Bones (22 page)

"Irene, listen to me--this is stupid. Run. Just run. I'm begging you, please. Please get the hell out of here. I can hide beneath this tree."

"If the dampness doesn't kill you, insects will eat you alive. I'll bet you've already got ant bites."

"Ant bites! Who gives a shit about ant bites!"

"Bingle," I said, "cuidalo."

"What did you just say to him?"

"He'll guard you while I'm gone."

"Oh, Christ."

"Be right back."

"Don't! Don't come back! Just run!"

I started praying to St. Jude, which is something an old-fashioned Catholic will do in times of trouble. While I was at it, I asked St. Anthony to find a hiding place for Ben. I also used the direct line.

I'm not sure who got through to the big guy first, but I hadn't gone far when I found a group of relatively dry boulders that were large enough to hide a man, and would not force Ben to suffer all the insect life in a fallen tree.

I dragged the gear there first, not listening to Ben's renewed arguments, which he should have known were useless.

By the time I came back for him, he had either realized that or worn himself out, because he didn't give me any more grief--nothing beyond muttering about hardheaded women, but the line forms to the left for people who've said something like that to me over the years.

I praised Bingle and told him to follow us, then helped Ben, carrying him on my back when we reached the boulders.

Once we had managed the hellish business getting him ensconced in his rocky fortress--his bad leg was jostled four or five times--I went around the outside, studying the boulders from every possible angle. I couldn't see him unless I climbed up over several layers of rock. Satisfied that it was the best we could do on short notice, I gave Bingle the sentinel's job again and crawled back into Ben's cubbyhole with him, bringing his crutch with me. I quickly helped him change into a dry shirt. The shorts had fared better. I put a sleeping bag around him. I made sure the water and other supplies were within reach.

"I'm going now," I said. "Will you be all right here?"

He nodded.

"If you see Frank Harriman before I do, tell him--say hello for me, okay?"

"Sure."

There was a sound from the forest then. It was repeated, again and again at regular intervals. I didn't recognize it, but Ben did.

"An ax. He's cutting down a tree. He's probably making a bridge across the water."

"I'd better get ready to lure him right back over it, then. You sure you'll be all right here?"

"Yes."

"You'll be able to get out again if you need to?"

"Yes, I can pull myself out over the rocks if I have to. You're taking Bingle, aren't you?"

"Yes. Parrish will wonder why I don't have him with me if he's not at my side. But if--if necessary, I'll try to send him back to you."

"I don't know much Spanish," he said. "Come back for me yourself."

I laughed and started to leave, then bent back down and hugged him. He seemed a little surprised at first, but then he hugged back. "Be safe," he said.

"You, too."

I stood up and had climbed about halfway out when he said, "Thank you."

"You keep fighting, Ben Sheridan, or I'll really be pissed off at you."

"Take care, Lois Lane."

"Sure thing, Quincy."

"Oh God, don't make me a pathologist!"

I reached the top of the rock pile, saw him below me, suddenly looking vulnerable and alone. I almost considered staying with him, but I knew that we'd be fish in a barrel for Parrish if he found us.

Maybe he saw my indecision, because he said, "Shove old Nicky off a cliff and come back and tell me the rest of Parzival."

"Sure. I'll try not to make you wait to hear the ending."

I took one last look at him, hoped it wasn't really a last look, waved, and began my journey back to the stream, listening to Parrish's ax ringing out its challenge, its siren call, its alarm.

** CHAPTER 24

FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19

Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

He was strong.

I suppose I had known that before, but watching him swing that ax at the tree on the opposite bank disheartened me, made me wonder what on earth had led me to believe I could defeat him.

He was swinging hard, angrily. The tree was not huge--a pine tree that was tall enough to span the stream and thick enough to support his weight when he walked on it.

I forced myself to think in terms of escaping him, drawing him away from Ben. My first frantic thoughts included improbable methods of killing him: throwing a large rock at him while he was chopping down the tree, beaning him while his hands were occupied; swinging across the stream from a vine, Tarzan-style, plunging my knife into him while the ax was stuck in the wood; whittling a javelin and spearing him while he was halfway across the river.

All impractical. I have a decent pitching arm, but this was no straight shot, and if I missed him, he'd shoot me; there were no convenient Tarzan-strength vines; even if I had the time to whittle a javelin, chances of learning to throw one accurately for a one-chance, winner-takes-all shot were nil.

I did find another stick that could be used as a club, and a few baseball-sized rocks. If he had somehow seen me watching him, and came after me before I crossed to the other side, I'd use whatever was at hand to stop him.

There was a slow creaking sound, then a thunderous crack. The tree began to give way, its upper branches catching and snapping like gunfire as they struck the branches of other trees on the way down. It hit the ground on my side of the stream with a loud bang that shook the earth beneath me.

Bingle flattened himself to the ground and put his ears back, but stayed next to me. I peered cautiously from my hiding place.

Nick Parrish stood surveying his handiwork. He could easily cross over now; the lowest branches of the tree would present an obstacle or two at this end, but he had chosen his crossing place and bridge material well.

Would he plan on my being this close? Would he know that I might have moved toward the sound of him felling a tree? I didn't think so. He would expect me to run. He expected fear.

He was looking at the ax now, and as he did, I tried not to think of him using it on me. He expects fear, I told myself again. Don't give it to him.

So I tried to think about the ax being in my own hands, which suddenly made me wonder--whose ax was it? I couldn't remember anyone hiking with one, or using one in the past few days. Did he have other tools and weapons cached nearby?

He carried the ax with him as he began to walk along the tree trunk. He used it as a kind of balance. He moved cautiously. Closer and closer.

He had his hands full, the gun holstered. The temptation to try pitching one of the rocks at him was strong. The stream wasn't very far below him, only about four feet. It was running swift and cold, but I wasn't sure how deep. He wasn't looking toward me now; he was getting closer to the branches, which would partially obscure him. I might not have a better chance. But if I missed? Perhaps I could still evade him.

I had picked up one of the rocks and was weighing it in my hand when he lost his balance. He had almost reached my side of the stream when one of the branches supporting the fallen trunk gave way beneath his added weight, The whole trunk suddenly dropped a few inches, and Parrish lunged forward. He let go of the ax and grasped wildly at the branches nearest him.

The ax fell into the rushing water below, but the branch he had grabbed held. He pulled himself upright, looking shaken. My enjoyment of that was brief.

Whispering to Bingle to remain quiet, I watched as Parrish quickly made his way to safety, and onto the bank. I moved behind a fallen tree, no longer risking watching him, listening as he moved through the woods. He came closer to where I crouched. I took my club in hand. He paused not far from me, and for a moment I was sure he had seen me, and that he was merely deciding how best to take me captive. But he moved on, heading downstream, toward the place where he had heard Bingle barking.

I made myself wait a little longer, then stood and stretched. Bingle stretched his back legs, then followed me to Parrish's bridge. I snapped the leash onto his harness, hoping he wouldn't balk at crossing the noisy current. If he fell in, I wasn't sure I'd be strong enough to keep him from being swept downstream.

I needn't have worried. He didn't resist my efforts to help him scramble up onto the tree, and once we were clear of the branches, he began to move so quickly and easily that I had to concentrate on keeping up with him, rather than on thoughts of falling into the water.

"Bien," I whispered, when we reached the muddy bank on the other side. "I think you've crossed streams this way before, Bingle."

I removed his leash, then took a moment to examine the fallen tree, to look for something that I might later use as a lever to move it, but found nothing. I realized that this part of the stream was not far from the group camp. Thinking that I might scrounge some useful items from it again, I went back to it. I had to call to Bingle a couple of times to keep him from going back to the meadow.

Among the sodden ruins of the camp, I saw a length of rope that might come in handy, but not much else. I figured that it would take Parrish a little while to find where I had stayed last night, and to rummage through the tent--but I didn't want to give him enough time to find Ben. I hurried back to the stream, and continued along the bank, until I was near where Parrish had stood when he called to me.

I moved a little way into the woods, found two small trees and stretched a length of the rope between them at about ankle height. I covered it with leaves. I hurriedly sharpened three sticks with my knife and planted them in the soft ground a few feet beyond the rope, sharp-end up, at roughly forty-five-degree angles, so that they formed a row pointing back toward the rope. These I also covered with leaves. A little farther away, within easy sight of the first trees, I tied another length of rope between two other trees, this time at a height of almost a foot off the ground.

I quickly worked out a route through the woods, occasionally piling stones up as markers.

"Okay, Bingle," I said, snapping the leash back on. "Let's put on a show."

I moved back toward the stream, but stayed out of sight, in the trees. "Cantame, Bingle." Sing to me.

He looked at me, looked back at the meadow, and whimpered.

I swallowed hard. "Cantame, Bingle."

He lay down, and would not look at me. I tried holding his face, and still he kept his eyes averted.

"Okay, so that belongs to David," I said. "I apologize. Will you speak for me? Hablame, Bingle. Por favor, hablame."

He looked up at me.

"VHablame!"

He was watching me, looking undecided.

"VHablame!" I tried again.

He barked.

"VMuy bien! VHablame!"

He entered the spirit of things then. He barked and barked, and I praised him in Spanish, until finally I saw movement through the trees on the other bank. Loudly in English, I called, "Stop barking! Please, Bingle!" In Spanish, I continued to enthusiastically command just the opposite.

Not wanting to overdo it, I finally said, "VCalmate, callate!"

He fell silent. I quietly petted him and praised him in Spanish. We walked back toward the starting line of the obstacle course I had set for Parrish.

Bingle had become aware of Parrish's presence some time before, probably catching his scent on the breeze that came our way every few minutes. At the same time, if it's true that animals can smell fear, I was overloading the poor dog's snoot.

Parrish reached his little bridge, and couldn't resist taunting me. "I'll find you, you know!"

What the hell? I thought. Do not go gentle into that good night.

"Hey, Nick!" I shouted. "Who'd you pimp for after your mother died?"

There was a gratifying silence before he shouted, "You'll pay for that!"

"Taking up Mama's slogan, Nicky?"