Bobby Monfort?”
“Um, he lived a long and happy life?” I try.
“We removed him from the woods in pieces. Took weeks to find all of him. Looks like he was originally attacked by a grizzly. But then the racoons had a go at it, as well as the scavenger birds, et cetera. We’re talking skull picked clean, bones cracked open for their marrow, fingers and toes chewed down to nubs.”
I know he’s being purposely graphic just to scare me. Doesn’t mean it’s not working. “I’ll carry bear repellent,” I amend.
Nemeth rolls his eyes. He and I are in the college friends’ room at the motel across the street from the diner. The three still standing have left with Martin to take detoxing Josh to the closest hospital, which apparently is an hour away. In the meantime, Nemeth is bringing me up to speed, including helping me pillage Josh’s supplies. I’m not sure what Bob the Bigfoot hunter and Luciana the dog handler are doing, but Bob didn’t look too sad about having some time alone with a beautiful woman. Or he’s really into yellow Labs.
“Stand up,” Nemeth orders.
I stand up. He hooks Josh’s metal-framed pack around my right shoulder, then my left. He lets go. I stagger slightly. Just manage not to tip over backward.
Nemeth regards me with his glacier-blue eyes. I haven’t fooled him for a minute.
“Just needs some adjustment,” I tell him.
Another long-suffering sigh. Seriously, the man could use some chocolate.
He takes the pack off, sits across from me on one of the two queen-sized beds.
“I’m guiding this team,” he states. “Their safety, your safety, is my responsibility. So you might as well start confessing now, because I’m not taking you into the woods like this. Woodland searches, my ass.”
“I have done some! More than one.”
