One Step Too Far Page 4
“Two?”
“Possibly.”
That look again. I have a feeling Nemeth has dealt with some stupid people in his time, and not just as a professional guide. Good news: My own idiocy is at no risk of breaking him.
“I walk,” I offer up. “Everywhere. All the time. I don’t own a car and have spent the past ten years in areas where mass transit only gets you so far.”
“Sidewalks don’t equal mountains.”
“I’m fit. I won’t slow you down. Better yet, I’m sober. Going on ten years. That puts me ahead of Josh, and you were willing to take him.”
“Marty was willing to take him. I voiced my concerns. Show me your footwear. I can get a pack better fitted to your frame and lighten the load to accommodate the fact you’re what—a hundred pounds soaking wet?”
“A hundred and five!” Maybe.
“Boots are everything on a seven-day trek. You need ankle support and decent tread for where we’re headed.”
His voice is so grim, I hastily unzip my bag and produce my lone pair of boots. They’re battered on the outside, somewhere between fashion footwear and Nemeth’s rugged pair. I find myself holding my breath. I’ve never had my shoes judged before. I feel nervous on their behalf.
Nemeth lifts the pair, turning them over to inspect the heavy soles, testing out the sides for durability, support, something. He frowns, hands them back to me. “You wear these for long periods of time?’
“I’ve spent days in them. They fit well, never blister.”
Those seem to be the magic words. “Fine. They’ll do.”
We move on to the contents of Josh’s enormous pack. Attached to the outside is a rolled foam pad secured with bungee cords, then a long nylon drawstring bag with the mouth pulled tight. I feel the contents with my fingers, identifying the shape of thin rods and squishy fabric.
“Tent,” I declare triumphantly.
“Do you want a prize?”
“Maybe.”
I check out the water bottles and a dangling red emergency whistle—something I carry in urban environments. Moving on to the front zippered pocket, I discover a first aid kit, plus a separate blister kit with sheets of moleskin. Snacks—protein bars, granola, mini peanut butter cups. At least Josh has taste. Then comes a whole host of miscellaneous supplies—waterproof matches, Bic lighter, utility knife, headlamp, flashlight, water filtration system. Finally, I pull out a sandwich bag with what appear to be greasy cotton balls.
“Cotton balls dipped in Vaseline,” Nemeth says. “Preferred fire starter for most.”
I nod as if I knew that. Now I am nervous. Have I bitten off more than I can chew? It’s hard to know. I’m always out of my league. Always someplace new where I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing. All these years later, I’m comfortable with being uncomfortable.
I don’t want to interfere with Martin’s final effort to bring home his son, however. Nemeth may be a hard-ass, but he’s also correct. If I’m going to join this search, I need to pull my own weight.
I switch gears as I open up the hooded cover of the giant bright yellow pack to reveal a treasure trove of clothes.
“What do you think of Martin?” I ask Nemeth as I pull out pair after pair of heavy wool socks. These, combined with my own boots, will get the job done. Next, I pull out two jackets, one thin and windproof, one lined and waterproof. They’ll be big on me, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Watching me from his perch on the other bed, Nemeth shrugs. “What do you care?”
“Because I do. Because I head off into the woods with complete strangers to retrieve their loved ones.”
“Obsessively butt into other people’s business, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want?” Nemeth pushes, his tone skeptical. I’m used to it. I stop digging around in the bright yellow pack to look him in the eye.
“Same thing you and Martin want. To bring Tim home. To bring a family closure. To . . .” I hesitate slightly, then add with a small shrug, “To heal someone else’s wounds because I don’t know how to heal my own.”
“How many times have you done this before?”
“Sixteen.”
“But not search and rescue?”
“Cold cases. All over the country. Tribal lands, inner cities, small towns. You have no idea the number of people who’ve gone missing that no one is even looking for.”
“How do you hear about them?”
“The news, which is what brought me here. Or online forums, such as the one where I met Bob. There are entire websites dedicated to bringing attention to such cases.”
“You don’t know any of these victims? Have any personal connection to the families?”
“You never met Timothy O’Day. You’re volunteering your time.”
Nemeth frowns, studies the brown carpet.
“I led that operation,” he says at last. “I didn’t bring Tim home. His fate is still my responsibility.”
“What about the other missing people?”
He glances at me in surprise. “You already gossiping with the locals?”
“It’s a gift.”
“Do you know how big the Popo Agie Wilderness is?”
“I’m going with large.”
“Try fucking huge.”
“I like you more and more.”
“We have woods, mountains, streams, lakes, gullies, cliff faces, wild animals, not to mention some man-eating carnivores—”
“Bigfoot?”
“This is nature,” he says. “Raw. Powerful. Vast. Over a hundred thousand acres. Simple matter of statistics, not all will make it out alive.”
“How very Hunger Games of you.”
“Practical. Man can progress as much as we want. Mother Nature still owns our ass.”
“What are your thoughts on chocolate? I feel like you could use more decadence in your life.”
“You’re not qualified for this search party. Do us all a favor and bow out now.”
I take a moment. I can be too cavalier. I can be a total bitch. But I can also be honest, and I think Nemeth deserves that much.
“I’m not as experienced with camping as you would like. But I’m healthier than Josh and I have decent boots and great socks. If you can get me a pack that fits, I can do this. I won’t complain, I won’t slow you down, and I can help. I don’t know why, but finding the missing? I’m good at it. I just am.”
“You’re damn stubborn.”
I smile. “Thank heavens, right? Otherwise, how would those other sixteen people have ever made it home?” I return my attention to Josh’s pack, pulling out more clothes, pants, long johns, items that definitely won’t fit me.
“Martin O’Day.” I return to our previous conversation. “Grieving father, experienced hiker. You like him? Trust him?”
“I do.”
“Which brings us to the bachelor party buddies. What do you think of them?”
“Decent enough young men. Screwed up, paid the price. Are still paying the price.”
“What exactly was their screwup? Drinking?”
That shrug again. “I’ve been a guide long enough to know most camping parties are carrying more booze than water. Drinking happens. Stupid but rarely deadly. Now, splitting up, on the other hand, losing track of each other—”
“Leaving a man behind?”
“Scott’s disappearance was bad enough. After that they should’ve stayed put, regrouped at daylight, not sent another member of their party to stumble around dangerous terrain at night.”
“Scott went missing first, right? They were all roused from their alcohol-induced comas by sudden noises. Looked around frantically with their flashlights, then realized belatedly that Scott was gone. So what happened to him that night? Has he said?”
“
Scott claims he doesn’t remember anything after retiring to his tent. My personal theory? Kid was drunk. Wandered out of his tent in the middle of the night and staggered about. Till he came to the river and passed out cold. Which was why he never heard his friends searching or other sounds of commotion. He didn’t regain consciousness till morning, when he did his best to find his way back.”
“Do you believe his story?”
Nemeth shrugs. “Don’t have a reason not to.”
Which is not the same as saying yes. “Okay, so bachelor buddy Scott got lost in earnest. A casualty of the night’s drinking escapades. But what about the reports of animal screams and blood in the trees?”
“We found trampled brush, broken branches, areas of disturbance. Could be from a beast—”
“Bigfoot?”
Nemeth rolls his eyes. “In my expert opinion . . . we found damage consistent with four drunk dudes smashing through the woods in pursuit of their missing friend. Could it have been a grizzly bear or a mythical bipedal beast? Only if they’re very tidy eaters. Same with a mountain lion, which we do spy from time to time. But they’re shy creatures by nature. They don’t bumble all over the damn place, smash up small trees, and drag off their prey without leaving a blood trail. And given Scott wasn’t the target in the end—”
“Timothy O’Day is the one who vanished.”
“Tim was six feet two, one hundred and eighty pounds. Fit, strong, well equipped, and, according to his buddies, packing a handgun.”
“He was armed?” This wasn’t in the paper.
“Glock nine. Carried it with him anytime he was in the woods. Now, most of us locals prefer rifles—you want distance and stopping power. Not to mention Tim carried the handgun in his pack, which is just plain stupid. Like a wild animal is gonna let you pause and retrieve your firearm before attacking. But by all accounts, Tim was experienced. He knew what he was doing.” Nemeth hesitates. “Spend enough time in the wild . . . you know when you’re not alone. You know when it’s time to get the hell out. And you know when it’s time to stop, assess the situation, and prepare to fight.”
“Remove your pack, grab your handgun,” I fill in quietly. I shiver slightly. I don’t have Nemeth’s wilderness savvy, yet I understand what he’s saying. There are things you just know. Myself, walking a family farm, first day of arrival. Three generations prattling on how four-year-old Johnny just up and vanished one night. Kidnapped by strangers, abducted by aliens, who knew? Myself, striding from decrepit outbuilding to decrepit outbuilding, piles of rotten lumber, mountains of cattle refuse, knowing—just knowing—little Johnny never left these grounds. The key to what happened to him existed right here, and space invaders had nothing to do with it. Six months later, I was proved right.
“You never found any of Tim’s gear,” I say now. “Not his pack, headlamp, coat, nothing.”
Nemeth nods. “Which is unusual. Forty years ago, when I first started guiding, search and rescue focused on bodies. Did you see the person or not see the person? Some real tragedies later, we revised tactics. SOP when we launch now, we’re not just looking for the missing hiker; we’re looking for signs of the hiker. PLS is place last seen—say, the campsite. Part of the search, however, is to refine that to LKP—last known position. Which could be miles from that campsite, given a broken branch here, discarded water bottle there.”
“It’s like losing an earring,” I think out loud. “You start by retracing your steps from the entire day. Then you stop and think about it. Wait, I remember wearing it at this restaurant, or while watching TV. You narrow your search field, which allows you to focus more intently. Comb every square inch of the sofa, versus tossing the entire house. And voilà, you emerge with pretty bauble in hand.”
“Assuming people are jewelry,” Nemeth deadpans. “First step of any rescue operation is to deploy hasty teams. As their name implies, they start broad and move fast. Generally speaking, they have a fifty to sixty percent probability of detection rate—POD. Meaning we’re sixty percent sure our missing hiker isn’t here. Good enough in the beginning when you’re racing from strategic area to strategic area.”
“What’s a strategic area?”
“That’s one of my first jobs. Looking at a topographical map, I consider where the lost person was last seen, then identify places where he or she would’ve most likely gone off course. For example, trail intersections where Tim might’ve headed left instead of right. Or areas of low vegetation where, given nighttime conditions, he confused an opening between the trees for the continuation of the trail and headed deeper into the woods. There’s not enough manpower in the world to comb through the entire Popo Agie. My job is to consider areas that are most likely and deploy my teams accordingly. With luck, that gets the job done.”
“Except it didn’t.”
Nemeth nods. “At a certain point, it’s time to slow down and switch gears. Think about dropping a quarter in a sandbox. First step is to quickly run your fingers through the sand—the hasty searches. Failing that, you break the sandbox into quadrants and go through each one grain by grain.”
“Line searches,” I speak up. “That’s what I did. We were like the sweepers, scouring the area for every last crumb.”
“Which hopefully results in locating the person. Or . . .” Nemeth eyes me expectantly.
“Or signs of the person.” I get it now. “Which would refine their last known position. Allowing you to revisit the map, identify more high-probability areas, and adjust efforts accordingly.” I bounce on the balls of my feet. I’m getting this. “Except”—my enthusiasm dims—“you didn’t find Tim.”
“Not even signs of Tim. Hundreds of volunteers, weeks of effort. Dog teams, pilots, people on ATVs, locals on horseback, the National Guard. At a certain point, these woods were crawling with able-bodied volunteers. Myself and Sheriff Kelley, we pored over these maps. There’s science to these kinds of operations, but there’s also instinct.” He eyes me. “Generally speaking, I have damn good instincts.”
“Small children take shelter,” I murmur. “The elderly head downhill. The inexperienced follow the path of least resistance.”
“And the tech addicts head up. We have no cell coverage here. As in zero. But civilized folks can’t fathom such a thing. They think if they just get up high enough—say, the peak of that chimney formation—they’ll magically find reception and can call for help. Unfortunately, it can also result in them falling to their death. We considered all the factors and searched accordingly. Five years later, we haven’t found so much as a boot print. A discarded carabiner. A strand of hair. It’s as if Tim, a well-experienced, well-equipped young man, left that campsite and dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Is that why we’re now looking for Bigfoot?”
Nemeth gives me a look. “That’s Marty’s deal. I don’t care. The Bob guy knows how to conduct a proper wildland search.”
“In other words, is more qualified than me. So if you don’t believe in Bigfoot, what do you believe happened?”
“I don’t know.” Nemeth’s glacier-blue eyes are troubled. He shakes his head. “Go home.”
“I don’t have a home.”
“Then take a vacation.”
I have to smile. “This is my idea of vacation.” I return my attention to Josh’s pack, removing the last of his clothing, to reveal a final layer of dehydrated meals.
“When do we leave?”
“Six a.m. tomorrow.”
“Given that you’ve already searched most everywhere, what’s our target?”
“Devil’s Canyon. Will take us a whole day of hard hiking just to reach it. Long shot, but it’s one of the few places never thoroughly explored.”
“And once we get there?”
“We let Daisy take the lead.”
The cadaver dog, Martin O’Day’s final hope of discovering his son’s remains.
I reach the bottom of the pack, feeling beneath the piles of MREs to pull out a final item in a long black sheath. I yank on the handle to reveal a viciously serrated knife. Like something a Navy SEAL would carry. Or Rambo. It’s both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
“I don’t normally play with sharp objects,” I inform Nemeth, my hand already shaking slightly. But I don’t put it down. The double-edged blade, jagged on one side, razor-sharp on the other, gleams wickedly.
“Word to the wise.” He nods at the blade. “Bottom of the pack is piss-poor planning. Gonna bring it along, at least strap that to your leg, where you can grab it instantly. I might not believe in Bigfoot, but where we’re headed . . . Mother Nature is a fickle bitch and don’t you ever forget it. Now, let me see what I can do about getting you a right-sized pack.”
Nemeth stands up, heads for the door. I’m left alone in the guys’ hotel room, holding a deadly tactical knife jammed into the bottom of the pack by a drunk.
I wonder what Josh was thinking when he threw this in. His idea of basic survival gear? Something more?
Or something worse?
CHAPTER 5
Twelve hours before our early morning departure, I’m starving, nervous, and clueless as to where I’m spending the night. The motel, I suppose, except I’d prefer not to spend that kind of money.
I wonder if Luciana, as the only other female, would let me crash on her floor for the evening. Nemeth had shown me the party’s street-level row of hotel rooms, so I start knocking. The third time is the charm, as Luciana appears in the doorway. Behind her I spot Daisy, sitting before the shuttered closet, one paw raised in the air, body taut with expectation.
“You’re just in time,” Luciana informs me.
“I am?”
“Yes. Daisy is showing off her skills, and she always appreciates an audience.”
Luciana gestures for me to enter. Daisy remains perfectly poised, staring so intently at her target it makes the fine hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“Is there a dead body in your closet?” I ask.