Bones (28 page)

I stumbled back to my hiding place, unable to move with anything close to coordination.

I still had my knife.

I had no sooner remembered this than another thought intruded: Why did I still have my knife?

Why had Parrish left me with a weapon, however small? Why had he let me keep my water bottle and filter and the other contents of my daypack?

Perhaps he hadn't expected me to have time left to use them; maybe he wanted more of a challenge.

Why had he let me run away? I ran way off my pace, and still I had eluded him. Or had he allowed me to elude him?

He had felled a tree, which might have drained him of energy. He had a shoulder wound--maybe it had started bleeding again when he ran after me.

On the other hand, he had eaten food; he had probably slept. He had not dragged anyone to safety, had not spent the night taking care of an injured man. He was not afraid. He had not been nearly suffocated in the mud.

I weighed these factors, unable to decide if he had allowed me to escape from him, or if I had--at least temporarily--defeated him. The more I thought it over, the more confused I felt; I seemed incapable of holding on to any train of thought for long. One idea drifted past another, and I found myself staring blankly into space, or snapping my head back up, just before nodding off again.

I tried to recall what kind of shape he had been in just before I started running away from him. He had been giving me instructions . . . something about a woman named . . . named what? Nina Poolman. I was supposed to remember her name. But why?

I was tired, and I wanted to sleep, but thinking of Nick Parrish kept me awake, if not at my sharpest.

Faintly, I heard a man's voice calling something.

I could almost believe it was my name, but I wasn't sure.

The fog was rapidly lifting; out in the open, I might be seen more easily now. I slowly crawled back into the narrow space within the cluster of boulders.

Minutes later, I heard someone or something crashing through the brush, downstream from where I hid. Was it Parrish? Another deer? A bear? I didn't dare rise from where I crouched.

I waited. The sound kept moving away. Probably an animal, I told myself. I couldn't convince myself.

I fell asleep again; I don't know for how long. In the distance, upstream, I could just make out the sound of a dog barking. I was nearly certain it was Bingle, but the barking had a quality to it that made me fear for both Ben and the dog. It could only mean that Parrish was near them.

I did not want to hide helplessly, listening to whatever horrible things Parrish might do to them, even as faint sounds from a distance.

I slowly left my hiding place. I found a long, sturdy stick, and sharpened it. As I looked at the finished product, I had to resist an urge to leave it behind, if for no other reason than to save myself from serving up embarrassment as a side dish to my own death.

There was no possibility of taking off at a run, but I tried to stretch as I moved along the bank of the stream, using my homemade spear as a walking stick, leaning against it through dizzy spells, doing my best to rid myself of the soreness that made my movements stiff and slow.

Again and again, I heard movement in the brush near the stream; each time I hid as best I could, waited, saw nothing.

As I walked, once more I found myself growing light-headed, feeling confused. The dizzy spells came more often. I stopped to drink again. I was exhausted and scared--of what possible use could I be to Ben and Bingle?

I had no sooner asked myself this question than I heard loud movement through the woods--much louder than before--followed by urgent barking. But if Bingle was here, what had happened to Ben?

I found myself filled with despair. Ben's survival had never been assured, but his death was a blow I wasn't ready for. With an effort, I regained my self-control. "Pay the bastard back!" I told myself, gripping my spear.

I was wondering if the dog was going to lead Parrish right to me, when I heard the helicopter. I couldn't see it, but it sounded as big as God.

I was going to get to it first, I decided--I might be too late to save Ben, but maybe I could warn the pilot off before Parrish started shooting at it. I began moving toward the sound--which was difficult, because it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. I could hear nothing else. I took my knife out.

I saw movement to one side of me, and then Bingle loping toward me, and someone moving in the woods behind him.

Frantic, at first I stumbled away, but there was no time to run, so I crouched behind a fallen tree, spear in one hand, knife in the other.

Hoping that someone might be near enough to hear me over the helicopter, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Bingle stopped in his tracks, looking puzzled.

Behind him, a vision appeared. Frank, coming through the woods.

For a few moments, I could only stare at him, wondering how Parrish had managed the disguise.

A great wind came up, blowing leaves and tree limbs and frightening birds and small animals. And me, a little.

The wind passed by, but the noise of the helicopter was still all-encompassing.

Frank slowed what had been a running approach, maybe because I was holding a sharp wooden stick and a knife in a threatening manner.

"Irene?"

I couldn't hear him over the roar, but I could see him form the word. Best of all, I could see those gray-green eyes of his--his eyes, not Parrish's. I dropped my weapons, got to my feet, and held out my arms.

He took me in his, and then I could hear him say my name. He said it over and over.

I probably should have told him not to fuss over me, and said that there were important things that needed to be done--but I was fresh out of wise and brave, and for a little while, all I could do was weep, and say his name to him, and tell Bingle that he was marvelous, too.

** CHAPTER 29

FRIDAY, LATE EVENING, MAY 19

St. Anne's Hospital, Las Piernas

The doctors said they might not be able to save Ben's leg, that they might have to amputate it below the knee.

This possibility was not a surprise to Ben. He had spoken of it in the helicopter.

Although he had been weak and feverish, and obviously in pain, he had been able to converse. Bingle had refused to be tethered out of reach of him, and sat quietly nearby, watching him intently.

Stinger Dalton had offered to take Ben to the closest hospital--"Or wherever you want to go," he said, kneeling near the litter. "You'll be out of pain sooner, but sometimes proximity ain't the first consideration, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do," Ben said. I held his hot, dry hand in one of my own. He looked at me, then back at Dalton. "Take me to St. Anne's," he said. "I know one of the orthopedic surgeons there. If he has to amputate, at least he'll know what he's doing."

He saw my look of horror.

"If they take part of the leg," he said, "it wasn't because you did anything wrong. Understand?"

"But--"

"Understand?"

I stared at the amateurish bandage and makeshift splint. "I should have given you all of the Keflex," I said weakly.

"Listen to me. The bullet did the damage, not you."

"Maybe they won't--"

"Don't," he said, closing his eyes. "Don't."

Not this, I begged God. Nothing more. Hadn't he already been through enough?

"Do you want us to contact anyone?" Frank asked him. "Someone to meet you at the hospital?"

Ben didn't answer right away.

"A family member or a friend?" Frank asked.

"No," he said, not opening his eyes. "No one, thanks."

This answer to Frank's question made me worry about Ben as nothing else had. It was one thing to face the loss of a limb, another to face it without the support of family or friends.

Frank had his arm around me; I leaned my head against his shoulder. He felt solid and sturdy and safe. Ben was alive. Bingle was alive. I was alive.

I was alive, and fighting to feel something other than the numbness that kept creeping over me. Numbness and thirst. I kept drinking water, but I couldn't seem to get enough of it.

As the helicopter had taken off, Ben squeezed my hand. I realized he was trying to say something to me over the roar of the engine and rotors. He looked awful. I loosened my seat belt and bent closer.

"The story."

I looked at him in confusion.

"The knight."

So I began shouting my half-assed version of a medieval German poet's tale to him, but I didn't get much further in the story before Ben's grip slackened and his head lolled to one side. I froze mid-shout.

Frank hurriedly moved to Ben's side, checking his pulse and breathing.

"He's alive," he reassured me. "His pulse is okay. He's just passed out. I'm sure he's been in a lot of pain. Dalton will get us back to Las Piernas in no time."

J.C. stared at me as if fearing the next act in my bizarre program of in-flight entertainment. Bingle, Deke, and Dunk looked as if they were hating every moment of this ride, storytelling or no. Jack smiled and shouted, "You remember Parzival!"

Dalton managed to get us out of the meadow before law enforcement or the Forest Service came in. He radioed the ranger station to say that we had a medical emergency and could be met in Las Piernas at St. Anne's. He supplied a succinct description of the situation in the meadow, and warned that Parrish was heavily armed.

As the helicopter landed at St. Anne's, we were greeted by a team of doctors and nurses, and Tom Cassidy. Frank had asked him to meet us. Cassidy is a master at staying calm in the midst of high pressure, chaotic situations--he's in charge of the Las Piernas Police Department's Critical Incident Team. The big Texan's work ranges from negotiating a hostage's freedom to talking a potential jumper off a ledge, and his skills were being put to the test that day.

"Everybody's mad as hellfire at me," Cassidy drawled, grinning with pride, "but y'all will have a little time to yourselves and the doctors."

Jack and Travis and Stinger took a dog each--Stinger the only one who could get Bingle to leave Ben--and met with Travis's lawyer, who had helped us on previous occasions. Between his efforts and those of Cassidy, it looked as if no one was going to face charges, or receive department reprimands, or lose a job or a pilot's license.

J.C. and Frank were the first to spend time answering questions from the D.A. and the police. I got my turn, as Cassidy stood unofficial guard over me. I found myself answering as if from a distance, perhaps not always coherently. I tired quickly, and Cassidy shooed the others away.

He had to leave soon after--he was busy coordinating crisis efforts that extended further than I could have imagined at that moment.

I asked the doctor who was looking at my various scrapes and bruises about Ben. He hesitated, then said, "He's been taken into surgery. The leg is severely damaged and infected. We're going to give him antibiotics, but--"

"What sort of antibiotics?" I asked.

"A combination of cephalosporin--you might have taken it at one time or another as Keflex--"

"Keflex," I interrupted, turning pale. "Keflex? That might make a difference?"

"Yes, at a high dosage," he said, studying me. "Are you feeling faint?"

"A little," I admitted.

I wanted to go home, but the doctor asked me to stick around for a few hours because I was suffering from dehydration. I was placed in a bed, given an IV and a light meal, and fell quickly asleep.

I awakened a couple of hours later to see Mark Baker and John Walters standing near my bed. Mark is an old friend and the crime reporter for the Express. John's the managing editor.

A nurse tried to usher them out, but I told her it was all right, that I'd talk to them for a while.

After a few expressions of concern, which for all my exhaustion, I didn't take too seriously, John said, "You know why we're here."

"You want the story."