by Jan Burke
Had he been a weaker man, he would have wept.
21
THURSDAY EVENING, MAY 18
U.S. Forest Service Ranger Station and Helitack Unit
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
The saboteur who watched the rangers’ helicopters had never had such an important role to play. This provided a certain level of excitement, but not anxiety. Nicky’s instructions had been explicit, the hours of training had been rigorous, and every contingency except failure had been considered. There was no thought of failure.
Nicky Parrish would not, the saboteur knew, consider for a moment that his trust — never given to anyone else before — was misplaced. Nor would Nicky be thinking of his helper — Nicky must concentrate on other matters. Nicky would simply know that his orders were being carried out — he would know. The way he always knew things. He would know that his little Moth had obeyed.
The intruder loved this nickname — this Nick name. The first time they had met, Nicky had said, “You are drawn to my light, aren’t you, little moth? That’s what I shall call you. From now on, you are my Moth.”
No one who had met the Moth at work or socially would have ever said, “Here is a servant.” That was one part of the delight the Moth took in serving Nicky. Nicky had immediately discerned the Moth’s desire to serve. The Moth was, in fact, the perfect servant, and to be the perfect servant, one must serve the perfect master.
And together, they were making history. Nicky, who had always acted alone, had deemed his servant worthy of this honor.
Just thinking of this heightened the Moth’s sense of anticipation. Perhaps later, during one of their dormant times, the Moth would write a poem about it. But for now, there was work to do — and unmindful of the darkness and the danger, of the rain and the cold — the Moth waited and watched, and eventually saw that the perfect moment for action had arrived.
It was not difficult to cause problems, little hitches in other people’s plans, if you knew what you were doing.
The Moth knew.
The people in the ranger station were careful with the forest, where they expected trouble, but not with the helicopters. Not on rainy nights, when the clouds were covering the mountains — nights when there was little to do. They did not look at these machines, nor walk out into the cold rain. All but one of them watched television — an old movie, made long before there were computers, served up by the ranger station’s satellite dish.
Perhaps the world outdoors was no longer exciting to the helicopter crews and forest workers — perhaps the sky and the forest were their offices, and the television and all things interior were more interesting to them.
Or perhaps it was just the rain that lulled them.
They should be thankful for it, really. The Moth had trained for many possible scenarios, including ones in which the five people in the small building with the satellite dish on it must be killed. But the rain would allow them to live. The rain masked sounds, made visibility poor.
One man in the station looked out at the rain from time to time. Wishing it away. He was the one who had been with Nicky. It was a little puzzling that he should be here. But that was not important. Nicky, who knew everything, had said that a few of them might see God and live.
The Moth went to work. Within moments, the Alouette and the Bell 212 had small, disabling problems. They could be repaired.
Just not in time.
J.C. went back to the window and stared out into the darkness. He did not talk to the others; it only made the waiting worse. So he pretended to be watching the rain — pretended, because he didn’t see the rain at all. He saw a horrible thing rise from a crude grave and beg for an embrace; he saw coyotes dancing on marionette strings held by a puppet master in a tree. He closed his eyes against these terrors, but to his dismay, he saw them more clearly.
How did David and Ben stand it? He had helped them before, but it had never been this bad. He had seen decayed remains before this, and had thought he would be prepared — but the bodies they had found before were suicides, or people who had wandered and died lost, or who had fallen while hiking alone. Not pleasant, and he had always felt sorry for them, but — but it was not like this.
He knew a hatred for Nicholas Parrish that he could taste in his mouth like bile.
Up there, in the meadow where they had found her, he hadn’t felt this way; he had stayed cool, had kept it together. Even carrying her body through the rain with Andy, he had been all right. It didn’t start to get to him until they were at the plane, after the pilot said they’d have to leave. And it wasn’t until he was here, at his own station, safe and warm, that he started to come apart.
He would show the Helitack crew where to find the group in the second meadow, and then he would take a couple of weeks off. He had the time coming to him. Maybe he’d even see a shrink. The idea didn’t bother him. If you needed help, get help.
David had told him that often enough. He had said that it would be weirder to do that kind of work and never be affected by it.
There were specialists who dealt with counseling people who had worked these cases. He’d ask David for the name of one of them.
He gave a sudden start — involuntarily brought his hand to his throat, as if holding a sound back — as if holding himself back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something moving in the darkness — or did he? Jesus, he was jumpy! Beneath his hand, his pulse raced. He tried to stare past the rain-splattered window. No, nothing out there.
Was there?
He couldn’t keep standing here. His legs weren’t going to hold him. God damn.
No, he couldn’t live like this — cowering and jumping at shadows. He was going to face it — that was the only way for now. He was going to walk out there and look around — reassure himself. He turned away from the window. He put on his parka, and when his hands shook as he tried to fasten the snaps, he shoved them into his pockets until he opened the door. He stepped out into the rain, peered into the darkness.
Nothing.
The cool air felt good, calmed him, until—
There! In the trees!
But . . . no, nothing.
Nothing.
The door suddenly opened behind him and he heard himself make a small sound of fright.
“J.C.? What’s the matter, man?”
One of the pilots.
“Just needed some air,” he said, not too steadily.
“Come inside,” the pilot coaxed.
J.C. stared out into the rain.
“Come on inside, man.” The pilot paused, then added, “They’ll be okay. Just camping out in the rain. We’ll pick them up first thing tomorrow. Come on in — nothing you can do tonight.”
He followed the pilot in, ignoring the uneasy glances the others exchanged. He made his way to his closet and took out another set of clothes. He went into the bathroom and stripped to take a shower. His third one tonight, and the others were probably already talking about it, but he didn’t give a shit. He could still smell the stink of that body on him and he needed to get clean.
He scrubbed until his skin was raw, let the water beat down on him, rinsed his mouth, his nose. He stood there letting the sound and feel of the water drown out everything else, until it just got too cold to stand it any longer. He toweled off and changed clothes again, then stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t know the man who stared back at him, even though he recognized the face.
He didn’t want to go to sleep. Not with this shit running around in his head. He was spooked when he was wide awake — what the fuck would happen in his dreams?
Yes, he would get help.
But until then, what the hell could he do?
22
FRIDAY, MAY 19, 2:00 A.M.
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
“David, tell those two they can’t work in here without masks,” he said.
He had said something before that. The sound of his voice had awakened me before I could make out
what it was.
“Ben?” I asked in the darkness.
“Oh, good — you’re here,” he said.
“Yes, I’m here,” I said.
“Can’t something be done about the heat in this place?”
“In the tent?”
“The air-conditioning — we’ll lose the computers.”
“Ben, it’s Irene,” I said, sitting up. “Wake up, Ben.”
He didn’t answer. I had just decided that my voice had stirred him from his nightmare, allowed him to sleep more peacefully, when he said, “Need a postmortem dental.”
Bingle, I soon realized, was sitting up, too. I scooted closer to Ben, reached over to try to rouse him. He had moved around in his sleep, and had pushed the upper sleeping bag off. Patting carefully around the tent, my hand found his hand — hot and dry.
“Note the development of the muscle attachment areas on this long bone,” he said. “This fellow might have been a southpaw.”
He was burning up. I risked using the flashlight, praying that Parrish wasn’t outside watching for it, that the rain was keeping him in for the night. I took in Ben’s glazed look, the sheen of perspiration that covered him. I found water and a neckerchief and the Keflex. Berating myself for not giving him more of the drug from the start, I managed to get his attention long enough to give him four of the pills now. How much would be dangerous?
I dampened the cloth and began the work of trying to cool him down.
“Camille?” he asked, frowning as he looked at me.
“Not even Garbo,” I said. “No deathbeds in this tent, understand? You fight this, Ben. Stay with me.”
“It’s so hot,” he said, pushing the sleeping bag lower. He remained restless, and his ramblings became less coherent. He would lie quietly, then suddenly shout something, often making me jump. Before long, he began thrashing around and I soon became worried that he’d reopen the bullet wound or worse if I didn’t get the fever down.
I opened the tent and went outside long enough to gather some water from the rain catcher; it was nearly full. I managed to get him to drink some of it, and to give him some aspirin. I didn’t have much faith that the aspirin would help at this point, but I wasn’t going to pass up a chance that it might lower his fever.
Ben seemed calmer when he heard my voice, so I talked to him as I worked. I took the sleeping bag off him, and when I saw him tearing at his shirt, unbuttoned it and helped him take it off, running cool cloths over his skin. Eventually I cut his pants off, too, afraid that his occasional delirious efforts to pull them off would do more harm to his injured leg. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind keeping his briefs on.
I kept on talking, kept changing the cloths. It seemed to me that he was feeling cooler, but I couldn’t be certain — my hands were beginning to feel numb from the cold rainwater.
“Thirsty,” I heard him say, in not much more than a whisper. One look at his face told me that he was no longer out of his senses — but he was in pain.
I propped his head up, gave him more Keflex, and let him drink from the water bottle as long as he could.
“Thanks,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Do you want some more aspirin? I’m sorry, it’s all I have.”
“No. I’m beyond the reach of aspirin,” he said.
I counted the Keflex tablets. There were ten left. I wondered if I had given him too many, or not enough. Or if it would do any good at all. Maybe I was trying to put out a four-alarm fire with a squirt gun.
I called Bingle to my side. He came, but he brought David’s sweater with him. I turned out the light and lay down in my sleeping bag. I felt a rush of emotion, a sense of relief that made me want to cry. I stroked the dog’s fur, tried to calm down enough to sleep.
Outside, the stream was running stronger, and its rushing sound overpowered the sounds I had listened for earlier in the night. I tried to listen for Ben’s breathing, or Bingle’s snore, but the stream and the rain were too loud. I didn’t hear Ben crying out in delirium, though, or moving restlessly, so I thought he must have fallen asleep. I don’t know how much time had passed when I heard him say, “What was that story you were telling me?”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
I felt my face grow warm. “You knew what was happening? You could understand me?”
“Not always. It’s a little jumbled.”
“Parzival,” I said.
“What?”
“The story was Parzival the Grail Knight. He’s this kind-hearted young knight who often unwittingly causes harm where he means to do good — there are several versions of the tale, but I told you stories from the German poem, by Wolfram von Eschenbach.”
“You told me a story in English,” he said testily.
“Yes, of course — based on a translation—”
“Good grief. Don’t tell me Brenda Starr is a scholar of medieval poetry?”
I didn’t reply.
“Sorry,” he said.
After a long silence he said, “Why do you prefer the German version?”
“It’s the only one I know. That’s the one Jack gave me, that’s the one I read. Some scholar, huh?”
“Look, I said I was sorry.”
“So you did.”
After another silence, he tried again. “Who’s Jack?”
“Our neighbor. He’s — well, Jack isn’t easy to explain. But he’s big on mythology and folklore.”
“Tell it to me again,” he said. “I’ll listen better this time.”
“I won’t be able to do it justice. There are lots of complicated relationships and battles and characters whose names I don’t remember. I sort of faked my way through it tonight. You’d be better off reading it when we get back.”
“I’ll let you sleep, then,” he said, and it wasn’t until that moment that I heard what had probably been in his voice all along.
“Well, if you don’t mind an inferior version of it . . .”
“I don’t mind.”
So I tried to distract him from his pain by telling him of young Parzival, raised in ignorance of knights and chivalry by an overly protective mother. Of course, the first time Parzival encountered knights, he could think of nothing he’d rather do than become one, and set off to offer his services to King Arthur. Although embarrassingly naive and untutored, he had a natural talent for the work.
Ben fell asleep just as Parzival was about to visit Wild Mountain and meet the Fisher King.
It was just after dawn by then, and although it was still fairly dark in the tent, there was enough light for me to see Ben Sheridan’s pale and haggard features.
“What’s wrong, Ben?” I whispered, my mind still half caught up in Parzival’s tale.
It seemed to be a silly question, under the circumstances. Pain, weakness, severe injuries. Bad weather, hunger, a killer on the loose nearby. Easy to name what was wrong with him.
Or was it? I thought back to my last conversation with David, as I left for my walk with Bingle. David had hinted that Ben had troubles before we began our journey to these meadows. Whatever those troubles were, I supposed it would be a long time, if ever, before Ben Sheridan would confide in me.
When I woke up, Bingle was gone. Worried, I put on my boots and jacket. I had just stepped out into a misty morning when he returned, his fur damp and muddy, his mouth looking swollen.
Oh, hell, I thought, he’s met up with a porcupine. But as he drew closer, I saw that he was gently carrying something in his mouth.
Please don’t let it be something from the meadow, I prayed. He looked at me uncertainly, as if he expected me to do something. Not knowing what my part in this script was, I stayed still. He shifted his weight, looking anxious, then lay down at my feet. Very slowly and carefully, he opened his mouth, and, between my feet, deposited what he had been carrying.
Eggs.
Three small eggs.
Quail eggs. I hoped that he hadn’t taken every egg from the nest. Perhaps I s
hould have scolded him, but between my relief at not having someone’s remains disgorged on my boots and my inability to guess if this was something he had been praised for doing in the past, I only managed a feeble, “Gracias, Bingle.”
He wagged his tail.
“I suppose you want one of these on your dog food.”
He kept wagging his tail. On the fur on his chin, I saw something that looked suspiciously like egg yolk.
“Then again, I guess you’ve already had breakfast.”
There was no way to put them back at this point, and as my stomach growled, I decided I wasn’t going to waste the food. I carefully stowed them inside the tent. I had a wild vision of J.C. finding them there and refusing to allow me to leave on the helicopter as punishment for disturbing local fauna. Telling him the dog brought them to me probably wouldn’t get me out of trouble.
Although the rain had let up, a heavy mist seemed to be settling in. Near the tent it was not terribly thick, but I doubted that visibility near the low, flat meadow would be good enough to allow a helicopter to land. I tried not to let this distress me, but the thought of not seeing the helicopter arrive that morning was upsetting. If Parrish didn’t find me, I could manage, but what would become of Ben? The fever, the loss of blood, the possibility of infection — if Parrish never showed his face, Ben’s life would still be in danger.
The rainwater bucket was full again. It felt good to have something going right. That feeling of confidence was not destined to last long.
Bingle joined me as I left for a walk to the stream. The rain in the container would help, but wouldn’t be enough. I decided I would refill our water bottles, which shouldn’t take long; my Sweet Water unit could filter a quart of stream water in a little over a minute.