Five men head into the woods for a bachelor party weekend. Only four return. The brand new thriller by New York Times no.1 bestselling author, Lisa Gardner.
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‑ p ack, 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‑ c heck 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.
“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.”
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 above board
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 best 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.”
Extracted from One Step Too Far by Lisa Gardner, out now.
YOU MAY ALSO ENJOY
Extract: Dark Horse by Gregg Hurwitz, Gregg