Bones (27 page)

It was there, set up in the woods. She had even made something to catch rain. "Irene!" Frank called. "Irene!"

There was no answer.

They looked in the tent; there were signs she had slept here, but Frank soon noticed that there was a mixture of clothing in the tent. The dogs were very interested in one side of it, and looking closer, Frank saw a small amount of blood there.

"She got across that stream and camped here," Jack said.

Frank picked up one of her shirts; no gash or sign of a wound or bleeding on it, or her bedroll. If she wasn't the wounded one, maybe Parrish didn't have her. Maybe she was with the other survivor. "Let's see if that dog left any other tracks."

As it happened, they didn't need to look for tracks.

Deke, catching Bingle's scent, began barking. Dunk took up the cry.

Near a group of boulders, Jack was the first one to see a large German shepherd emerge. The dog apparently decided that they were all close enough, because he began barking ferociously. Deke and Dunk immediately flattened themselves onto the ground, tails wagging nervously, as if bowing in supplication and begging his pardon.

"That sweater he's got on has them in awe," Travis said.

"No," Jack said, "he's born to rule. Deke and Dunk are just acknowledging that fact--although I'm sure they'll test it later on."

Telling Deke and Dunk--quite unnecessarily--to stay, the three men tried to approach the other dog, but Bingle bared his teeth at them, and continued to growl and bark.

Frank tried to recall the day he had spent working with David Niles and the dog, and suddenly remembered that the dog was given commands in Spanish.

"VBingle, callate!" he said firmly.

The dog stopped barking and looked at him, cocking his head to one side. "VBien, Bingle, muy bien!"

From somewhere nearby--none of them could figure out where, at first--a faint voice said, "Bingle, it's okay. Esta bien, Bingle."

"Who's there?" Frank called.

"Ben Sheridan."

"Ben! It's Frank Harriman. Where are you?"

"Here. Down in the rocks--I'm injured or I'd crawl up to you. Bingle can show you where I am. How do I say, 'Come here'?"

"Ven aca," Travis answered, reminding Frank that Irene's cousin was the most fluent speaker of Spanish among them,

The dog was looking at Travis, apparently hesitating over this new set of orders, when Ben repeated them. He hurried to obey the more familiar voice, and the men almost missed seeing the place he had scrambled down.

Peering down into the rocks, Frank said, "We'll get you out as soon as we can--"

"Never mind that--did you find Irene?"

Frank swallowed hard. "She's not with you?"

"Oh, God!" Ben said. "You've got to find her! Never mind me!"

"Tell me what happened!"

"Parrish--"

"We know he killed the others--did anyone else escape?"

"No," Ben said weakly. "Except--Andy and J.C. weren't with us, thank God. Parrish came after us this morning, chopping down a tree. She hid me in here and tried to lure him away from me. I--I didn't want her to! But I can't walk and--"

"We know how hardheaded she can be," Jack said. "Where did she go?"

"Back across the stream, I think. I heard gunfire, and then Bingle came to me, but maybe he was just shooting at the dog--I thought I heard her yelling to him after the gunfire."

"Go on, Frank," Jack said. "Travis and I can take care of Dr. Sheridan here. I'll call Stinger, see if he can get up in the air and start looking now. Fog has cleared off."

"You speak Spanish, right?" Ben asked Frank.

"Yes."

"Take Bingle. He's had a rough couple of days, but he's trained in search and rescue."

"I once saw David work with him," Frank said. "But I'm not sure Bingle will want to listen to me."

"He won't ever work as well with anyone as he did with David. David--" He seemed unable to continue for a moment. "Please take Bingle with you--it's worth a try. I think the command is, 'Find 'em,' and ask him 'Where is Irene?' Praise him a lot, make it a game. He won't need a leash. I think he's attached to her; I think he's wanted to look for her anyway--he's been acting very worried."

"Ask Stinger to get that helicopter up as soon as he can," Frank said, and called to Bingle.

The dog hesitated, looking back at Ben.

"How do I say, 'Go with him'?" Ben asked.

"Ve con el," Travis said.

Ben repeated the phrase to Bingle as a command, indicating Frank. He repeated it three times, and finally, Bingle scrambled back up to where Frank waited.

Frank saw that the dog was now focused on him, seeming almost impatient. He tried to recall everything he had seen David do with the dog.

"Travis, you have hold of Deke and Dunk?" he asked.

"All set," Travis said.

"Bingle," Frank said. "zEstas listo?"

Bingle barked, and wagged his tail.

Frank held out the shirt he had found in the tent, hoping that Irene had worn it recently.

The dog sniffed at it.

"zDonde esta Irene? VDonde esta Irene? VBuscala!"

Bingle barked and bounded toward the stream.

** CHAPTER 28

FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19

Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

There was no thought, at first, of anything but flight.

I ran blindly, into the fog, through the trees. The fog and the forest were at once my shield and my obstacle; together they hid me from him, but because of them I could not simply run, flat out, as fast as I could go.

At home, I ran almost every day on the beach, but there were few flat and forgiving stretches here. The altitude, the mud, and the unevenness of the terrain were only part of the problem--I wasn't exactly starting out peppy and refreshed. Despite my weariness, though, I ran hard--for a time, the threat of being at Nick Parrish's mercy was enough to sustain me.

At first, he called my name and shouted things at me, doing his best to frighten and upset me.

"Can't you run any faster than that?"

"You're running slower! I'm going to catch you!"

"I'm getting closer, Irene!"

Glancing over my shoulder, I tripped on a root and stumbled; I scraped the palms of my hands and fingers as I caught at a branch to prevent a fall. I clumsily regained my balance before hitting the ground. It taught me a quick lesson; I moved a little more carefully after that.

Even in the places where the ground was drier, the pine needles were slippery beneath my feet. My daypack was bouncing against my back. My hiking boots didn't give as my running shoes would, and made the ground feel different beneath my feet, so I ran awkwardly; before long, the boots seemed to be made of lead, my legs felt heavy and dull.

I began to feel light-headed. All the same, though at first he had been quite close to me, eventually it seemed to me that I was widening the distance between us. His voice came less often, the words were less distinct. Soon he stopped shouting altogether.

I ran--muscles unwilling, aching, breath coming in sharp-edged pulls that seemed to stab at my ribs when they reached my lungs. My calves were cramping. My mouth felt as if it were full of half-dried glue, my fingers tingled.

I slowed, but kept running--plodding, really. I could not see or hear him. It made me uneasy. Where was he? Had he pulled ahead of me? Or had I managed to evade him? Had the injury to his shoulder weakened him at last? I was sure I heard him nearby--then realized I was hearing the noises I was making as I ran.

I slipped again, recovered my balance, took my pack off and cradled it in front of me, as if it were a football. It stopped bruising my back, but the next slip jammed every object in the pack into my ribs.

I kept running. I was having trouble thinking clearly, and I had no sense at all of direction. Had I gone in a circle? I was no longer sure I was running away from Parrish--I became convinced that I was heading right at him. I heard the stream and tried to follow it, all the while becoming more and more certain that he was near, very near.

My hair was wet from the mud and fog, and kept slapping my face as I ran; I tried to keep it out of my eyes. I kept running.

I ran until I fell--hard.

I wasn't sure exactly what had happened--my legs just seemed to give out. I scraped my knees, forearms, and face as I hit. I wanted to get up, but nothing was cooperating; there was no strength in my limbs; everything trembled or ached, and I felt sick to my stomach. It was as if I had instantly caught a bad case of the flu.

I was lying in a thicket; I could hear the stream nearby. I fumbled for my water bottle, and was surprised by the realization that I still had it--and my daypack. Hands shaking, I managed to open it and drink. I emptied the bottle, but I was still thirsty.

I had to accept that not even panic would keep me going. I crawled to the stream. I found a large, flat rock, not more than a few inches above the water. I lay down on it. The world seemed to spin drunkenly; I was drenched in sweat and my breath was coming in painful and far too loud gasps; my pulse was pounding, my head throbbing along with it. Nick Parrish could have fired a cannon at me and I wouldn't have heard it.

The stream was moving too fast here to step into safely, but I bent my face close to it, scooped its chilled water into my mouth; I drank and drank. I was too thirsty to spend time filtering water--if I suffered for it with a case of the trots in two weeks, I'd thank God for the privilege.

The spray that came from the stream as it hit the rocks in its path felt good; I began splashing water over my face and arms, my legs. I bathed my scrapes in it, easing some of the aches. I dipped my head into it, felt the icy water rush over the top of my forehead and scalp, rinsing the mud from my hair. Cooler, I made the effort to use the filter to fill my water bottle and I drank again. I lay there. For what seemed to me to be a long time, I was unable to do anything more. I was still terrified of Parrish, but there was a barrier of exhaustion and dehydration between my fear and my willingness to do anything about it.

Eventually, I tried to get up and walk; every muscle and joint protested. I moved anyway. Not fast, not steadily, but I moved, wobbling away from the bank of the stream. I wanted to be able to hear Parrish's approach.

But I had so little energy, I did not get very far. I came across a cluster of boulders beneath some trees near the stream, not unlike the place where Ben was hidden. I had not heard Parrish for some time now, and the thought of Ben made me wonder if Parrish had gone to hunt Bingle, and might perhaps find Ben as well. Even if Parrish wasn't looking for him, how long could he last, hidden in the rocks? Would anyone be able to find him if something happened to me?

Something crashed through the trees to the left of me; I made a faltering attempt to spin toward it, my heart pounding.

A deer.

A little later, I thought I heard the sound of a helicopter again, but it was still foggy--if one passed overhead, I didn't see it. I told myself to stay calm, that once the fog burned off, J.C. would be able to take the crew to our meadow.

But what would prevent Parrish from simply shooting the helicopter crew?

From the air, they might be able to see the grave, and the bodies in the field. That sight would make them cautious.

I prayed they would be cautious.

I waited.

I felt myself jerk awake, and the realization that I had fallen asleep frightened me. I needed to be on guard--but for a moment I was so disoriented I couldn't remember why. I had awakened from a dream of gunshots, and of Frank shouting my name. I listened, and heard nothing but the stream, and birds calling to one another in the trees.

I turned my mind to my immediate problems.

If Nick Parrish came near again, and I needed to run, I couldn't afford to be dehydrated. I stood and stretched my sore muscles, drank the water I had filtered and took what seemed to be a lifetime to make the short walk to the stream for a refill.

Food would help, too. I found a few edible shoots near the stream; I wasn't sure of most of the other plants, and while I might take a risk with giardia, I wasn't going to try to kill myself on the spot. It's much easier to be poisoned by flora than fauna.