Bones ik-7

by Jan Burke

  “Good of you to go to this much trouble for them,” Andy said, bringing me out of my reverie.

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “I’m here because my boss insisted on it, and I wasn’t exactly pleased with the assignment. I got caught in police politics. The Las Piernas Police got a black eye recently—”

  “When they tried to hide mistakes made in an Internal Affairs investigation,” he said, nodding. “But one of the reporters on the Express learned about it and made them look twice as bad.”

  “Yes. So to prove to the public that they’re doing a great job, and everything’s aboveboard, the brass decided to let a local reporter get in on a success story — the resolution of an old case that has been given big play in the paper. The Express was already leaning on them to let me come along. I never dreamed they’d say yes, or I would have tried to head those plans off before they got this far.”

  “I’d think this would be a reporter’s dream.”

  “I’m not too fond of the mountains.”

  “Not fond of the mountains?” he said, aghast. This, clearly, he considered to be sacrilege.

  I swallowed hard. “I used to love them. But — I had a bad experience in the mountains once.”

  “Backpacking?”

  “No. In a cabin.” My mouth was dry. I could feel my tongue slowing, clacking over the simple little word, cabin.

  Andy seemed not to notice. “But you’ve been backpacking before,” he said, puzzled.

  “Yes. The gear give me away?”

  “Yep. Not novice style — not like that lawyer’s bullshit outfit. Most of yours is broken in — like your boots. The attorney’s boots are brand new, and I’ll bet you he’s going to have blisters in no time. You’ve got a few new items, but they aren’t just for show.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve used my gear.” I didn’t want to think about why.

  “Then separate this from whatever happened in that cabin,” he said, with the easy logic of youth.

  Before I could answer, a deep voice called from the other side of the meadow. “Your botanist is upsetting Ms. Kelly.”

  Parrish.

  I felt my face color under the sudden attention that came from almost everyone else — from all but his guards, one of whom was telling him to shut up.

  “Am I?” Andy asked me.

  “No. No, you aren’t. You’re making me feel much more comfortable about being here.”

  He grinned again.

  To some extent, I had told him the truth. At least he was speaking to me, being friendlier than the others. Maybe he was right about backpacking; maybe my fears wouldn’t be triggered in the same way they might be if I were driving to the mountains, staying in a cabin.

  “I used to know a little about wildflowers,” I said, trying to keep my thoughts away from cabins and glove compartments and Nicholas Parrish. “Perhaps you can help me remember the names of some of the varieties in this meadow?”

  4

  MONDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 15

  Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

  We ended up postponing our botany lesson; there was simply too much to be done to set up camp before nightfall.

  I pitched my tent and set my backpack in it, then looked to see if anyone else might need help. I saw Earl, the one guard whose name I had heard spoken, taking some medication. He was a man who appeared to be in his late forties; I thought his partner might be a little older.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

  “Me?” he asked, quickly stashing the pills away. “Oh, I’m fine.” At my questioning look he added, “Just getting over an ear infection. If certain parties knew, they would have kept me off this assignment.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  He grinned. “Especially not Thompson.”

  “Right. I guess it’s pretty clear that there’s no love lost between us.”

  “Lady, there’s no love lost between Thompson and anybody.” He put out a hand. “Earl Allen, by the way. I noticed Detective Shit-Don’t-Stink failed to introduce you to the peons.”

  “Nice to meet you, Earl. I’m Irene.”

  “Oh, we all know you. You’re Harriman’s wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good man, Frank. Any of these other jokers give you problems, you let me know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, Earl!” one of the other cops called out. He was the burliest of the crew, and seemed to be the oldest.

  “My partner, Duke Fenly,” Earl said, moving off. “Looks like he needs help with that tent.”

  “Duke and Earl? You’re kidding.”

  “Naw — we’re real aristocrats,” Earl said over his shoulder. “That’s why they put us in charge of all the royal assholes.”

  Even with Earl’s help, the pair had trouble pitching their large tent, so I decided to help out. As we worked, Earl pointed out Merrick and Manton, two other guards, and an officer named Jim Houghton, who was putting up Thompson’s tent.

  “He’s young to be a detective,” I said.

  Earl snorted. “He’s no detective. He’s a uniform, just like we are. Thompson’s got no regular partner at the moment.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Off the record? ’Cause nobody can stand working with the s.o.b. So poor Houghton got drafted to be Thompson’s assistant.”

  “His flunky,” Duke growled. “But Houghton’s quiet — doesn’t let anything get to him. He’ll be okay.”

  We had just brought the tent up on its poles when Thompson suddenly looked over from a discussion with Newly and shouted, “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”

  Our hands stilled. Earl looked behind us, as if he couldn’t believe Thompson was yelling at him.

  “What’s the problem, Detective Thompson?” Duke said icily.

  “Get that goddamned reporter out of there!” Thompson said. “I don’t want her touching anything that belongs to the LPPD!”

  “Gee, Bob,” Earl taunted, “that’s gonna be awful tough on Harriman when she gets home.”

  The other cops laughed — even Houghton — which didn’t help Thompson regain his temper. “That’s his problem. Up here, I’m in charge. Got that?”

  Duke and Earl didn’t look entirely convinced, but I decided to choose a better fight. I was tempted to loosen my grip on the tent and allow it to collapse, but again I saw Nick Parrish watching me. I looked away, seeking an ally. Andy was moving a wanigan — a chest full of cooking supplies — toward the cooking area. I was about to ask for his help, but before I could say anything to him, Ben Sheridan strolled over and took hold of the support I was clasping. “Go on,” he said.

  My own small tent was on the edge of the clearing, on the lee side of some trees. I studied the sky for a moment, and decided to put the rainfly on. Then I chose a moment when even Nick Parrish wasn’t looking at me and backed myself inside the dome’s opening. I stayed facing the opening as I stowed my gear, an awkward process at times, but I needed to see the darkening sky, feel the cool air. I refused to let myself think about staying inside this confined space. I put on another layer of clothing, then stepped outside. I took out my little white-gas stove, and began to prime it.

  Phil Newly saw me and hurried over. Watching his tense, jerky pace, it occurred to me that this trip into the woods might relax him, but I quickly snapped my thoughts back into reality — this wasn’t a vacation or some backpacking trip for a little R&R — we were on our way to unbury Nick Parrish’s horrible handiwork.

  And here was his defender, smiling down at me. Charismatic at will. Newly had brown hair, chiseled features, and a pair of intense, dark eyes that were said to be able to unhinge a prosecution witness long before he asked his first question on cross. But decked out in his brand-spanking-new designer outdoorwear, he looked decidedly dudely. And harmless.

  “Irene,” he chided, “you aren’t going to deprive us of your company at dinner, are you?”

  “Deprive is hardly the word your oppos
ition would use.” I’d been told to bring my own food supplies, although the others would be fed courtesy of the LPPD. Newly had bought steaks for this first night out.

  “Hell,” he said, “if I can face all the loathing they express for my profession, you can manage, too. Come on and join us.”

  “Thanks for the invitation, Phil, but if I don’t eat this meal I’m planning to make, I have to pack it on my back tomorrow. Besides, I don’t think I want to watch Nick Parrish enjoying a steak dinner.”

  “I believe Earl will be serving a bologna sandwich to my client.”

  I smiled. “And you didn’t object?”

  “Not much.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “I don’t have to like my clients, Irene. I just have to provide them with the best legal defense work I can offer.”

  “But Parrish didn’t seem to want much of a defense, did he?”

  “I was opposed to this deal.”

  “They had a solid case against him.”

  “Irene, please—”

  “Okay, okay. I’m not hopelessly naive about what can become of a solid case once you’ve had a crack at it.”

  He laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, say you’ll join us.”

  “Sorry, Phil. The journalist in me says I’d write a better story if I tried to build a sense of camaraderie and all that, but I figure we’ll have plenty of time to be in each other’s faces over the next two or three days.”

  “All right, then, I won’t pressure you. But don’t stay away all evening — you’ll just look as if you’re pouting.”

  “You’re right,” I acknowledged, feeling a little disappointed that I’d have to lace up my gloves and go back into the ring. “See you later.”

  Wondering if, during the years I was away from it, any aspect of backpacking had improved more than freeze-dried food, I cleaned up and rejoined the group, which had gathered around a small campfire. Earl and Duke had taken Parrish into his tent and were on duty there; but one of the other cops, Manton, was friendly to me, as was Flash Burden, the photographer. With two exceptions — Bob Thompson and Ben Sheridan — there wasn’t much after-dinner hostility at all.

  Not long after I arrived, Thompson said he was going to bed. “I suggest the rest of you do the same.” The others, however, ignored him.

  Manton noticed my uneasy glances toward the tent where Parrish had been taken and said, “Don’t worry, we aren’t gonna let him out of our sight. You’ll be okay.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but could not rid myself of the notion that Parrish was lying wide awake, listening to every word, every sound from beyond his tent.

  A sharp sound made me glance over at Ben Sheridan, who was snapping twigs into smaller and smaller pieces. I wasn’t the only one who was having trouble relaxing in the great outdoors.

  The others soon distracted me, though, as they began to tease me about missing out on the steaks.

  “Took less time to prepare the steaks than it took for old Dave there to make his dog’s dinner,” Merrick said, and launched into an exaggerated tale of David’s elaborate preparation of Bingle’s food.

  “Hey, I’ve got to take good care of Bingle,” David said. “¿Estás bien, Bingle?” Bingle, sitting between him and Ben, leaned over to kiss David on the ear.

  “Goddamn,” Manton said, “you let that dog kiss you after he’s gone around licking dead bodies?”

  “Bingle, he’s slandering you!” David said, in a tone that caused the dog to bark. “Bingle only kisses the living. Of course, a guy with breath like yours might confuse him, Manton, so maybe he won’t kiss you.”

  “What is that stuff you feed him?” Flash Burden asked.

  “Oh, that’s my own secret Super-Hero-In-Training formula.”

  “It produces its own acronym,” Andy chimed in.

  “Just don’t step in it like you stepped on my punch line, kid,” David said, but without malice.

  Bingle lay quietly, ears forward, watching David. David, I noticed, spent a lot of time watching Bingle, too.

  Andy asked about Bool, and David explained that he had injured one of his paws during the search for Kara Lane. “Bool gets involved in finding a scent, he doesn’t exactly watch where he’s going. He’ll be okay, but he’s not ready for a search like this one. I’ve got a friend who trains bloodhounds, he’s keeping an eye on Bool while I’m here.”

  “This shepherd must be the smarter of the two,” Manton said.

  David smiled. “Bingle is certainly a highly educated dog. He’s bilingual, too. ¿Correcto, Bingle?” Bingle sat up again and gave a single sharp bark. “And besides his cadaver training, he’s had voice training.”

  “Voice training?” Manton asked.

  “Cántame, Bingle,” David said, and began singing “Home on the Range.” Bingle chimed in with perfect pitch at the chorus. I’d swear we all heard that dog sing the lyrics. Nobody could keep a straight face. Almost nobody.

  “Enough, David,” Ben said sharply.

  Silence.

  Everyone shifted a little uncomfortably, except for David and Bingle. Both dog and man looked at Ben, Bingle cocking his head to one side, puzzled.

  “Ah, the discouraging word,” David said softly, without a trace of anger. He began quietly praising Bingle.

  Ben stood and walked off.

  5

  TUESDAY, MAY 16, 2:25 A.M.

  Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

  Nothing can keep you up all night as effectively as calculating what sort of condition you’ll be in the next day if you don’t fall asleep soon. I heard soft snoring from most of the other tents, including a double set of saws from the one where Bingle was curled up next to David. I heard the pacing first of Manton and Merrick, and later of Duke and Earl.

  My claustrophobia kicked in — not able to stay long in the tent, soon I was sitting in its opening, watching the stars, listening to the insects, wondering what animals were making the other noises I heard — occasional rustlings and snapping sounds. Our food had been hung up high in bear bags, a safe three hundred feet from camp, but I wasn’t so sure we weren’t the object of ursine scrutiny.

  I thought a lot about Frank — wondered if he were also lying awake, if the pilot’s radio message that we had arrived safely had reached him. I thought of my cousin Travis, who was staying with us. I thought about my dogs, my cat.

  I tried hard to keep my thoughts away from memories of a particular time I had spent in the mountains, in a small room in a cabin, the captive of some rather brutal hosts. The nightmares induced by all that had happened there were fewer now, but I knew what might trigger them again — enclosed spaces, stress, new surroundings.

  Think of something else.

  I thought of Gillian Sayre. I thought of her mother. I stayed awake.

  I was wondering if I should give in to the old memories of captivity, go ahead and think about them — dwell on them for God’s sake, if that would relieve the tension — when there was a sudden brightness on my face. A flashlight, quickly lowered. Both the path of the beam of light and the sound of footsteps made it clear that someone was making his way toward me. As he drew closer, I saw that it was Ben Sheridan. I moved to my feet as he reached me.

  “Why are you awake?” he whispered, his breath fogging in the cold air. “It’s three in the morning.”

  “Just waiting for my big chance to look through all your gear and touch everything that belongs to the Las Piernas P.D.,” I whispered back.

  He was silent for a moment, then repeated, “Why are you awake?”

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, why are you awake?”

  “Shhh. Not so loud. You’ll wake the others.”

  I waited.

  “I did sleep,” he said.

  “Not for long,” I said.

  “You haven’t slept at all.”

  “Ben, if you’ve slept, then how could you possibly know I haven’t?”

  He started to
move away again.

  “I have problems with enclosed spaces,” I said.

  He halted, then said, “Claustrophobia? The tent bothers you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sleep outside.”

  “It’s not just that.” But I couldn’t bring myself to say more.

  We were interrupted then. Bingle had heard us, and he emerged from David’s tent, shaking himself as if he had just stepped out of a bath. Tufts of fur around his ears spiked out from his head, making him look genuinely woozy. The effect was comical.

  David soon followed him out of the tent. Before I could apologize, David was whispering drowsily, “Hi, Ben. Need to borrow Bingle?”

  “She does,” Ben said.

  “What?” I asked, startled.

  “Okay,” David said, turning to Bingle. “Duerme con ella,” he commanded in Spanish, pointing at me. Sleep with her. Bingle happily trotted over — and flopped down next to me.

  “Wait a minute—”

  “Keep him warm and he’ll be okay,” David said, and went back into his tent.

  I looked up at Ben in some exasperation.

  “He’ll wake you if you start to have a nightmare,” Ben said, and started to walk off.

  “Who said anything about nightmares?” I asked.

  He looked over his shoulder, then said, “No one.” He kept walking.

  Bingle was watching me, a look of expectation on his face.

  I sighed and got into my sleeping bag. Bingle did a brief inspection of the interior of the tent, then lay down next to me. He moved restlessly for a moment or two, until he seemed to find a position he liked — resting his head on my shoulder.

  “Comfy?” I asked.

  He snorted.

  I buried a hand in his thick coat, and found myself smiling. A few minutes later, I was asleep.

  I awakened briefly when Bingle left me the next morning, but slept in a little longer, until the sounds of the camp stirring to life were too much to snooze through.

  Not long after breakfast, we left the base camp. Only the pilot stayed behind with the heaviest gear. Parrish claimed that Julia Sayre was buried at least a day’s hike from the airstrip. Backpacks on, we began our journey into the forest.