Page 7 of One Step Too Far

I nod. I travel light, meaning my roll-along suitcase contains just the basics: three pairs of pants and six shirts, all interchangeable. For shoes, I have a pair of sneaks and a pair of sturdy brown boots. I also have pj’s—really men’s boxers and Paul’s old T-shirt—plus seven days’ worth of socks and underwear.

My boots will work for hiking. The socks are definitely too thin. And I have only one coat, a medium-weight green army jacket. In the winter months, I add a hat, gloves, and scarf for warmth. I hadn’t thought to make those purchases yet, given that it’s August.

I should stay here, I think, to work and build up money if nothing else. But maybe, also, I’m tired. That kind of exhaustion that never really goes away. I think of Paul, as I often do when the weight of the years catches up with me.

But I also think of a Boston detective and former Marine, Dan Lotham, the whisper of his hands across my body. I think of a silent bar owner, as steady as his name, Stoney. And Piper, the homicidal cat, and an energetic fry cook and a sixteen-year-old Haitian girl, Angelique, the first and only person I’ve ever found alive.

My thoughts scatter and spin. I feel both keyed up and totally spent. And as is my nature, I think how much I’d like a drink right now. Maybe an ice-cold beer to quench my dry throat. Or a tangy margarita where the liquid warmth of tequila is followed by the refreshing bite of lime. A rum and Coke. A gin and tonic. I was never picky about my booze. I just wanted lots of it. Till my nerves dulled and my racing brain became pickled and I didn’t have to think so hard because I no longer cared.

As fast as I feel the impulse, I push it away. My sobriety is one of my only accomplishments over the past ten years. I can’t afford to give it up now.

Lisa slows the truck. We’ve reached the far edge of town, where the pretty buildings end and the more commercial structures begin. A squat budget motel. A huge outdoor gear and apparel shop. And across from the motel, a diner. The diner, I realize. Where Tim O’Day’s groomsmen arrived that first morning five years ago, babbling about bears and mountain lions and things that go bump in the night.

“I’ll get out here,” I tell Lisa as she stops at the traffic light near the diner.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck,” she tells me. Then, when I reach into my pocket for the promised gas money: “Don’t worry about it. I was driving through town anyway.”

I smile in gratitude. She pulls away, leaving me outside the corner diner with my rolling luggage in one hand, my leather satchel in the other.

No time for hesitating. I head through the doors.

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The diner smells of coffee, bacon grease, and grilled hamburgers. Immediately my stomach growls. I had a stale Danish for breakfast, a chocolate bar for lunch. I could use food. As well as hiking gear, a night’s lodging, and a fountain of youth.

It’s nearly three p.m. now. According to the sign, that’s fifteen minutes before closing, which would explain the nearly empty interior and the lone white-aproned fry cook scraping at the griddle.

At the rear of the diner, however, I spy a group of eight people sprawled across two booths, deep in conversation over an open map, with a collection of dirty lunch plates pushed to the side. Martin O’Day and his assembled search party. Has to be. They’re all outfitted in serious outdoor wear, scuffed hiking boots, cargo pants, and flannel. On first glance they look rugged, healthy, and ready to go.

I glance down at my decidedly non-mountaineering ensemble of tennis shoes, faded jeans, and a threadbare T-shirt. At least I’m covered in a film of travel dust and sweat. It gives me an air of authenticity as I roll my suitcase toward the group.

The man sitting in the middle is doing most of the talking. He looks to be mid-fifties, with the whip-lean build of a person always on the move. Across from him sits an older gentleman with steel-gray hair and equally weathered features. A bushy-bearded, redheaded male and a dark-haired female are to their left, four younger men to the right. Up close, I spy a ninth member of the party: a yellow Lab mix wearing a bright orange scarf, sprawled under the table, head on paws.

The dog looks up at my approach. Thumps its tail. The lone woman, a stunningly gorgeous Latina with almond skin and thickly lashed dark eyes, glances in my direction; I’m guessing the dog is hers.

I have a sense of déjà vu. Three years ago, different woods: a missing six-year-old boy who’d been playing tag with his eight-year-old brother around their campsite before he disappeared. Me, tramping through those woods with fellow volunteers day after day. Still searching, weeks later, long after all hope of recovering the child alive was gone. Because having started the hunt, we couldn’t give it up. We had to seek. We had to find.

A family has to know.

I remember the mom’s scream when news of the discovery reached her. I remember the father, a guy in his twenties, face ashen, voice thick as he shook the hands of all the volunteers and thanked us for bringing his little boy home. As if anyone could be grateful to have their child back for a proper burial. And yet, you can be. You absolutely can be.

I understand the woman’s role now. I know what her Lab mix does. Cadaver dog. Because five years later, Timothy O’Day’s bones are all that will be left.

Why do I do what I do? Searching for the missing long after hope is lost. Town to town. Heartbreak to heartbreak.

At any given time, hundreds of thousands of people have disappeared. Some left of their own volition. Some ran into trouble. And some, given the circumstances of their birth, never stood a chance.

For me, the question isn’t why have I dedicated my life to this? The question is why hasn’t everyone? So many of our children, who deserve to come home. Loved ones who need to know what happened to their family member. Communities forever haunted by what might have happened, paired with what could’ve been.

I know who I am. I know why I do what I do. It’s the rest of the world that’s confusing to me.

Now I approach. The man leading the discussion finally looks up. He has hazel eyes to go with his thinning dark hair.

“Martin O’Day?” I ask, plopping down on the closest counter stool. This is it. I am both excited and nervous. Determined and fearful. It’s always like this.

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