by Lisa Gardner
She sets down her clothes, shakes out the collapsible canvas buckets. She hands me two, and I’m immediately impressed by the design. Hard metal rings give structure to the top and bottom, as well as pail handles. But the waterproof material folds down to almost nothing in the middle. Pretty ingenious.
We fill all of them. Several gallons’ worth of water for the campsite—to boil for drinking water and dinner prep, I assume. Given my level of thirst and hunger, it all seems like a good idea.
Once finished, Luciana triumphantly holds up a small object I can barely make out in the shadows.
“Soap,” she announces, then in the next instant starts stripping.
I don’t have to be asked twice. Given I spent decades of my life waking up naked in strangers’ beds, I’m not one to worry about modesty now.
The water is freezing cold. Stream fed, Nemeth said. Then I’m guessing that stream came straight down from a glacier as I recoil sharply and bite back a scream. But the pain is worth it to scrub the layers of encrusted sweat and grime from my skin. I’ve never felt so itchy or, for that matter, smelled so bad.
Luciana goes all the way under, emerging with the grace of a dark otter and flipping back her long black hair. Obviously a pro, she works the tiny bar of soap through her hair, across her face, down her body. It’s a natural soap, she informs me, safe for lake water, but not so great at sudsing, so don’t be put off by the lack of bubbles.
We both quickly rinse, then return to the lake’s edge and drag our fresh outfits over our still-wet forms. Luciana attempts a brief wash of her dirty clothes, so I do the same. I’m starting to understand for the first time how thin my hiking wardrobe is, if we’re going to sweat through an outfit a day.
“We can hang our clothes near the fire to dry,” Luciana informs me. “Won’t be perfect, but a couple of days from now, they’ll smell better than anything else we own.”
“Thank you,” I tell her honestly. I don’t really have friends, which makes me even more appreciative of people who are kind.
We return to the camp, where Miguel has the fire going. He’s set up a cooking stand with a stainless steel pot dangling over the flames. Luciana dumps in the first bucket, and in no time at all, we have boiling water. My stomach rumbles expectantly.
“Exactly,” Luciana says. “Did you notice the calorie count on your MRE options? Most contain several thousand per serving. Ridiculous in normal life. Totally awesome after a full day of hiking. I’m telling you now, freeze-dried stroganoff is about to be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”
More noise announces that Scott and Neil are back again. This log is smaller but works equally well. Bob appears with another slung over a single shoulder, whistling cheerfully as he plunks it down next to Scott and Neil’s labored delivery. They shake their heads at being so clearly outmuscled. But just like that, we have an outdoor living room, complete with fireside seating.
Nemeth and Martin emerge with their meal kits. The rest of us quickly follow suit. More water is boiled, instant food prepared, and by the time the daylight starts to fade, it’s a regular dinner party. We sit on the logs, waving tiny sporks and extolling the sheer perfection of rehydrated lasagna. Luciana didn’t lie: My pouch of macaroni and cheese is the finest meal I’ve ever eaten. I contemplate a second but figure I should pace myself.
Daisy scarfs down her own dinner, then hangs out in front of the fire, tongue lolling.
Conversation is light, with occasional bursts of banter. In this moment, we feel like a unified group. Eight people relaxing after a long day of physical exertion. The sky yawns above us, streaked with pink, then red as the sun works its way down the horizon.
I wonder if this is how the kids in my class felt when they went camping. This sense of awe and wonder, fear and excitement.
I think of my father, the intent look on his face as he struggled to assemble the borrowed tent. What do you remember most—the moments your parents genuinely tried, or all the times they definitely failed? I’ve never figured out that answer.
Sitting here now, I focus on the good. That this moment is beautiful and perfect, and I’m wise enough now to appreciate all the moments that came before it, even the less beautiful and less perfect ones, as they led me here.
The gift of gratitude, we say in AA. It took me a long time to find it, and I’m still not the best at remembering it, but every now and then, I almost understand. The grandeur of these mountains. The contented silence of my friend Stoney, wiping down the counter of his bar. The taste of the perfect hot dog, eaten street side.
I may not own much, but I’m a collector in my own way.
I finish up my rehydrated cheese and pasta, scraping morosely at the inside of the foil pouch. Nemeth has produced a heavy-duty, scentproof trash bag for our garbage. It and uneaten rations—similarly bagged—will be removed from the campsite and tied up high. Bear management, he explains. He looks relaxed for the first time all day. I was right before: He could’ve been carved from these mountains, appearing as natural in this habitat as the distant cliff face, the ramrod-straight pine trees, the towering peaks. He belongs to this world, I think, whereas the rest of us are merely visiting.
I expect Nemeth to be the one to break the mood first. Instead, it’s Martin.
In the rapidly falling light, he brings out his ubiquitous map, snaps it open. “All right. Gather round. Over the next five days, this is the game plan.”
* * *
—
Martin has divided Devil’s Canyon into a series of quadrants. I’m no expert, but even I realize we can never cover all this ground in a matter of days. Hence each quadrant has been given a weighted value. What did Nemeth explain earlier? Probability of detection, something like that.
“We need to preserve Daisy for the heavy lifting,” Martin explains now. “She can only search for forty-five minutes at a stretch, then she requires a fifteen-minute break before continuing. Given that, the humans need to target her efforts as efficiently as possible, working as the forward crew.”
In the past ten years, I’ve found more bodies than I would’ve liked, but I’ve still never set out explicitly to recover bones. Given the dry climate and passing years, Timothy O’Day’s remains have most likely skeletonized into a collection of dried bones, scattered by scavengers. In all honesty, they wouldn’t appear much different from the kindling I gathered for tonight’s fire. A sad testimony to what we all become in the end.
“We know when Tim headed out, he left behind his tent, sleeping bag, and food but had most of his other gear with him,” Martin continues. “In the past few years, we’ve retraced several logical areas where Tim may have veered off trail, forking left instead of right, that sort of thing. Our assumption has been that someone as experienced as my son would quickly fall back to basic survival skills upon realizing he was lost. First and foremost is the need for shelter.”
I had always thought water would be top priority, but according to Luciana’s overview of the rule of threes, shelter came first.
“Therefore, we’re going to start with these four quadrants, which include a series of caves on the far side of the canyon. Any one of them would be a viable option for taking cover. It’s a solid two-hour hike to reach that destination. Along the way, I want everyone to pay attention. Remember, we’re not just looking for Tim, but signs of Tim.
“His backpack was navy blue. He wore a dark green windbreaker. He carried with him a variety of khaki pants and predominantly long-sleeve white knit tops, which he layered with red, green, or gray flannel. Be on the lookout for fragments of color, scraps of fabric, anything out of the ordinary. This area is not heavily trafficked. Spot any boot prints, signs of human passage, speak up.”
Martin pauses. We nod obediently.
“Tim also knew the importance of leaving a trail behind. Look for lengths of rope tied to branches. Maybe torn strips of cloth, or piece
s of duct tape. He’d want to mark where he came from to manage his own orientation, as well as aid search efforts. Be aware.
“Also, while we’re headed to the caves as a source of natural cover, Tim was well-versed in making shelters. He had a tarp in his pack as well as plenty of cord, so he could’ve erected something as official as a makeshift tent to something as temporary as a twig lean-to. Best way to spot something like that, look for hard lines or straight objects. Nature is rarely perfect. If something catches your attention, stop and take a second look. Often our eyes pick up on things before our brains can fully process the image.”
I raise my hand.
Martin glances up, already appearing vaguely annoyed. “What?”
“How does that work for Daisy? If we get too far ahead, will that contaminate the scent field for her?”
Luciana answers the question. “If we were looking for a live recovery, then yes, I’d need Daisy to be in the lead and the rest of you to remain downwind. But cadaver recovery is very specific. Daisy isn’t trying to catch the scent of human, but the odor of decomp. Trust me, she won’t confuse us with that.”
“Even if its bones? I mean . . .” Scott falters, looking self-conscious, if not a bit stricken, to have stated the obvious out loud. “Five years later, how much decomp is left?”
Luciana again: “The age of the remains is not a factor. There have been cases of canines hitting on hundred-year-old bones. Nor do they confuse animal bones with human.”
This catches my attention. “Hundred-year-old bones must be nearly fossilized. What organic matter is even left for a dog to scent?”
“We don’t know.” Luciana shrugs. “A dog’s sense of smell is ten thousand to a hundred thousand times better than our own. It’s one of the reasons my team doesn’t utilize synthetic cadaver scents for training. Trust me, you can buy entire kits—Pseudo-Corpse Scent, Drowned Victim Scent. They come with chemical ratings, mass spec profiles, and all sorts of scientific mumbo jumbo. At the end of the day, however, no one is really sure what it is that triggers the dog’s response. Is there a corpse scent that still lingers on hundred-year-old bones? Certainly not that we can detect. For that matter, our training material of choice is human teeth. They’re easy enough to obtain, legal to own, and much less disturbing than, say, severed body parts. Old teeth don’t seem particularly decompy to me, especially after we’ve buried them a million times. But our dogs always know.
“When we get to our defined search area,” Luciana continues, “then I’ll need you all to stay put while I determine wind direction and pick a starting point for Daisy’s efforts. She’s an air-scenting dog, so whatever she detects will be brought to her on air currents. She’ll work side to side till hopefully she detects the desired odor. Then she’ll follow that smell backward to the source. The complicating factor, of course, is that she’ll want to follow a direct line, regardless of topography. Our job will be to problem solve the best work-around for her. For example, if she comes to a steep gully or a heavily wooded thicket that’s impassable, we need to figure out how to navigate that obstacle, then help her get back on scent on the other side. That can take some time. But she’s good. If we can get her within the vicinity, she won’t let us down.”
I’m studying Martin’s map upside down. Devil’s Canyon is very long and wide. This won’t be a simple search at all, especially with only five days to cover as much ground as possible. I imagine the limited timeframe is in deference to Daisy’s stamina. Even working canines need a day off. But all in all, looking at this map, considering the size of our group, this feels more and more like a fool’s errand to me.
I wonder if Miggy might be onto something: Is Martin really convinced he can find his son’s body, or does he just want an excuse to torture his son’s wayward friends year after year?
“Why Devil’s Canyon?” I ask Martin. “Seems far away from Tim’s last known location.”
“This is a long shot,” Martin admits. I wait, because that doesn’t answer my question. Marty finally taps at the map, his finger following a line from the campsite five years ago to where we are now. “Our working assumption is that Tim got lost, became disoriented.”
I nod, understanding the theory—if Tim had met his end closer to the guys’ campsite, someone would’ve found his body by now.
“The first few years, we focused on the most logical ‘wrong’ trails. If Tim headed west instead of turning east at this juncture, then he would’ve ended up on this trail, which could’ve led to that trail, et cetera, et cetera. Or having forked north, he would’ve come to this river, which he could’ve followed to that crossing, leading to this meadow.”
I nod again.
“All of these options assume Tim stayed on the known byways. Safest course of action for a guy lost in the woods. Except . . .” Martin drags out the word.
“You never found him.”
“Which got me thinking. What if he made a judgment call? What if something tempted him to abandon an easier-looking route and strike out on his own? Look at this section here.” Martin moves his finger on the map. “If Tim missed the first turn as he hustled through the night, then he would’ve continued trekking north instead of south. Eventually, he’d find himself hiking along the bottom of this heavily wooded ravine. Nemeth and I did it last year. Tough trail. Narrow, densely wooded, real bitch. Tim would’ve found himself exhausted, disoriented, and desperate to get his bearings. Which brings us to right here. Where there’s a break in the trees. Where a fit, enterprising young man might be tempted to turn off the trail and take a direct route up the side of the ravine in order to reach higher ground. Maybe he thought he could get cell reception or a better vantage point once on top. Of course, that didn’t happen.”
“Nemeth says cell phones are useless in these woods.”
“Not even sat phones work worth a damn. But can’t blame a guy for trying. Now”—Martin returns to the map—“Tim is off trail, traversing the top of a ravine. If he continued his northern route, that path would bring him to this canyon. It’d take him most of the day, but upon arrival he’d see flat land, a large body of water, and opportunities for natural shelter. Shelter, water, and food.” Martin ticks the items off on his fingers. “Tim was smart. He’d recognize immediately this canyon presented his best shot at survival.”
“You’re hoping he took refuge here.” I hesitate, suddenly unsure. Did Martin think his son might actually still be alive? Surviving on his own for five years?
“He wouldn’t have made it through the winter,” Martin says quietly, as if reading my mind. “He didn’t have that kind of gear. Not for mountains this high, terrain this rugged.”
I nod, feeling guilty for bringing it up. Martin straightens, folding up his map.
“We’ve been searching a long time,” he murmurs. “Whether this next week can magically make a difference . . . For Patrice’s sake, I hope so.”
Marty heads back to his tent, while the rest of us remain huddled around the campfire for warmth.
No one talks. Bodies worn-out, bellies full, we succumb to individual comatose states. I move off the log to the ground, where I can stretch out my tired legs while leaning back and peering up at the night sky. The moon, probably three-quarters full, glows like a fat squash. And the stars. So many of them, stretching out forever. I’d nearly forgotten what they looked like, after my last year and a half in major cities.
These same stars spread across the tribal lands where I found Lani Whitehorse’s body at the bottom of a lake. Over the farm where I discovered little Johnny in the trunk of a rusted-out junk car. Over the crack house where I located my very first missing person, a sad young woman whose boyfriend blew off her head rather than let her go.
I wonder if Timothy O’Day did make it this far, five years ago. Was he grateful to stumble into this slice of paradise, thinking he’d finally gotten lucky? Did he look up at this sky every nig
ht and think of his soon-to-be bride waiting for him back home, his parents, who had to be going crazy? Did he whisper his secret hopes and hidden fears to these distant pinpricks of light, trusting them to remember him, a lone human in search of comfort?
Eventually, one by one, everyone makes discreet trips into the woods, then disappears into their tents.
I get up when Luciana does, Daisy lumbering slowly to her feet. I follow them to our corner of the campsite. My long-sleeve shirt is comfortable enough so I don’t bother to change. I climb into my borrowed one-person tent, the size of a cozy den. Then I zip myself inside my sleeping bag, the silvery lining reflecting my body’s heat back on me till I’m my own little convection oven.
I hear the low murmur of voices from the college friends, still sitting around the fire. Distant noises echo in the trees while frogs sing closer to the lake, a woodland lullaby . . .
* * *
—
I bolt awake, panicked and disoriented, my heart already thundering in my chest.
Then I hear it for the second time.
Somewhere outside, a person is screaming.
CHAPTER 13
I fumble with the zipper of my tent, then finally tumble out, registering several things at once. The fire has burned down to glowing red embers and the camp is in a state of chaos. People are pouring from their shelters, twisting around wildly, trying to identify the threat we can all hear but not see.
Then, that scream again. Definitely human, definitely male.
Beside me, Luciana has emerged, holding a straining Daisy by the collar. The woman’s face is pale, Daisy clearly distressed.
Nemeth strides forward, rifle in hand. “Everyone, stay here.”
But our group that isn’t really a group has already fractured. Bob disappears into one bank of trees; the college buddies grab flashlights and take off into the second. I jam on my boots with one hand, while digging around for a light source with my other. I come up with the headlamp. Good enough.
