by Lisa Gardner
Which makes me smile feebly. The sheriff is testing me. Maybe I’m passing, maybe I’m not, but it’s nice to feel like my normal, contrarian self again.
“He wore full facial coverings,” I relate now. “A black mask over his nose and mouth, some kind of goggles protecting his eyes. I’d say he’s around your height and build. He was extremely well equipped. Someone who frequents gun shops and/or army surplus stores.”
“That’s half my county,” the sheriff informs me.
“Which is the point. He’s a local. Has to be to know the area so well. And longtime roots. Timothy O’Day was five years ago, but I saw remains that had to be older than that.”
“We got a top forensic anthropologist team working the site now. Not to mention whatever other PhDs the feds feel like throwing at it. Crime scene doesn’t lack for resources.”
Common sense, seems to be the implied insult, but that doesn’t surprise me coming from a county sheriff. “Have any good ol’ boys been reported missing lately?” I ask him, as local knowledge still applies.
“I got eyes on the lookout for any new reports. Been only two days, though. Not so long in these parts to worry about a loved one who set out on a backcountry trek. Might take a few more days. We’ll hear something.”
“Or find the body.”
“Or find the body,” he agrees.
“I want to see it,” I hear myself say. “When you, whoever, brings that dead bastard in, I want to personally inspect his body. I want to know he’s dead. I want him to know we won.”
“You’d like an opportunity to identify the remains as belonging to your attacker?” the sheriff asks, speaking as a man who knows how to navigate multijurisdictional investigations.
I’m becoming a big fan of the sheriff. I follow his lead. “Yes. As a witness, I’m in a position to state unequivocally the dead man is the same one who killed Bob, shot Scott, and attacked Neil, Miguel, and myself.”
More nodding. The sheriff takes a step back, his most immediate concerns addressed. “When we find Martin O’Day’s remains, do you know who I contact?”
“His wife, Patrice.”
“You understand she’s not doing so great. Relaying the news of Marty’s passing was difficult enough. Burdening that poor woman with the logistics of body transport feels just plain cruel.”
I understand the sheriff’s point.
“Neil,” I murmur at last. Of the friends’ group, it sounds like his injuries are the least severe, putting him in the best position to step up to assist. Not to mention, once Tim had planned Neil’s sister’s funeral, making it even more fitting for Neil to handle Martin’s remains. Soon enough, after proper identification, Tim’s body would be released for burial as well. And inevitably, given Patrice’s diagnosis, three tombstones in a single line. Mother. Father. Son.
I want to find romance in the notion that they will be together forever. I don’t. Tim should’ve lived. Any parents will tell you that. Their child should not lie in the cemetery plot next to them.
I have a question of my own for the sheriff. “There’s another friend, Josh . . .” I didn’t have enough time to learn everyone’s last names, making this awkward. “He was admitted to a hospital to detox. I’m guessing this hospital?”
Sheriff Kelley nods. “He’s here. Docs were about to ship him to rehab when the reports came in of injured hikers. He’s been bouncing from room to room ever since, checking on buddies. In the beginning, the nurses tried to get him to stay put. No one pays him no mind anymore. You see a guy wandering the halls with his ass hanging out of a hospital johnny, that’s your man Josh.”
“Okay.” I think I’ll go looking for him. Though why, I can’t really say. Maybe I just want to talk to someone who’s also begging the universe to let Scott and Miguel pull through. It’s presumptuous of me. I knew them a matter of days. Josh was their best friend for more than a decade. But in a weird way, I also feel I know him, having heard all the stories. The final member of Dudeville. The quiet one, whose tendency toward silence has clearly taken its toll.
“Any new word,” I ask now, “on Miguel and Scott?”
“Miguel Santos just got upgraded to stable, I’m told. Scott Riemann . . . I’m not gonna lie. He’s in bad shape. Wife should be here shortly.”
I nod, feeling each word like a punch to my gut. “Luciana said Nemeth is also seriously injured.”
“By rights, Nemeth should already be dead,” the sheriff states bluntly. “But that man . . . he isn’t a legend around these parts for nothing. He’s got a community pulling for him. And I don’t bet against any man whose been through everything he’s been through. If anyone can shake this off, it’s him.” I hope what the sheriff says is true. Losing Martin was hard enough. For both him and Nemeth to be gone would create a hole in the universe—this is where the tough bastards used to be. The world would be an emptier place.
“Stay close,” the sheriff informs me. “Still some unraveling to be done.”
He wants contact information. All I can offer him is my Tracfone number and a vague reference to the motel across from the diner in Ramsey, room registered in Luciana’s name. Sheriff Kelley nods as if this all makes perfect sense. Maybe around here it does.
Then the sheriff is gone. A doctor appears. True to Luciana’s assessment, I can leave anytime I want. My right shoulder, recently dislocated, will hurt like a son of a bitch for the next couple of days. Same with my sprained ankle, not to mention my swollen and discolored face. But all in all, my injuries are superficial and time is on my side.
Just let them know when I’m ready to be discharged, says the doctor, who appears to be approximately twelve. I get the hint they need my bed sooner versus later.
The doctor departs. I’m left struggling with basic questions, such as where are my clothes? Or the rest of my worldly possessions, most of which were in my backpack, because I’m that kind of girl?
I last an entire thirty minutes before I just can’t take it anymore. Screw lying around, waiting for a nurse to assist me. I pull out the IV needle myself. A little bloody, but compared to the past few days . . . I disconnect the pulse monitor on my index finger. Then, when machines start screeching, I unplug them, one by one.
I pull back the first curtain and, feeling the wind beneath my johnny, venture forth.
* * *
—
I hurt. I knew I would, but the first few minutes still take my breath away. I’m pretty sure my heavily bandaged ankle spews fire every time I take a step. But so much of me erupts in excruciating pain, it’s hard to be sure. Muscles, joints, limbs, torso, face.
I haven’t had the courage to look in a mirror yet. I already trust I won’t like what I see.
For now, I shuffle. Out of the curtained area, down a corridor where actual rooms exist. Some doors are open, some closed. I spot a variety of people in various stages of sleep, socialization, and distress, but none are the persons I’m seeking.
Finally, I come upon a room with a johnny-garbed male sitting in the spare chair. Bingo. I stride—limp—through the doorway.
I immediately recognize the unconscious form lying in the hospital bed: Miguel. His eyes are closed, his face half covered by an oxygen mask. But those features, that dark hair . . . I instantly want to touch his forehead, caress his cheek, hold his hand. Not lover to lover. More like mom to pup, except I’ve never been a mother in my life.
The dude in the pale-blue johnny is watching me, clearly taking in my look-alike apparel. I recognize his lighter blond hair from the diner. He looks less sweaty now than he did then. That’s all I got.
“Josh,” I say.
“Frankie Elkin?” he ventures.
That out of the way, we stare at each other. Finally, I cross to stand beside him. He’s already resumed his vigil, so I do, too, as if together we can will Miggy back to life.
“I fuc
ked up,” Josh says at last.
I don’t say anything. All the guys said Josh didn’t like to talk. Best strategy, make him come to me.
Josh lapses back into silence. We regard Miggy’s unconscious form.
“It should’ve been me. On the trek. Not you.”
He’s apologizing to me? This catches me off guard. I’d think I’d be the least of his concerns.
“So you could be hunted instead?”
“Is that what happened to Tim?” he asks quietly.
“Most likely.”
He shakes his head. Against the brutal truth? The unimaginable horror? Once again, he falls silent.
The rise and fall of Miguel’s chest appears peaceful and steady. Forget for a minute that a machine is doing the work for him, and it’s easy to believe that at any moment his eyes will open and he’ll regard us with a crooked grin.
We survived together. I feel a deeper connection to him than I even felt with Paul. It’s probably fleeting—the result of adrenaline and cortisol and lots of other chemicals I don’t understand. I just know I need him to be okay. Anything less would be another blow to my already fragile psyche.
“I know the truth,” I say at last, in the hushed room. I don’t look at Josh, but continue to take in Miguel’s unconscious form. “The others told us what really happened that night.”
Josh doesn’t say anything.
“Do you still hate him?” I ask curiously. “Tim? Or do you hate that fate intervened before you could finish giving him the beating he deserved, or the closure you desired?”
“I keep drinking to figure that out.”
“You loved him.”
Josh doesn’t dispute that.
“According to Scott, Miggy, and Neil, he loved you, too. The bond you two had was special, even by Dudeville standards.”
Josh’s expression falters.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quietly.
Josh looks like he’s going to cry.
We sit in silence again, listening to the machines pump and whoosh, watching Miguel remain with the land of the living.
“I don’t know your friends well,” I say at last. “But I know that when things got tough, they had my back. Neil offered to sacrifice himself for us. Scott agreed to bleed out lost and alone so that Miguel and I could live. Miggy took on an armed gunman so that I might have a chance to escape. They share your guilt. They have their own regrets.
“But in the end, it’s not the fault of any of you that Tim’s gone. The blame rests with one psychopathic asshole who decided hunting human beings made for good sport. We’ll never know everything, but from what I saw, Tim died trying to live. He was determined to get back to his friends. Because you were his people. He loved you. He wanted to make things right.”
Josh finally glances up at me. “He impregnated my sister. He betrayed our friendship. And I wished him dead while trying to kill him with my bare hands. Then he was gone, and I can’t take my final wish back.”
Josh has a point. “What do you want most in the world?” I ask him.
“Peace.”
“And how do you usually find peace?”
“Tequila.”
I have to smile. “That’s forgetfulness. Not the same as peace at all.”
Josh’s turn to smile. He returns his gaze to Miguel’s still form. “I miss the days,” he murmurs, “when all could be resolved with a case of beer, a game of hoops.”
“Then go back to it. Sober up. Reconnect with your friends. And maybe, in honor of Tim, you hit the basketball court one final time. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Josh doesn’t have an immediate answer to that. Eventually, he nods.
“AA will turn you into a regular chatty Cathy,” I inform him.
He appears mildly alarmed.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Thank you for the use of your hiking gear. I can already tell you, most of your supplies were rode hard and put away wet. I’m sorry, by the end . . .” I shrug. “That’s one helluva tactical knife. I learned to love that blade. It’s just as fierce as it looks.”
“Keep it. It’s yours.”
“Thank you, but I’m not really a vicious-blade sort of gal. Though you should know, it’s dull, filthy, and may or may not be expecting a bath in human blood. What can I say? When things went to shit, they really went to shit.”
Josh’s eyes widen.
I give him one last smile. Then I clutch my drafty gown close behind me and head back out into the corridor.
* * *
—
I walk by the ICU purely by chance. The nurse in charge informs me no visitors are allowed. But then, between my pathetic face and obvious connection to the tragic hiking party who are now monopolizing the hospital’s resources, she relents. Grants me ten whole minutes.
I find Nemeth first. Marge Santi occupies the chair next to his bed, holding his hand. Of course. It was clear to me even from our brief interactions earlier that Marge was Nemeth’s other half. Like calls to like, and these two seemed not just a logical pairing, but a natural fit.
I don’t want to intrude. Marge is totally, completely fixated on Nemeth, as if she can single-handedly fix his wounds, will him to survive. I don’t want to interrupt that kind of magical thinking and I’m not sure what to say anyway. Half of Nemeth seems to be covered in bandages, the other half hooked to machines. Luciana is right—it doesn’t look good.
In the end, I offer up a mental salute. I’m not sure Nemeth ever liked me, but by the end he respected me. And if I was little more than a grunt on our expedition, well, he was one helluva general.
I discover Scott next. Compared to Nemeth, he’s the picture of health. Except, of course, for the deathly pallor and the look on Neil’s face as he sits curled up in a chair at the foot of the bed.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” I ask Neil sharply.
“Shhh.” He turns his face toward me, his eyes scrunched tightly shut. Against the glaring light and nearly glowing white walls, I assume. I can barely handle it, and I haven’t had my brains scrambled twice in twenty-four hours.
“How is he?” I ask more quietly.
“He kept me warm,” Neil murmurs solemnly, his eyes still closed. “When night came, he folded himself around me. He said I could make it. Just wait, help would come. He didn’t say the same about himself.”
“But he did make it. You, too.”
“Frankie? I never want to go into those mountains ever again.”
“Okay.”
“I want Scott to be better and Miguel to regain his health and Nemeth to recover. Then I want to go home to Anna, slip a ring on her finger, and never look back.”
“Okay.”
“Would you come to my wedding?”
“I will think of you on your wedding day,” I promise him.
“I’ve decided not to wear a tux.”
“Excellent.”
“And there will be no groomsmen or bridesmaids. We’ll do it our way.”
“Perfect.”
“That man, Martin really killed him?”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Good,” Neil says fiercely. “Really fucking good.”
I smile. “The police are going to need your help,” I inform him gently. “With Martin’s body and, eventually, with Tim’s.”
“Okay.” No hesitation at all, just as I thought.
“Do you need anything more?” I ask him.
“For Scott to open his eyes. For Miguel to breathe on his own.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
I stay with him a bit longer. Then I find a nurse who assures me I can sign out, but I definitely don’t want my old clothes back, not to mention the police seized them all as evidence.
An hour later, I’m sitting in a rental car with Luciana at the wheel and Daisy grinning from the back seat. Luciana has brought me a clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, items from my suitcase, which she must have commandeered. I had no idea I could be so grateful to be reunited with my meager belongings.
It’s bright and sunny outside. I find that disorienting. It should be nighttime, but maybe that’s just my mood. And so many people, milling about the parking lot, climbing into their vehicles. The world, still turning, as if nothing happened. As if eight people hadn’t gone into the woods, but not all eight of them made it out again.
Luciana takes me straight to a hamburger joint. We order everything. Cheeseburgers, fries, milkshakes. Even Daisy has her own meal. I find myself nearly in tears over the concept of pulling up to a window and being handed hot food. If I ever do settle down, pick a residence, I’m gonna install one of these. Definitely.
After stuffing our faces—we eat at the same speed as Daisy, and I take pride in finishing first—we drive the hour back to Ramsey in near silence. The food resolved the first issue, leading to the second—bone-deep exhaustion.
Luciana leads me to the motel room. Same as before. Two double beds and simple adjoining bathroom that features hot water and indoor plumbing. Paradise.
Against the far wall sits an entire pile of backpacks.
“The search teams have been bringing them in,” she tells me, following my line of sight. “No one was sure what to do with them, so I took over. When Miguel, Scott, Neil, and Nemeth get discharged from the hospital, I’ll reunite them with their gear.”
I nod, spying my own, or really Josh’s. There’s blood streaked on the outside. I don’t look at the backpacks anymore.
“Shower,” Luciana informs me. “Sleep. Drink tons and tons of water. Daisy and I have a SAR team debriefing. We’ll be back shortly.”
She hands me a key, stifling a yawn. Then she and Daisy backtrack to their car, leaving me alone.
I step into the bathroom. I shed my clothes and turn the shower on as hot as it can possibly get.
Then I climb feebly over the lip of the tub. I turn my face straight up into the needling spray. It stings my bruised and battered cheek but I don’t care. I will the water to cleanse my body. Erase my mind. Free my soul.
