Page 43 of One Step Too Far

“You think someone in our party did it. Sabotaged our supplies. Why?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m grilling you.”

“I didn’t touch the food bags. I wouldn’t do such a thing.” For a moment, he sounds so earnest, I want to believe him. He sounds like the Bob I thought him to be, which is a joke, because I only just met him in person forty-eight hours ago. Maybe Miggy’s suspicions are correct, and Bob’s lovable-giant routine is a ruse designed to put the rest of us at ease till he reveals his true diabolical intentions. Except what would those be?

“I wasn’t the only one who took off last night,” Bob continues now. “Last I saw, everyone was headed into the woods, trying to figure out what was going on. Meaning the food was left unattended for a good twenty, thirty minutes. Would’ve been easy enough for any one of us to cycle back, tamper with the bags.”

“Luciana stayed behind. Last I saw, she and Daisy were zipped up tight in her tent. She didn’t want Daisy getting out and getting hurt.”

Bob says what I’m already thinking. “None of the dog food was touched.”

“What would Luciana have to gain from destroying our food stash? She needs to eat as well.”

“What do I have to gain? And I need to eat, too. Even more than the rest of you.” Bob pats his large frame self-consciously. He has that overgrown-puppy-dog vibe working again. The sweet blue eyes, the faintly pleading expression.

I can’t buy it; I can’t reject it. Did I hike too much yesterday or not sleep enough last night? Because my instincts are failing me. My ability to quickly size up people is one of my few life skills. But now my thoughts are clouded, my brain spinning.

I scrub at my temples, willing some semblance of plausible narrative to gel in my head. I got nothing. I’m heading deeper and deeper into the wilderness, beyond all contact with the outside world, and I have no idea who these people truly are, and what their real intentions might be.

I feel vulnerable in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.

“Do you know what it takes to spend your life looking for Bigfoot?” Bob speaks up abruptly.

I look at him.

“Faith. It takes huge bucketloads of faith. I have no idea what happened last night, how Scott got injured or our food stash destroyed. But I’m not the problem here.”

I smile. I want to believe him, if only so I can sleep better at night. But what I notice most in his little speech is that he doesn’t mention the check Marty wrote to him. Yet more proof that payment did happen and Bob is hiding it.

Why?

Eight people head into the woods. A grieving father, a hiking guide, three college friends, and three semiprofessional searchers. On the surface, it makes sense. So why do I have a feeling eight of us won’t be coming back out?

A disturbance up ahead. Neil appears, the person I’m hoping to speak with next.

“Are you two okay?” he calls out.

“Just adjusting our packs,” Bob answers. Covering for us and our conversation. He doesn’t look at me; I don’t look at him.

“Then hurry up. We’ve found something. Straight ahead.”

CHAPTER 15

The group has discovered a makeshift campsite about twenty feet off the main trail. Martin spotted it first—though, how, I have no idea. It’s a crude setup: a barely body-sized lean-to fashioned from hand-cut pine branches. A few feet from its narrow opening are the charred remains of an old campfire.

“Placing the fire at the opening captures the heat,” Martin murmurs to no one in particular. “It may not look like much, but a shelter like this can maintain a temperature above fifty degrees, regardless of conditions. I taught him this. For a while, he’d practice them in the backyard, teach his friends on the school grounds. Kids love building forts.”

There’s a tone to his voice. A man who is seeing both the present and the past. A father who is feeling both proud and gutted.

The site is too small for eight people, so the rest of us stand back, letting Martin walk the area.

“You think Tim made this?” I ask Nemeth in a low voice.

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze scouring the surrounding area. “It’s possible,” he allows at last. “Could be five years old, could be from earlier this summer, though.” He frowns, stares at the shelter, frowns again. “I doubt that. I’m thinking it’s at least a year old. How much beyond that, I can’t tell.”

“Why at least a year old?”

Martin is now walking around the lean-to. He pauses occasionally, touching the dense covering of pine needles, the sliced ends of the gathered tree limbs. Nemeth is looking at the scene, but Martin is feeling it.

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