One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

I feel like I’m aging exponentially, gaining more aches and pains by the minute as my body speeds up breaking down.

  After this, I will need to sleep forever.

  But not right now.

  It takes me several tries to find what I’m looking for. I have to pull over, regard the printed map by flashlight, set out again. Then, shortly after midnight, I’m there. It takes me another nerve-racking, horrifying hour to confirm what I suspected.

  Back to the motel, where the room is now pitch-black and silent, broken only by the rumbling sounds of Daisy’s snoring, I remove my coat, fumble with the tactical blade at my waist. Then, the trickiest part, bending over and slowly easing my sneakers off my feet.

  When I finally manage to straighten, I’m done. There’s not another ounce of energy left in me. I collapse back fully clothed.

  I close my eyes and will myself to sleep.

  Tomorrow will be hard enough.

  CHAPTER 44

  In the morning, I wait till we arrive at the hospital before making my next request.

  “Sheriff Kelley will be arriving in about thirty minutes. Can you and Daisy meet him when he gets here?”

  “Why? What are you up to, Frankie?”

  I ignore Luciana’s question. I made two calls while she was in the shower: one to the hospital, one to the sheriff’s department. Both were useful.

  “Text me when you and he are together in the lobby. My Tracfone doesn’t make these things easy, so my reply will be short. But it’ll matter.”

  “What’s going on? Talk to me, Frankie. I’ll help.”

  “You will,” I assure her. “Just not yet.”

  She huffs out a breath but relents. We hit the diner first thing in the morning, ordering two of everything. But my appetite gave out long before the food did. I’m like that when I’m nervous.

  Daisy trots happily between us as we cross the parking lot. Just the sight of her search uniform has her energized and ready to go. Luciana is right: The dog loves her work. Daisy also recovers much more quickly than her human counterparts.

  We stop at the main desk, signing in as guests. True to Luciana’s prediction, no one questions Daisy’s presence. Of course, Daisy looks especially charming today as she tilts her head to the side and offers an enormous doggy grin.

  I head straight to Miguel’s room, shuffling along as fast as I can. I spy Neil still folded into the guest chair, his short brown hair sticking straight up. Somewhere along the way he gained a blanket as well as wraparound sunglasses.

  But the real surprise is when I walk into the room and Miguel is sitting up in bed.

  “Hey,” he says.

  The wash of emotion that floods through me . . . I can’t speak, can’t move, can’t breathe. I stare at him, mesmerized by the sight of his patched-up face.

  “I thought you died,” I hear myself say.

  “I thought I did, too.”

  “You were shaking so hard with the cold. Then you weren’t anymore.”

  “I remember you touching my hair. I remember being grateful that at least we were together.”

  Now I am going to cry. I suck in the tears, finally moving bedside so I can touch his hand, his cheek, his hair. I repeat the process twice.

  “I think I’m all here,” Miggy assures me, “but only because every inch of me hurts.”

  “Me, too!” Then we laugh and it feels good again. Nearly normal, and after such an intense experience, normal is exactly what everyone needs.

  “I’m feeling better, too.” Neil speaks up from the chair.

  “Nice shades.”

  “Nurse brought them for me. I will treasure them always.”

  “Your families?” I ask, being careful not to divulge Neil’s secret by mentioning Anna’s name.

  “My parents are arriving later this morning,” Miguel offers up. “Funny—they ran into a woman in the airport who also mentioned having to make an emergency trip to Wyoming to assist with an injured friend. Apparently, she’s dating this dude named Neil. Been together for years. She’s madly in love with him and beside herself with worry. At least that’s what my mom said.”

  Neil, from behind me: “Oh, about that . . .”

  I give Miggy’s hand a final squeeze, then leave him and Neil to sort through the mess.

  When I phoned earlier, I was given another piece of good news: Scott had been upgraded to stable and moved out of intensive care. Now I ease open the door of his room. He’s sound asleep, tucked in tightly in the middle of the bed. His color looks better, the rise and fall of his chest steady. A huge bandage obscures most of his right shoulder, but he’s still with us. Against the odds, he survived those damn mountains after all.

  Latisha didn’t have to go through that phone call again.

  I tiptoe back out and turn around just in time to collide with Josh, who’s dressed in street clothes.

  “You got bored with bare-assed life?” I ask him.

  “Not nearly as comfortable as I thought.” He nods toward Scott. “How is he?”

  “Sound asleep. Definitely looks better than yesterday.”

  Josh nods.

  “How are you?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, the silent one being asked to speak up. Finally: “Managed to start the day with a cup of coffee instead of a shot of tequila.”

  “That’s excellent, Josh. One day at a time.”

  “Yeah. Got that.”

  The polite thing to do now would be to inform him I’m also an alcoholic and tell him he can call me anytime. But I don’t. One of the first things you learn in recovery is to set boundaries. I’m in no position to prop up Josh during a weak moment. I can barely prop up myself.

  My Tracfone chimes. My cue to depart.

  “I’ll try to visit later when Scott’s awake,” I assure him, then turn back down the long glaring-white corridor. I pull out my phone. Sure enough, on the tiny screen:

  We’re ready.

  I take a steadying breath, then pat my coat pocket to make sure I still have what I need.

  I pause just long enough to text back, Fredericka.

  Then I push through the ICU doors.

  CHAPTER 45

  Nemeth looks much the same when I ease myself into the room. I’d heard he’d regained consciousness briefly in the middle of the night, which was a positive sign. Now, however, he appears like a human mummy, most parts of his body bandaged or casted, while machines beep and whir around him.

  Marge Santi still occupies the chair next to him. Like Neil, she seems to have slept there overnight. Probably a violation of most ICU rules, but things seem looser here.

  She is why I called this morning.

  Marge is who I’m truly coming to see.

  “How is he?” I murmur as I creep into the space. The wall behind her contains a giant window, allowing the staff to monitor their fragile charges. Standing on the other side of Nemeth’s bed, I can see Marge and anyone who enters the ICU. I slip my right hand into my coat pocket. My tender shoulder squawks, but I ignore it.

  “He made it through the night,” Marge allows quietly. She looks terrible. Drawn features, bruised eyes. She must really, truly love him.

  “How long have the two of you been together?”

  She smiles wanly at my acknowledgment of their relationship. “Twenty years. But we’ve known each other most our lives. Grew up here. Some of the last few true locals in these parts.”

  I nod, edging closer to the bed. I can’t see what I’m doing, having to go by feel to slip the small tube out of my pocket and tuck it under the section of top sheet closest to me. I’d removed the cap since first exiting the lobby, letting the open vial trail with me through the hospital.

  “You a hiker, too?”

  “When I can. Though running the diner and all . . .”

  “Hunter?” I as
k casually.

  Marge nods absently. “Sure. Grew up hunting with my dad. Still tag a buck from time to time.”

  The main doors of the ICU are thrust open. The charge nurse is just opening her mouth to object when Daisy comes barreling through, Sheriff Kelley and Luciana hot on her heels. The sheriff is frowning; Luciana is confused. The nurse throws up a hand as if to stop them. One look at the sheriff’s face and she backs off quickly.

  A second later, paws scrabble urgently at the door of Nemeth’s room. The low whine of a dog.

  I don’t move. I just watch Marge’s face as Luciana quickly pushes open the barrier and Daisy darts in, head moving, moving, moving. She sniffs at me, then zeroes in on the bed.

  Then she sits.

  Holds up a paw.

  Stares at Nemeth intently.

  Luciana draws up short. It’s crowded with both her and the sheriff trying to squeeze into the space. The nurse is now in the hallway, clearly at a loss for what to do.

  Luciana focuses on me. “I don’t understand.”

  “Daisy is a good dog. She found her target. You can reward her now.”

  Sheriff Kelley is more succinct. “That man is not dead.”

  “No, but his mattress is.”

  I withdraw the tiny tube, hold it up. Daisy whines, her gaze never leaving it as I hand it over to Luciana.

  “What is this?” Then, as she reads the label: “Pseudo-Corpse Scent. This is synthetic decomp for cadaver dog training. Why the hell do you have synthetic decomp?”

  “The real question is, why did Nemeth have synthetic decomp? I found that in his pack. Survival gear I get. But eau de decomp?”

  My gaze is still on Marge. Her weathered face has gone blank. She is sitting perfectly still.

  Luciana eyes the two of us, the tension now clear in the room. “Okay.” Luciana murmurs the release command to Daisy, who reluctantly slinks back to her. Daisy should be getting her reward toy and heaps of praise right now. But even the canine seems to understand there’s something else going on here.

  I address my comments to Marge: “Your sister is the first one who went missing. Nearly twenty years ago, in fact.”

  The diner owner doesn’t say anything. The sheriff doesn’t interrupt, letting me play it out.

  “I’m not an expert in murder,” I comment casually. “I’m about missing persons because, God help me, I really can’t stand gore. But I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that when it comes to serial killers, the first victim is always the most important.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marge manages. “You need to leave, all of you. Nemeth is already at death’s door. Hiding the smell of a cadaver in his bed? Is this your idea of a joke?”

  “Now,” I continue as if she’d never spoken, “we don’t know the identities of the bodies in Devil’s Canyon yet. That will take some time, right, Sheriff?”

  He nods.

  “But, from the moment I arrived in Ramsey, I’ve been hearing about at least six people who’ve disappeared around here. Old missing persons cases, new discovery of human remains. This is an equation I understand. Last night I looked up articles on the various persons who’d vanished. Which brought me to a local case. Jessica Santi. Your sister.”

  “That was a terrible tragedy. No need to bring it up—”

  “Was it an accident the first time? Maybe you and your sister were hunting together in the woods and your gun went off? Or you two got into a fight and in the heat of the moment you pulled the trigger?”

  “Stop it—”

  “You got your parents’ log cabin out of it, you becoming the sole heir and all. Is such a thing worth killing over? I wasn’t sure. So I went to check it out last night.”

  Marge goes pale. She opens her mouth; nothing comes out.

  “My car,” Luciana mutters.

  The sheriff is watching us all intently. I notice he has his hands close to his gun. If Marge has killed as many people as I think she has, that’s a good call.

  “Did you call your longtime friend Nemeth, guru of all things wilderness, to help you out? Was it his idea to hide your sister’s body in Devil’s Canyon, a place few visit and where even fewer probably know about the hidden spaces beneath the rocks?”

  Marge doesn’t speak.

  “Is that how the two of you became lovers?” I venture further, genuinely curious. “You bonded over your sister’s dead body? Nothing like a shared secret to bring a couple close. But you didn’t stop there. The two of you . . . the need to protect your sister’s grave from discovery, frustration with the tourists taking over your town. You did it again. And again. And again.

  “That morning, when Timothy O’Day’s friends ran into your diner looking for help, they had no idea what they were handing you and your lover. Not your next mountain rescue, but your next victim.”

  I can hear a slight change in the machine behind me. Nemeth regaining consciousness? I think he should. I think he owes us that much.

  “Marge,” Sheriff Kelley interjects now, voice stern. “Is this true? You know we have forensic experts crawling all over the damn place. They’re gonna figure it out. Better to speak up now, when I’m still in a position to help you out. Because once the FBI arrives . . .”

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Marge delivers in clipped tones. “I think the poor girl’s still suffering from the trauma of her experience. Which is why novices have no business hiking through backcountry.”

  “Your parents’ hunting cabin, Marge. I visited it, remember? I also possibly broke into it. But you didn’t hear that from me, Sheriff,” I add quickly. “Another thing everyone knows from crime novels: Serial killers always take trophies. Those bodies. All of them missing their clothes, backpacks, possibly jewelry. Had to go somewhere.”

  A single tremor runs down Marge’s spine.

  I turn my attention to the sheriff. “Send your deputies, notify the feds—hell, send in the marshals. But on that property, you’ll find everything you’re looking for. Doesn’t Wyoming have the death penalty? Feds do. Trust me, Marge, this novice will happily return just to watch you fry.”

  “Damn you,” Marge says, staring straight at me. I can see it then, the coldness of her gaze, the pure predator’s gaze.

  “I don’t understand.” Luciana speaks up. “How did you get from synthetic decomp to all this?”

  “Why would Nemeth have such a thing in his pack?” I shrug. “The only reason I could come up with was to throw off Daisy. Remember how all this started—with fairly innocuous acts of sabotage. Basically, trying to get Martin to call off the expedition to Devil’s Canyon, then when that failed, trying to force us to turn back. I think the synthetic scent was plan C. If we did start searching that area, Nemeth would use it to distract Daisy, confuse the issue. You said Daisy did catch scent at the boulder field but became disoriented. When I finally discovered the chamber, I couldn’t imagine why Daisy wouldn’t have found it—her specialty is rubble piles.

  “Which meant Nemeth had to be part of what was going on. Except he was at the other end of the canyon when Neil got hurt. And you talked about feeling like someone was watching you that day, but Nemeth was right beside you. Plus, all the various incidents, the scope of the terrain covered . . . One person couldn’t do all that.

  “Once I accepted Nemeth’s involvement, Marge became his logical partner in crime. Then, when I discovered the first missing hiker was Marge’s sister—no way that’s a coincidence.”

  I turn to Luciana. “I’m guessing she’s the one who attacked you. Her job was to eliminate you while Nemeth returned to the cliff face. He must’ve had a second bag stashed away with his hunter’s garb, rifle, other weapons. Hence he left his hiking pack behind. But it didn’t go quite as they planned. Daisy escaped, forcing Marge to chase her—a fruitless enterprise. Then Marge had the second task
of booby-trapping base camp with the stolen food. By the time she returned to where she’d left you tied up, you’d managed to escape. Which put their plan in immediate jeopardy.”

  I return to Marge, monitoring the expression on her face. I’m guessing about a lot of this, filling in the gaps with what makes the most sense. Given her rigid spine and hostile gaze, I’m doing a pretty good job of it.

  “At that point, you hightailed it back to town,” I provide. “You had to reestablish yourself as diner owner Marge while monitoring what Luciana and the sheriff did next. Did you worry about Nemeth?” I ask her. “Taking on seven people all by himself? Or like him, did you assume we were easy prey? Martin got him in the end. I don’t know how Nemeth managed to survive the fall or crawl out of the ravine. I’m assuming you must’ve helped him? Maybe he had one of those fancy coats with built-in GPS. You used it to locate him, then assist him to the trail, where you could call for the other searchers while pretending to have just found him. I’m guessing you hid his crazy face coverings and other gear. It won’t matter. The police have his clothes, which will be incriminating enough. His reinforced military pants will bear the marks from my knife. His shirt will have a bullet hole from Miggy’s gun. Between what’s in your log cabin and his own wardrobe, there’s more than enough evidence.”

  “Nemeth is the one always in the woods. I have a diner to run,” Marge clips out. “Like you said, we’re a couple. Of course he has access to my parents’ hunting cabin. What he does while he’s there and I’m at work, how am I supposed to know of such things?”

  “Throwing him under the bus, Marge? You love him, but not enough to save his ass? Or is this just what you two do—survival of the fittest?”

  A sound. I look to the side and Nemeth’s eyes are open. Those piercing blue eyes that reminded me of glaciers and open sky. Not from the wilderness but of the wilderness. More so than anyone knew.

  “How could you do it?” I can’t help myself. “Killing strangers is awful enough. But you knew Martin. You spent years with him, and still you lined up the rifle sights and pulled the trigger. Planning the ambush of Luciana—would you have killed Daisy, too, if she hadn’t run off?”