by Jan Burke
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.
“¡Bingle, cállate!” he said firmly.
The dog stopped barking and looked at him, cocking his head to one side. “¡Bien, Bingle, muy bien!”
From somewhere nearby — none of them could figure out where, at first — a faint voice said, “Bingle, it’s okay. Está 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 acá,” 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 él,” 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. “¿Estás 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.
“¿Dónde está Irene? ¡Dónde está Irene? ¡Búscala!”
Bingle barked and bounded toward the stream.
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 gas
ps; 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.
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. Fr
ank, 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.
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.
