One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

  “Close.” Luciana draws back the accordion-style door. In the next instant, Bob bursts from the tiny space in full bushy-bearded glory.

  “Ta-da,” he booms.

  Luciana rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning ear to ear. “Okay,” she declares brightly, and Daisy leaps to her feet, tail wagging wildly. The Lab mix prances all around Bob, who fusses over her accordingly. Then Daisy races over to me for additional praise.

  “Daisy is a fully trained SAR dog,” Luciana informs me as she produces a long, brightly colored squeak toy for her ecstatic charge. “She’s skilled in live, cadaver, and water searches. Our team specializes in disaster recovery, meaning we don’t know what we’ll discover on-site—could be living people, could be deceased, could be both. Our canines need to be able to identify all. Even dogs prefer happy endings, however—too many cadaver recoveries in a row make them depressed. Given Daisy’s next week will be about human remains, we’ll need to take turns letting Daisy ‘find’ us to keep her morale up. Bob was so taken with the idea he volunteered to be her first target.”

  “She’s certainly very excited,” I observe as Daisy tosses her squeak toy in the air and catches it again.

  “She has a natural drive to find. You can’t train a dog without it.”

  Bob goes down on his knees to scratch the yellow Lab’s entire body. She huffs in pleasure. “Who is the best dog? You are the best dog. Yes, you are. Yes, yes, yes!”

  I’ve never seen such a huge man reduced to baby talk, but I like it. After my very sobering conversation with Nemeth, this room is a happy place to be.

  “I thought search dogs normally barked to signal they’d found something,” I say to Luciana.

  “Many do. It’s a trainer’s prerogative. I’m not a fan of the barking myself; I think that can be scary for the missing person. Can you imagine being a lost child in the woods or someone buried under rubble, and having a strange dog suddenly appear and bay at you? I teach my dogs to sit as an alert system. Daisy added the raised paw. She has a flair for the dramatic.”

  Daisy wags her tail again. She is clearly quite pleased with herself. Given my last animal roommate liked to rake her claws across my ankles and leave trails of disemboweled mice across the floor, Daisy seems particularly charming.

  “I’m starving,” I state now. “I was thinking of one last, ginormous hot meal before a week of freeze-dried rations. Any takers?”

  “I can always eat!” Bob climbs to his feet.

  “How much food do you have to carry with you to last seven days?” I ask him in wonder.

  “Not as much as I’d like.” He pats his rounded belly mournfully. At six foot seven, Bob more closely resembles Paul Bunyan than, say, wiry superhikers such as Nemeth and Martin, but he’s clearly fit, not to mention that one of his legs is about as tall as my entire body. I have no problem envisioning him powering through the mountains. He probably clears small forests in a single bound.

  “I wouldn’t mind a hot meal,” Luciana agrees. “Let me feed Daisy first.”

  “Um, one other question. Any chance I could crash on your floor tonight?” The room has two double beds, but I don’t want to sound presumptuous. “Seems silly to shell out motel money for a matter of hours.”

  Luciana isn’t fooled. “I take it going from town to town solving other people’s problems doesn’t pay so well?”

  “Let’s just say being rewarded with a squeak toy would be a step up.”

  “Maybe Daisy will share hers.”

  The dog trots back over to me. I obligingly scratch her ears as Luciana starts fiddling with travel bowls and pre-portioned bags of kibble.

  “Keep doing that, and she’ll sleep in your bed tonight,” Luciana tells me.

  “Does she prefer the right side or the left?”

  “More like the middle. Welcome to the life of a spoiled work dog. But, sure, you can bunk here for the night.”

  “Daisy can sleep with me,” Bob offers excitedly. “Just don’t tell my husband.”

  Upon seeing my startled expression, Bob shrugs affably and explains: “His name is Rob. Rob and Bob. Seriously, could we be more confusing? But soul mates are soul mates.”

  “Is he a Bigfoot hunter, too?”

  “Worse. A neurosurgeon. All science all the time. What was I thinking?”

  “That Rob would let you one day get a yellow Lab like Daisy?” I venture.

  “Yes! I’m going to tell him. When I get home, time for a new member of the family.”

  “Does Bigfoot like dogs?”

  “I like to think Sasquatches are friendly toward everyone, being high on the evolutionary food chain.”

  “Herbivores or carnivores?”

  “Omnivores.”

  “Hedging your bets.”

  “Can’t know what we haven’t met. But current cryptozoologists theorize Bigfoot shares many traits with the ape family, which would make them omnivores.” Bob speaks matter-of-factly, no doubt accustomed to skepticism. We are kindred spirits in that regard.

  Daisy finishes scarfing down her food. Luciana takes her out to water the bushes, then instructs the yellow Lab to go to bed. Daisy seems less of a fan of this order, but obligingly curls up on the carpet where she can monitor the motel room door for signs of her handler’s return.

  I finally get to set my rolly bag aside, then we’re off to dinner. Three new friends, I like to think.

  Enjoying the calm before the storm.

  * * *

  —

  We have to wait an hour to get a table at the steak house that is walking distance from the motel. We watch a steady stream of tourists flow into the western-themed establishment. Families, couples. Some glance up and smile; some never take their eyes off their cell phones. All sidestep noticeably upon nearing Bob. At one point I notice him noticing. He shrugs back at me as if to say, what can you do?

  Once seated, Luciana and Bob order a beer each. I fixate on the food. I’m not picky. I eat anything and everything. I suppose my broad-mindedness will come in handy when subsisting on MREs for the next week. Just the idea of future deprivation, however, has me wanting everything on the menu. Nachos. Skirt steak. Fajitas. For that matter, I wouldn’t mind a beer.

  You’d think eventually the cravings would go away. They don’t. I can be around others who drink. For that matter, my only employable skill is bartending, so I continue to spend my life surrounded by booze. Certain things, however, still whisper to me like words from a long-lost lover. The scent of hops. The clink of ice cubes hitting a glass. The creamy richness of perfectly poured foam.

  I should go to a meeting after this. I should also sleep through the night, find joy in my heart, and relive a happy memory.

  But I remain me. A woman capable of dining with two new acquaintances, and yet who still feels alone in a crowded room. I don’t remember the exact age I had my first drink. I was young, very young, but then plenty of kids steal sips of their parents’ drinks, trying to unravel the mysteries of adulthood.

  Most recoil at the lighter-fluid punch. Whereas for myself . . .

  I don’t remember my first kiss. I don’t remember my high school graduation. Even the phone call informing me of my parents’ deaths is a hazy affair, like something that was happening to someone else.

  But my first stolen sip of my father’s drink . . . Liquid gold, burning down my throat. A seeping warmth that made my restless limbs and racing brain slow, steady, quiet.

  Alcohol is my first love and most abusive relationship. All else has paled in comparison. Even my love for Paul.

  The waitress arrives for our orders. The restaurant is so loud and crowded we have to semi-shout to be heard. I go with fajitas. Luciana orders grilled chicken. Bob requests nachos, rib eye, and a side of maple-fried Brussels sprouts. For the table, he says.

  The waitress pauses mid scribble. She looks up f
or the first time. I recognize her harried attention span from my own lifetime in food service. Her gaze travels up Bob’s enormous torso to his beaming face.

  “I’ll bring you extra bread,” she says.

  “Excellent!”

  She walks away, still appearing a bit nonplussed. I smile, already imagining the stories she’ll be telling in the kitchen.

  * * *

  —

  The bread arrives. Bob dives in, butters up. None of us are talking, but it feels companionable. Luciana is texting someone on her phone. Bob is happy with his bread basket. I’m content to study my fellow diners and imagine how happy and perfect their lives must be, even if I, of all people, should know better.

  Eventually the food arrives: a plate for myself, a plate for Luciana, half a table for Bob. Luciana puts away her phone and we all dive in.

  Between bites of food, I learn that thirty-something Luciana is from Colombia, though her family moved to the States when she was eight and she doesn’t remember much before that. She always loved animals and started out volunteering at the local animal shelter, where she met a woman who specialized in animal training. Eventually, Luciana started working with Belgian Malinois, which led to SAR dogs, which led her to Daisy.

  Rescue work pays as well as my job does—or Bob’s for that matter. Many people don’t realize this, but even supplying world-class SAR dogs is a volunteer gig. Luciana doesn’t frequent missing persons boards such as Bob and I do. Being part of a larger disaster response team, when her phone rings, she and Daisy are off. There is a network of volunteer pilots who ferry the teams for free. In international situations, the primary agency, say, the Red Cross, might pay for food and lodging—but that’s about it.

  Professional project manager for an online insurance company by day—she smirks—training in the Batcave at night.

  Bob’s turn. He grew up in Idaho, one of five kids, and swears he’s the runt of the family. We don’t believe him till he produces a family photo on his phone. Technically speaking, his mother and sister are slightly shorter, but they also appear significantly rounder. His father and brothers are truly massive, looking like the defensive line of a professional football team. The entire family gravitates to horticulture and animal husbandry, which makes Bob’s interest in cryptozoology understandable.

  Bob lives in Washington now, where his daytime gig is teaching: biology at a local high school. Summers are reserved for Bigfoot hunting.

  “Why Sasquatch?” I ask now, expecting some personal story of a close encounter of the ape-like kind.

  “Why not Sasquatch?” Bob replies, scarfing down the last of the nachos. Then, when I’m still peering at him skeptically, “Why missing persons cold cases?” he challenges me.

  “Because someone has to find them, and sadly, the authorities often aren’t looking.”

  “Exactly.” Bob beams at me. He has cheese in his copper-colored beard. If anyone can pull off the look, it’s a Norse god.

  I turn to Luciana. “How did you become a member of this party?”

  “I’ve worked with Nemeth before, finding an elderly man who wandered off into the mountains. Nemeth called, I answered.”

  “And you?” I quiz Bob.

  “Marty contacted me a few years ago, looking for information. We’ve been in touch ever since.”

  “And you know about the other missing hikers?”

  “Yep. Six in total.”

  Lisa Rowell had said at least five. So six sounds right.

  Luciana is nodding, so apparently she’s familiar with the bigger picture as well.

  “What do you put our odds of success at?” I ask no one in particular.

  Luciana does the honors. “I think we’ll find something—or really, Daisy will find something. Want to know an interesting fact involving large-scale searches of wilderness areas?”

  “Sure.”

  “Volunteers almost always discover a body. Just not the body they’re looking for. There’s that many human remains in the woods.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  Bob, on the other hand, has no such issues. He regards both of us hopefully. “So . . . dessert?”

  * * *

  —

  It’s nine p.m. by the time we return to the motel. True to Rowell’s prediction, the temperature has dropped sharply, and I have my arms tucked tight against my torso for warmth. The sun has set. Above us, the stars spread out against the dark blue sky like a scattering of diamonds. It is beautiful and mesmerizing and humbling.

  And I have that fizzy, restless feeling I get right before a new case. Nerves. Anxiety. Basic personality. Even as a kid, I couldn’t sit still. I was always seeking something more, looking for anything but what was in front of me. Which translated to twenty-plus years of hard-core drinking before I met Paul and he showed me the patience and acceptance I couldn’t show myself.

  Now I have this, a job few understand. Standing in the parking lot right now, however, Bob to one side and Luciana to the other, I think this might be the closest I’ll ever come to discovering like-minded souls. The only difference being they pursue their efforts as side projects, whereas I’ve walked away from everything most hold dear just to be here, with people I’ve never met, looking for a person who’ll never come home alive.

  I’m tired. I’m hyper. I want to plunge into the woods and recover Timothy O’Day’s body so his mother can die in peace. I want to run all the way back to Boston and place my head against Detective Dan Lotham’s solid shoulder and . . . let go. Fall just so he can catch me. My body will melt into his. He will stroke my skin and it will feel better than anything I’ve ever found in a bottle.

  Except then it will be morning.

  There’s always morning.

  And he will want to keep holding me, because he’s that kind of man. A solver of riddles, a fixer of broken things.

  But I’m not really a riddle and I am definitely not broken.

  I’m just . . . me.

  Nemeth is waiting in the lit parking lot. He has two packs at his feet—the giant yellow one that belongs to Josh and a smaller, hopefully lighter-weight one that I’m guessing is now mine.

  “How’s Josh?” Luciana asks first.

  “Detoxing. Others are back, prepping for tomorrow.”

  Nemeth picks up the two backpacks, hands them both over to me.

  “Organize your supplies. Know how to find what you need. Vans will be here at six a.m. Don’t be late.”

  Then that’s it. He’s gone. Bob retires to his room. I follow Luciana into hers, where Daisy greets us with body-wriggling delight.

  And I have nine hours to learn everything I don’t know about spending a week lost in the woods.

  CHAPTER 6

  Luciana claims the bathroom first.

  “Last hot shower for a week,” she announces, grabbing a small bag of toiletry supplies. “Don’t wait up.”

  I hadn’t even thought about that. Now I’m desperate for a hot shower, too. Instead, I take a seat on the floor with my personal bags to one side and the two hiking packs on the other. Daisy gazes at the closed bathroom door with longing, then sighs heavily and collapses next to me.

  “Do you know anything about camping supplies?” I ask her.

  She thumps her tail but offers no advice.

  I start by emptying out Josh’s pack, making a pile out of the food, usable clothes, and miscellaneous camping supplies. I add my own meager collection of belongings to the mix and optimistically stuff everything back into the bag. Except it rapidly becomes impossible to zip. Who knew that a woman who can fit her entire life into one suitcase would suddenly have too much stuff?

  I make a second attempt at paring down to bare essentials. Trim my six shirts to four. Likewise with the rest of my clothing.

  I’m still debating pants options when Luciana emer
ges from the bathroom. She runs a comb through her wet hair as she eyes my project.

  “Those are your clothes? All of your clothes?”

  “I travel light.”

  “No, I mean, no hiking pants, quick-dry shirts, wicking tank tops?”

  “There are wicking tank tops?”

  She sighs heavily, looks me up and down. “You’re smaller than me, but not by much.”

  Height-wise, maybe. But build-wise, the Colombian beauty has curves I’ve spent my entire life pining for and haven’t managed to grow yet.

  Now she crosses to her own gear, piled near the closet. “First up, don’t bother with the jeans,” she informs me. “Denim gets too heavy, leads to chafing.”

  “Chafing?” I eye my jeans warily, having had no idea of their hidden dangers.

  “Try these.” She throws me a pair of olive-colored pants. They are incredibly lightweight, with a drawstring waist, a multitude of pockets, and zippers that encircle both pant legs. To turn the pants into shorts, I realize. I’m already impressed. Talk about a clothing item designed for the minimalist on the go.

  Next, Luciana throws me two tank tops and one button-up baby blue shirt. The fabrics are lighter and silkier than anything I own, clearly some kind of quick-dry blend. I finger each piece in admiration as Luciana heads back to my hiking bag and yanks out everything I’ve managed to wedge in thus far.

  “But,” I protest, “Nemeth approved these items. I swear it. We already reviewed them!”

  She ignores me completely, continuing with her inspection. “All right, Josh might be a drunk, but at least he knew what he was doing. Notice you have redundancy. Waterproof matches plus a butane lighter, first aid kit plus moleskin, headlamp plus a flashlight. Hope for the best but plan for the worst, as the saying goes.”

  “Sure.”

  “Now, you want to spread out what you’re carrying. Say, stash the matches in your pack, put the butane lighter in your pocket. That way if you and your pack are ever separated, you still have the power to make fire.”