One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(10)

“Stand up,” Nemeth orders.

I stand up. He hooks Josh’s metal-framed pack around my right shoulder, then my left. He lets go. I stagger slightly. Just manage not to tip over backward.

Nemeth regards me with his glacier-blue eyes. I haven’t fooled him for a minute.

“Just needs some adjustment,” I tell him.

Another long-suffering sigh. Seriously, the man could use some chocolate.

He takes the pack off, sits across from me on one of the two queen-sized beds.

“I’m guiding this team,” he states. “Their safety, your safety, is my responsibility. So you might as well start confessing now, because I’m not taking you into the woods like this. Woodland searches, my ass.”

“I have done some! More than one.”

“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?”