Bones (41 page)

What the hell did I think I was doing? Even if it was Parrish in the Honda, what was I going to do? I wasn't armed.

I'll see if it's him. If it is, I'll get the license plate number.

Fine.

There! In the far left lane, stopped at a light and two cars back from the intersection, a dark green Honda Accord waited. I couldn't see the driver. The light turned green, but I was delayed by a driver trying to turn left. The Honda was getting away!

Finally the car turned and I sped to the next intersection. I put the van in park, opened the door, and stood on the door frame, trying to get a look at the green Honda's driver. A man--a man who could be Parrish. I couldn't see the Honda's plates.

The driver of the car behind me honked and flipped me the bird. The light had changed. More horns honked. I got back inside the van and moved forward, signaling a lane change, trying to get over to the left lane, desperate to keep track of the Honda.

But the driver in the lane next to mine was the fellow who had given me the finger. Still angry at me, he refused to let me pass. Red-faced, he shook his fist at me, and promptly rear-ended the car in front of him, which then came into my lane. I slammed on the brakes.

I was boxed in.

Through my open windows, I heard the red-faced finger flipper shouting that it was my fault. When I looked for the Honda again, it was gone.

Ignoring Red Face, I asked the guy who had been rear-ended if he was okay. He was. He turned to Red Face, told him to shut the hell up, and to my surprise, was obeyed.

The story provided amusement over dinner--that is, the part of the story I told, which was very little of it, after all, and had nothing to do with Hondas or bones.

The subtle scent of bones had plagued me even after I reached home. I took a long, hot shower, and my thoughts returned again and again to the events of the afternoon.

There could be bones in one of the cabinets inside the van. There were many little cubbyholes and crannies to search, I thought.

But what if I searched and there weren't any bones?

If you're scared and there's nothing to be scared of and you prove to yourself that there's nothing to be scared of and you're still scared . . . Added to vanishing Hondas and false Parrishes, ghostly bone scent became too much to contemplate. If there were no bones, I really was crazy.

The longer the warm water washed over me, the more it seemed to me that a search itself would be the act of a truly crazy woman. I made a vow to ignore the scent.

So somehow I made the story of buying maps and the red-faced man and a rear-end collision funny, and if my own laughter was a little brittle, no one but Frank seemed to notice.

When I saw that Frank also noticed the trembling of my hands when I spread out the topo maps, I hoped that he ascribed it to the area shown on the maps, and not what happened when I had purchased them.

I focused on the maps. It required concentration. My mind cleared.

Beginning with the largest-scale map, we tried to find the fastest and easiest routes a man could take from the cave--where evidence of Parrish's stay had since been found--to the ranger station and Helitack unit.

There were other ways to get in and out of the ranger station without using the dirt road, but J.C. had definitely chosen the quickest method of reaching us.

"The road you took looks closer to the meadow than the airstrip," I said.

"It is, but the hike in and out is rough and steep." He showed us the route he had taken. "It would be extremely difficult to carry a body out over it, and I'm not sure every hiker in that group could have managed that trail."

"We had lots of different levels of experience," I agreed. "If he hadn't set the trap, your idea of sending a helicopter to the meadow would have been the best one."

He made a harsh, low sound, as if I had hit him.

"What's wrong?"

"Instead," he said bitterly, "my brilliant idea got David and Flash and the others killed."

"What?!" Ben and I said in unison.

He told us his version of how decisions had been made on the ridge near the coyote tree. He felt sure that everyone would have continued safely to the plane if he had not suggested using the helicopter.

Ben and I countered with our claims that other factors, and not his offer of the helicopter, had led to the decision to look for the second grave.

He seemed unconvinced, until Frank said, "By the time you were all standing on that ridge, I think Parrish had Bob Thompson's number. If not everyone else's as well."

Seeing he had our undivided attention, he went on. "I can't get over the feeling that Parrish planned even more thoroughly than we've said he did--that he anticipated the reactions of certain key people in this scenario he devised. I think he knew he could get someone to take him up there, sooner or later."

"You mean that he intentionally allowed himself to be caught?" I said. "Yes, I think everyone agrees that he left Kara Lane's body where it would be found."

"Exactly. The trap was already waiting by the time he was taken into custody. He might not have known who would be on the trip up there, but once he started spending time with all of you, he studied you, figured out how to push your buttons. I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of Bob, but it was never hard to figure out where he was coming from."

"Ambitious," Ben said.

"Right."

"J.C.," I said, "have you ever stopped to think that you saved Andy's life?"

"Saved Andy's life?" he repeated blankly.

"Yes. Parrish undoubtedly wanted all of us to be down there. I think he planned to have me survive to--to chronicle his greatness." For a moment, I couldn't say more; there was an invisible nine-hundred-pound weight on my chest. Frank reached over and took my hand; I held tightly to it. "By separating from us," I went on, "you saved two lives, J.C.--yours and Andy's. It undoubtedly upset Parrish to have you spoil any part of his perfect little plan."

J.C. was quiet, staring at the maps. After a time, he said, "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"You probably had him worried that you'd have a helicopter in there taking him back to prison before old slow-digging Ben here uncovered the body. You nearly ruined his whole setup. The rain was the only thing that allowed him to get away with it--otherwise, your helicopter would have picked us up."

"Yeah, maybe," J.C. said quietly.

"So let's look at these maps and try to see if Parrish had time to disable those helicopters," Ben said.

There was one other unpaved road that ended within a few miles of the far end of the meadow, but this road came into the forest from a different direction. J.C. would have had a much longer drive from the ranger station just to get to the road itself; from there he would have been doubling back in the same general direction he came from, and once he parked the truck, the hike from that road to the meadow would have been worse than the one he made from the other road. It would have been almost entirely uphill and over steep terrain.

"You were in the Forest Service truck," Frank said. "Parrish was on foot. It's ludicrous to think he would have hiked that longer, steeper route to and from the ranger station."

J.C., much more familiar with the area than the rest of us, said, "I agree. And I think Irene is right about his having a partner. It's not impossible that he sabotaged the helicopters alone, but think about it--he would have been hiking in a downpour, after dark. He would have been risking some really nasty falls."

"Parrish is an experienced hiker," Ben said. "But he isn't in the kind of shape you're in, J.C.--you can cover ground faster than any of us, including Andy. He'd have had to hike quite a distance overnight in the rain, disable the helicopter, hike back, and then have the energy to chop down a tree that next day."

"That reminds me," I said. "Was anyone in our group carrying an ax up there?"

"Yes," Ben said. "There was one in the camping gear the police brought."

"Oh."

"You seem disappointed," Frank said.

"I hadn't seen anyone use it," I said. "If it wasn't in our group's gear, that would argue for an accomplice--someone who brought the ax to Parrish."

"Who would help a man like Parrish?" J.C. asked.

"His lawyer," Ben said.

"His lawyer was injured," Frank said.

"Unable to drive?" Ben countered.

Frank shook his head. "No, he could walk if he needed to. But Phil had nothing to gain and everything to lose if his client escaped."

"Did Parrish call anyone while he was in custody?" I asked.

"No," Frank said. "If we're right about this, though, he didn't need to make calls. He provided the destination for the group, so his partner--or partners--would know where he was going. And the date of departure was well publicized."

"Don't serial killers usually work alone?" J.C. asked.

"Usually, but not always," Frank said. "The Hillside Strangler--Kenneth Bianchi--and his cousin, Angelo Buono, tortured and killed together. In Houston, Dean Allen Coryll killed at least twenty-seven young men with the help of two friends--they knowingly brought his victims to him."

"Killers don't have to be loners," Ben agreed. "And apparently some women are excited by the idea of being with a killer. There's even a matchmaking Web site now where women can 'meet' the prison inmate of their dreams."

"But that's different, isn't it?" I said. "A woman who marries her prison pen pal after he's caught isn't necessarily in the same league as someone who'd help him torture and murder his victims."

"No," Frank said, "but there are plenty of examples of couples who've worked together before capture. Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka teamed up for torture, rape and murder--the first time, she helped him rape and kill her own sister. In Nebraska, Caril Fugate went along with her boyfriend for a monthlong killing spree that started with her parents and her two-year-old sister."

"Charles Starkweather, right?" Ben said. "They made a movie about them."

"Yes. There are others. Coleman and West, the Gallegos, the Neelleys--"

"Why do they do it?" I asked.

"The age-old question, right? Sexual obsession, greed, power--you name it. Sometimes these women are dominated by violent male partners, other times, they clearly participate willingly. It's not just women--in addition to husband-and-wife teams, there are male partnerships, groups, and families that are serial killers."

There was silence around the table, then Ben said, "We're back to the question J.C. asked. Who would help a man like Nick Parrish?"

They threw out suggestions: debating the possibility of Phil Newly again; wondering if Parrish had a contact who also had an airplane or a helicopter; arguing over whether he was more likely to have a girlfriend or a boyfriend; speculating over the likelihood of a relative who was his Angelo Buono.

While this went on, I studied the small-scale topo map.

"We don't have enough information to know who his partner is," I said, which earned me a you're-no-fun-at-all look from every single one of them. "Maybe the FBI guys can help out with their profilers. I don't know. But I think I do know where his partner met Nick Parrish that day--it was at that other road."

They focused their attention on the map.

"Yes," Frank said. "It wasn't a good route to get to the ranger station, but he wouldn't have wanted to go anywhere near there once his partner had disabled the helicopters."

"And it's a downhill hike from the meadow," J.C. said. "The airstrip would be the most convenient way out, but he probably expected that law enforcement might be using it by the time he hiked to it."

"Right," Ben said, sighing. "I wish we had come up with this sooner. The mud would have been perfect for casting any footprints or tire marks on the road and near the helicopters."

J.C. shook his head. "If they didn't take any casts at the time, they're probably gone. Summer months are the busiest for Helitack. Our helicopters are primarily used for firefighting. There have been all kinds of people around there."

They decided to call the lead investigator on the team that was coordinating the mountain cases. I went out to get some fresh air in the backyard, where Bingle was engaging in playful antics with Deke and Dunk.