The Precipice by Paul Doiron Read Free Book Online

left. I know Josh went with some wardens up Whitecap. And Addie was supposed to meet up with another team at the base of Chairback.”
    “That was us,” I said. “We ended up going up the backside of the mountain to the shelter.”
    “That’s a hellish path! I’m surprised you didn’t break a leg.”
    “Will this Addie be all right?” I asked.
    “She’s a wilderness first responder. She probably hooked up with the others. So is there any news?”
    Since we’d just met, I decided not to take Caleb Maxwell into my confidence. We seemed to share a similar opinion of Nissen, though, which suggested his instincts couldn’t be all bad.
    “I was hoping to talk to the thru-hikers you have staying here,” I said. “Or anyone else who might have been up on Chairback recently.”
    He fiddled with the rope necklace around his throat. “The Cains from Hartford booked all eleven of our cabins for a family reunion. They just arrived yesterday, and they spent today out on the water before the thunderstorms hit, so I doubt they’ll be of help.”
    “Paddleboarding?” Nissen asked.
    “Yeah. Why?”
    “Who’s staying in the bunkhouse?” I asked.
    “We’ve got eight thru-hikers tonight.” Caleb kept his eyes on me rather than on Nissen. “I’ll take you down there if you want.”
    “That would be great,” I said.
    “Reba, come!”
    He led us along a damp and winding path that cut through the evergreens. Without my headlamp, I could barely make out Maxwell’s broad shoulders in the darkness ahead of me, but he seemed not to need a light. The tangy, almost acidic smell of wood smoke hung in the air. Ahead, I could hear voices muffled behind walls.
    We emerged from the trees into a grassy clearing that contained a single building. It was fashioned entirely of cedar logs that hadn’t yet weathered. I could hear people talking and laughing inside the bunkhouse as we circled around to the front. There was a heap of wet backpacking gear piled outside the screen door.
    Caleb rapped once with his knuckle on the frame and peered inside. “Is everyone decent?”
    “Define decent, ” came a young woman’s voice, followed by mostly male laughter.
    As I stepped through the door, my nose was treated to an amazing bouquet of aromas: wood smoke from the stove, floral shampoo (or maybe soap), burned coffee, the steamy smell of drying sleeping bags, muddy boots that stank from within and without, bug repellent, the distinctly sweet odor of consumed alcohol being exhaled, and some sort of freeze-dried curry dish being heated on a propane camp stove.
    I counted seven people at first glance, five men and two women, neither of whom was Samantha Boggs or Missy Montgomery. One of the guys, a bearded dude with a red bandana tied around his head, took one look at the gun at my side and threw up his dirty palms.
    “I didn’t do nothing!”
    More laughter.
    “Come on, people,” said Caleb. “Warden Bowditch is here about those two missing women I told you about.”
    Instantly, the room went silent. The sensation I’d had of crashing a college party disappeared with a poof. They all knew how serious the situation was. Two members of their community were in trouble.
    I handed the poster of Samantha and Missy to a man seated in his boxer briefs on the nearest bunk. “Do any of you recognize them? Their trail names are Baby Ruth and Naomi Walks.”
    One woman, an attractive but disheveled strawberry blonde, raised her hand as if I were her college professor. “I’ve seen their names in the logbooks.”
    “Did you meet them?”
    “No.”
    The piece of paper circulated. I watched each hiker study the photograph. Thousands of people hiked the AT each summer, and it was probably asking a lot to hope that this group had overlapped with Samantha and Missy. The two missing women had been days ahead of these hikers for most of the trek.
    The poster came back to me, and I gave it to Caleb. “Can you post this for me in the