One Step Too Far Read online

  Also by Lisa Gardner

  novels

  The Perfect Husband

  The Other Daughter

  The Third Victim

  The Next Accident

  The Survivors Club

  The Killing Hour

  Alone

  Gone

  Hide

  Say Goodbye

  The Neighbor

  Live to Tell

   Love You More

   Catch Me

   Touch & Go

   Fear Nothing

   Crash & Burn

   Find Her

   Right Behind You

   Look for Me

   Never Tell

   When You See Me

   Before She Disappeared

  short works

  The 7th Month

  3 Truths and a Lie

  The 4th Man

  The Guy Who Died Twice

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2022 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  DUTTON is a registered trademark and the D colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

  Names: Gardner, Lisa, author.

  Title: One step too far : a novel / Lisa Gardner.

  Description: [New York] : Dutton, [2022]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021050019 (print) | LCCN 2021050020 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593185414 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593185421 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593471661 (export)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3557.A7132 O54 2022 (print) | LCC PS3557.A7132 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23/eng/20211015

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021050019

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021050020

  Cover design by Christopher Lin; Cover image: Mark Fearon / Arcangel

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.8.0_138931607_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Lisa Gardner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In loving memory of Pierre O’Rourke, talented writer and amazing friend to authors everywhere. Somewhere in the great beyond, I picture you finally locating your car in the airport parking lot, and yes, I’m totally laughing with you.

  Also, to Ruby. Beloved adopted dog, best friend, and writing companion. Each day, you greeted me with a little lick on the hand to say hello. And at the end, you turned and gave me that same little lick to say goodbye. Thank you, love, for saving me when I needed it the most.

  CHAPTER 1

  The first three men came stumbling into town shortly after ten a.m., babbling of dark shapes and eerie screams and their missing buddy Scott and their other buddy Tim, who set out from their campsite before dawn to get help.

  “Bear, bear, bear,” first guy moaned.

  “Mountain lion!” second guy insisted.

  Third guy vomited.

  Maybe, maybe not, Marge Santi thought as she sidestepped the spew of liquid. Marge situated the young men in a corner booth of her diner, then got on the phone and summoned Nemeth. To be polite, Marge also contacted Sheriff Jim Kelley, likeable guy, respected by the locals, but an officer with a whole county to tend and the drive to prove it. For immediate action, Nemeth it was.

  Nemeth, former Shoshone National Forest district ranger, now local guide, knew what he was doing. First, he plied the three men with coffee. To judge by the rank odor of fear and booze leaking out of their pores, they didn’t need anything else. Two cups later, he had most of the story.

  Five guys set out into the woods for a bachelor party weekend. All friends since college, all with some experience camping, though the trio agreed future groom Tim was The Man. Had been backcountry hiking with his father since he was six. He was the reason they were camping. The other four wouldn’t have minded a golf weekend or quality time at a casino/resort. But for Tim, the woods were his happy place, so into the mountains they’d gone. Fully equipped, packs, tents, sleeping bags, two-burner propane camp stove, cans of beans and franks, and yeah, as much beer and Maker’s Mark as five fit young men could carry. Which was to say, a lot. But they weren’t total idiots. Again, Tim knew his shit and oversaw their packing himself.

  They’d hiked in seven miles yesterday, looking for the perfect camping spot in one of the deep canyons, near a broad river. Once they found it, they unloaded packs, pitched tents, and popped open the first six-pack, leaving the other four to chill in the ice-cold water.

  Dusk came fast this time of year. But all was good. They built up a fire, roasted hot dogs, and ate baked beans straight out of the can. Many fart jokes ensued.

  More beer, followed by whiskey chasers. How much booze can five young healthy men drink? Plenty. But no place to be, no cars to drive, no nagging cell phones to answer given the lack of reception.

  Just them and the starlit sky. They killed off the first bottle of Maker’s Mark, started in on the second. Tim sat next to the fire and scratched away on a piece of paper. Working on his wedding vows, writing a letter to his beloved? They teased, but he refused to fess up.

  Hour grew late. How late, no one knew and it hardly mattered. They finally turned in for the night, two men each in two tents, Tim, the future groom, in a single shell all by himself. One of his last nights on earth sleeping alone. Should enjoy it while he could, they teased.

  Then . . .

  A sharp keening wail. Crashing in the trees around them.

>   “Grizzly,” Neil said now, sitting in the diner.

  “Mountain lion,” Josh insisted.

  Miggy, short for Miguel, crawled out of the booth and vomited some more.

  Maybe, maybe not, Nemeth thought. Marge got a mop.

  At the camp, the men had burst from their tents, flashlights bobbing, nerves strung tight, trying to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. Build up the fire, Tim demanded. Make noise of their own. Double-check the food stash they’d strung up in the trees away from their campsite.

  Which is why it took a few minutes, maybe as long as five or ten, before they realized their party of five had become four. Where the hell was Scott?

  Miggy had been sharing his tent and Miggy had no idea.

  “No . . . fucking idea,” Miggy clarified for Nemeth, in between bouts of dry heaving.

  Tim, future groom, got serious. Scott could’ve wandered off to pee. Scott could’ve just plain wandered off, drunk and disoriented. But given the cold temps, dangerous terrain, and carnivorous local wildlife, they needed to find him.

  Arranging their group into two pairs, Tim directed the first duo to start searching north of the campfire, while the other would cover the woods to the south. Whoever found Scott first would blow their emergency signal whistle.

  Except they didn’t find him. Up and down the water, bushwhacking deeper and deeper into the forest. No Scott. But they did find trampled brush. Broken tree limbs. Possibly blood.

  “Grizzly bear,” Neil moaned.

  “Mountain lion,” Josh ventured.

  “Fuck me,” Miggy whispered.

  That, Nemeth agreed with.

  Four a.m., the fall air brutally crisp, the clear night relentlessly dark, Tim made the decision: They needed help, and given the total lack of cell reception, hiking back out was the only way to get it. As the most experienced—and sober—member of their party, he grabbed his pack, clicked on his trusty headlamp, and set out for civilization.

  Neil, Josh, and Miggy huddled around the fire for another three hours, pounding water and working themselves into a terrified frenzy. First glimpse of daylight, they refilled their canteens and hit the trail. Left everything behind. Tents, sleeping bags, food. Young men, fit and now semi-sober, they were on a mission to get the hell out of there as fast as humanly possible.

  Still tough going. They half ran, half stumbled their way up and down steep terrain, clambering over boulders, careening through brush, splashing across streams. Till they came to the trailhead and their rented ATVs. All five of them. Shouldn’t there be only four?

  Which is when they started to get worried about Tim.

  ATVs to town. Town to diner. And now . . . help. Nemeth. Sheriff. Cavalry. Hunters with big guns. Any kind of assistance, all kinds of assistance. Help.

  Nemeth unfolded a topographical map, had the men walk him through their journey. They knew their initial path, which, like a lot of backcountry trails, started out marked before hitting rugged, less traversed terrain. Definitely not for the faint of heart. But the men could guess where along the river they’d camped. From there, Nemeth ran his finger along various geological features, thinking, thinking, thinking. Marge worked the phone, brewed more coffee.

  Being a mountain town, they had a local team of fifteen volunteer search and rescuers. Given the circumstances, however, this would be all hands on deck. Neighbors contacted neighbors, people started pouring in, and Nemeth did what he did best: organized the efforts.

  First up, hasty team. He wanted his best searchers dispersed along key perimeter areas encircling the PLS—point last seen—of their two missing hikers. Taking into account the average distance a person could travel an hour in that terrain, Nemeth drew a massive ring around the site, identifying their prime search area. Hasty teams would hike, ATV, or horseback into various points along this ring, conducting a down-and-dirty search of the trail and surrounding areas as they swept toward the center. They’d look for the men, but also look for signs of human passage, which might provide additional data on where Tim the experienced hiker and Scott the drunk buddy could’ve gone.

  Ramsey, a town of four thousand situated at the edge of the Popo Agie Wilderness, was filled with experienced outsdoorspeople. The mountains were both a lifestyle and a professional calling. Nemeth was a veteran general working with expert foot soldiers.

  Which made it very hard for the family to accept what happened next. The first eight hours of the search, when Scott turned up wandering blindly along the rocky banks of the river. Still clad in his long underwear, face covered in scratches, fingernails caked with dirt. Clearly disoriented and shell-shocked.

  “Grizzly,” Neil whispered.

  “Mountain lion,” Josh repeated.

  “Shit . . .” Miggy moaned.

  Even sobered up, Scott couldn’t provide any details about where he’d been or what he’d done. He remembered drinking with his buddies around the campfire and teasing Tim for working on his wedding vows. Scott went to bed and . . . Daylight. Cold. So cold. Wandering in nothing but his stocking feet, till he found his way back to the river and followed it. Eventually, people appeared and a shrill whistle blew and now he was here and hey, where was Tim, anyway?

  Timothy O’Day. Thirty-three years old, first member of his family to go to college, graduating from Oregon State University with a degree in mechanical engineering. Described by his family and friends as a regular MacGyver. Engaged to be married to Latisha Gibbons, whom he’d met three years ago through his college buddy Neil. Latisha hailed from Atlanta, worked in marketing, and spent her weekends in a state of perpetual motion, hiking, biking, skiing, every bit as crazy as her future husband.

  Everyone said they looked beautiful together. The ultimate, modern-day L.L.Bean couple. They’d buy a house, adopt a Lab, and produce 2.2 gorgeous children to chase along trails, down mountains, across streams.

  Theirs was to be a wonderful, magnificent life lived out loud.

  Until hours stretched into days stretched into weeks.

  Tim’s parents arrived on-site. His father, Martin, driving from Oregon to Wyoming with his mountaineering equipment piled in the back. Marty was a lean, nut-brown professional carpenter and experienced outdoorsman ready to take up the charge. In contrast, Tim’s mother, Patrice, appeared nearly translucent. Cancer survivor, the locals learned. Fifteen years ago, multiple bouts, barely made it.

  Marge made it her mission to serve the woman coffee aboveboard and administer a little medicinal assistance on the down low.

  Martin conferred with Nemeth and Sheriff Kelley, who’d taken charge of the search efforts. In the beginning, Martin would nod, approve, express his gratitude. By day five, he questioned and stewed. Day seven he headed into the woods himself, snarling under his breath when both Nemeth and Sheriff Kelley tried to hold him back.

  The hasty teams stopped being hasty. Search efforts slowed, grew more methodical, no longer hoping for an easy victory, but now settling in to scour the wilderness foot by foot, trail by trail, grid by grid. Choppers scanned with infrared. Air-scenting dogs tracked areas of interest. Couple of psychics called in with hot tips, most involving flowing rivers or dark caves.

  More volunteers showed up. The National Guard arrived to assist. Until twenty-three long, arduous, exhausting days later, as the temperatures plummeted and snow blanketed the upper elevations . . .

  The searchers faded back to their real lives. The canine teams went home. The choppers were redirected to new missions. And only family and friends remained.

  Martin O’Day fought the good fight the longest. He had a lifetime of experience and the advantage of being the one who’d trained his son. He headed back into the mountains, expedition after expedition, while Patrice held press conferences with her future daughter-in-law by her side. Twin advertisements for grief and desperation. The college friends, Neil, Josh, Miggy, and Scott, did their bes
t to assist while having to accommodate the demands of jobs, family, obligations of their own.

  Martin O’Day searched for his son. Then he searched for signs of his son. And then he searched for his son’s body.

  “Grizzly bear,” Neil whispered.

  “Mountain lion,” Josh argued.

  “Goddammit,” Miggy said.

  As for the real answer, the woods never said. Seasons turned into years and Timothy O’Day became one more missing hiker, vanished without a trace.

  * * *

  —

  Here are things most folks don’t know: At least sixteen hundred people, if not many more times that number, remain missing on national public lands. Hikers, day-trippers, children on family camping trips. One moment they were with us, the next they’re gone.

  There’s no national database to track such cases. No centralized training for search and rescue or, in many cases, even clear jurisdictional lines to identify who’s in charge of such operations. There’s also little in the way of designated funding. A large-scale search effort can cost upwards of three hundred thousand dollars a day. For many county sheriffs, that’s their annual budget.

  Meaning when the volunteers go away, so do rescue efforts. Leaving behind a family with little hope and no closure. Most will continue on their own for as long as they can. Some, such as Martin O’Day, continue the hunt every year, assisted by friends, funded by online campaigns, and advised by various experts.

  According to the article I’m reading in a small, local paper, Martin’s been at it for five years. This August will be his final attempt. His wife, Patrice, is now dying from the same cancer that tried to kill her before. She wants to see her son one last time. She wants her body to be buried next to his.

  I sit in a diner not so dissimilar to the one Tim O’Day’s hiking buddies must’ve rushed into the morning after. I’ve spent the past twelve hours on a bus and am now catching my breath, somewhere west of Cheyenne and south of Jackson, Wyoming. I don’t particularly know, and I’m enjoying a sense of freedom—life on the road—as I read the article again, then again. Something about the story has sunk into my skin, refusing to let go.