Bones ik-7

by Jan Burke

I walked quickly. I didn’t want to leave Ben alone for any extended period of time. The ground was soft and muddy, but not impossibly so. On the way, I found a long, broken branch that ended in a curving fork. I picked it up and tried leaning on it, placing the forked end under my arm. It easily withstood my weight, but was a little tall for me — which would make it about right for Ben. I took it with me, thinking I might be able to fashion it into a crutch. If we had to move again, a crutch would be useful.

  I stepped through the trees toward a sound that grew louder and louder. To my shock, the stream was now a much higher, debris-filled torrent, wildly coursing through the forest, and moving far too rapidly to be entered at this point. It cut us off completely from the meadow.

  The meadow where the helicopter, if it arrived, would be landing.

  23

  FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19

  Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

  When I got back to the tent, Ben was still sleeping. I used a piece of string to make three measurements — from his armpit to his elbow, from his elbow to his palm, and from his armpit to the bottom of his foot. I went back outside and checked the full length against the branch. A little short, perhaps, but I thought it might do. I used rope to fasten a short, thick stick at the place where I thought his hand might rest. I was taping cloth padding there and in the fork when I heard Ben call my name.

  I went into the tent. “Ben? How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  “Good. Let me get some more Keflex for you.”

  “I’ll take some a little later. I — I need to relieve myself. Would you please help me dress?” he asked.

  “Oh. If you’re in a hurry—”

  “Not that much of a hurry.”

  The humiliation was obviously about to do him in, but we managed to find a shirt and a pair of shorts that would fit him from among those I had gathered from the camp.

  “Did David train Bingle to steal eggs from birds’ nests?” I asked, trying to distract him.

  “What!?”

  “Uh — that was a change of subject. This morning, Bingle brought me those quail eggs — the ones on my sleeping bag.”

  He looked over at them. “No, in fact, he’s trained not to disturb wildlife. Very strange. He likes eggs, though.” He smiled a little and added, “Maybe he’s courting you.”

  “I don’t think dogs carry out what most women would think of as courtships,” I said, “although the average guy probably admires their direct approach.”

  I helped him to sit up.

  His skin was a little too warm; the flush on his face was obviously not just from embarrassment.

  “You seem to be a little feverish.”

  “Help me with the shirt, please,” he said, ignoring my comment.

  I got him started with it, but he batted my hands away when I tried to do the buttons.

  “God damn,” he said, lying back down, his hands shaking after the third button.

  “You’re not doing so bad, all things considered,” I said, finishing up without further objection from him. “Need to rest, or you want to try a trip outside?”

  “Rest — just a few minutes,” he said, breathing as hard as if he had been running.

  “Want an egg for breakfast? They’re little but—”

  “You should eat them. Or give them to Bingle.”

  “I think he’s already eaten.”

  “You gave me the soup last night. You didn’t have anything to eat, did you?”

  “No, I ate some soup. But of the two of us—”

  “You’re doing all the physical labor. You need strength. Eat the eggs. Have some soup, too. It’s all he left us, isn’t it?”

  “We’re near a meadow. There are dandelions out there, and other things to eat. Besides, J.C. isn’t going to forget about us. As soon as the weather clears, the helicopter will come.”

  “Eat the eggs before J.C. gets here.”

  “But—”

  “While I rest. Please.”

  So while Bingle looked on, I scrambled the eggs, which combined to make a little less than one chicken egg’s worth of breakfast. I put a small forkful into the furry thief’s bowl of dog food and ate the rest.

  I helped Ben get out of the tent — no easy task — and showed him the crutch. He put it under his arm and leaned on it. It fit better than I thought it would.

  “I need two,” he said.

  I laughed.

  “I mean, thanks. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay. You do need two. I’ll try to find another branch. In the meantime, lean on me.”

  Slowly, we made it from the tent to a tree. “Can you manage from here?” I asked. “Call me when you’re finished — I won’t watch.”

  “I — not so close to the camp,” he said.

  “Ben, under any other circumstances, I’d applaud your sensitivity. But you’re running a fever and you look as if you’re about to pass out. Bingle has marked all of these trees already, so show him who’s alpha. Even injured, I’ll bet you can hit higher.”

  “No,” he said. “Not here.”

  “Jesus. You’re not exactly in a position to argue, you know that?” But I helped him move farther into the woods.

  It was while I was waiting for him to finish that I heard Bingle barking. “Shit! I’ll be right back!”

  I ran back to the camp. Bingle wasn’t there, but his fierce, warning barks continued.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Don’t let him kill the dog. Don’t let him kill Ben. Don’t let him kill me.

  I had no weapons other than my knife. I picked up a large stick, which even then I knew would probably be utterly useless, but it gave me some primitive sense of power — that cave dweller bashing power, I suppose.

  More cautious now, I made my way toward the barking, which was coming from the woods nearer the stream. Exactly which direction, I couldn’t tell, but the dog seemed to be in front of me. I moved from tree to tree, running in a crouched position, staying as close to the ground as I could.

  “Bingle!” I said in a low voice, even before I saw him. “¡Bingle, ven acá! ¡Cállate!” I didn’t dare to shout it. But the dog must have heard me, because he stopped barking and began running toward me. I heard a shot, and Bingle yelped, but he kept running.

  He soon reached me, panting and agitated. I dropped my bashing stick and ran my fingers over his fur, but I couldn’t find any wounds. I whispered praise to him and tried to stop shaking. Where was Parrish?

  I waited, whispering to Bingle to stay still, to stay quiet. He obeyed, anxiously watching me.

  “Irene Kelly!” a voice called out.

  I thought Bingle whimpered, then realized I was the one who had made the sound.

  “Thanks to that ill-mannered mutt,” Parrish shouted, “I know exactly where you are, Irene! I know, do you hear me? Yes, of course you do! I know exactly where you are!”

  I held on to Bingle.

  “I will find a way across, Irene!” he shouted. “I will find a way across! Did you think a little water would keep you safe? Think again!”

  I didn’t move. My heart was hammering in my chest.

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything more. If I had been alone, I probably would have just taken off with Bingle, but I had Ben to think of. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I ran back to the camp.

  I hurriedly took up all the used bandages and anything that had blood on it — including the pants I had cut off Ben, and hid them beneath a pile of leaves, away from the camp. I returned to the tent and took up Ben’s sleeping bags, his shaving kit, three water bottles, matches, a mess kit and the soup. I grabbed some bandages, the aspirin, and the Keflex. I left my sleeping bag, but took some clothing, mostly rain gear. I took Bingle’s food and harness. I folded the tarp and was ready to leave, when I saw one last item. I grabbed David’s sweater, which Bingle quickly took from me, and together we ran toward the place where I had left Ben.

  He wasn’t there.

  “B
en?” I called softly. Had I mistaken the place?

  “Over here,” I heard him say.

  “Where?” I asked, but Bingle, wagging his tail, moved to a fallen tree. If his mouth hadn’t been full of sweater, he probably would have barked.

  A pile of wet leaves moved, and Ben’s head emerged. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “A little damp, but okay.”

  “Thank God you hid. Listen, Bingle was barking—”

  “At Parrish,” Ben said.

  “Did you hear him?”

  “Parrish? Not really. Just a voice. Couldn’t make out what he was saying. But Bingle’s bark — it had to be Parrish. I managed to drag myself over here.”

  “He’s going to try to cross the stream — the stream has been swollen by the rain, so luckily for us, crossing it won’t be easy. Still, he might find a place where it narrows, so we may not have more than a few minutes.”

  “Then listen—”

  “I’m going to draw him away from you,” I said. “Even if he catches me, he’ll probably — well, you’ll still have some time.”

  “For God’s sake—”

  “I don’t think he knows you’re alive,” I went on. “I tried to bring or bury anything that might let him know you were at the tent. I brought the sleeping bags and a tarp, and a little food and water. If you can hold out until the helicopter comes, maybe light a signal fire when you hear it — I don’t know, that might not be safe, either — anyway, here’s the water and the Keflex, I’ll look for a place to hide you, and I’ll be right back.”

  “Irene, listen to me — this is stupid. Run. Just run. I’m begging you, please. Please get the hell out of here. I can hide beneath this tree.”

  “If the dampness doesn’t kill you, insects will eat you alive. I’ll bet you’ve already got ant bites.”

  “Ant bites! Who gives a shit about ant bites!”

  “Bingle,” I said, “cuídalo.”

  “What did you just say to him?”

  “He’ll guard you while I’m gone.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Be right back.”

  “Don’t! Don’t come back! Just run!”

  I started praying to St. Jude, which is something an old-fashioned Catholic will do in times of trouble. While I was at it, I asked St. Anthony to find a hiding place for Ben. I also used the direct line.

  I’m not sure who got through to the big guy first, but I hadn’t gone far when I found a group of relatively dry boulders that were large enough to hide a man, and would not force Ben to suffer all the insect life in a fallen tree.

  I dragged the gear there first, not listening to Ben’s renewed arguments, which he should have known were useless.

  By the time I came back for him, he had either realized that or worn himself out, because he didn’t give me any more grief — nothing beyond muttering about hardheaded women, but the line forms to the left for people who’ve said something like that to me over the years.

  I praised Bingle and told him to follow us, then helped Ben, carrying him on my back when we reached the boulders.

  Once we had managed the hellish business getting him ensconced in his rocky fortress — his bad leg was jostled four or five times — I went around the outside, studying the boulders from every possible angle. I couldn’t see him unless I climbed up over several layers of rock. Satisfied that it was the best we could do on short notice, I gave Bingle the sentinel’s job again and crawled back into Ben’s cubbyhole with him, bringing his crutch with me. I quickly helped him change into a dry shirt. The shorts had fared better. I put a sleeping bag around him. I made sure the water and other supplies were within reach.

  “I’m going now,” I said. “Will you be all right here?”

  He nodded.

  “If you see Frank Harriman before I do, tell him — say hello for me, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  There was a sound from the forest then. It was repeated, again and again at regular intervals. I didn’t recognize it, but Ben did.

  “An ax. He’s cutting down a tree. He’s probably making a bridge across the water.”

  “I’d better get ready to lure him right back over it, then. You sure you’ll be all right here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be able to get out again if you need to?”

  “Yes, I can pull myself out over the rocks if I have to. You’re taking Bingle, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Parrish will wonder why I don’t have him with me if he’s not at my side. But if — if necessary, I’ll try to send him back to you.”

  “I don’t know much Spanish,” he said. “Come back for me yourself.”

  I laughed and started to leave, then bent back down and hugged him. He seemed a little surprised at first, but then he hugged back. “Be safe,” he said.

  “You, too.”

  I stood up and had climbed about halfway out when he said, “Thank you.”

  “You keep fighting, Ben Sheridan, or I’ll really be pissed off at you.”

  “Take care, Lois Lane.”

  “Sure thing, Quincy.”

  “Oh God, don’t make me a pathologist!”

  I reached the top of the rock pile, saw him below me, suddenly looking vulnerable and alone. I almost considered staying with him, but I knew that we’d be fish in a barrel for Parrish if he found us.

  Maybe he saw my indecision, because he said, “Shove old Nicky off a cliff and come back and tell me the rest of Parzival.”

  “Sure. I’ll try not to make you wait to hear the ending.”

  I took one last look at him, hoped it wasn’t really a last look, waved, and began my journey back to the stream, listening to Parrish’s ax ringing out its challenge, its siren call, its alarm.

  24

  FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19

  Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

  He was strong.

  I suppose I had known that before, but watching him swing that ax at the tree on the opposite bank disheartened me, made me wonder what on earth had led me to believe I could defeat him.

  He was swinging hard, angrily. The tree was not huge — a pine tree that was tall enough to span the stream and thick enough to support his weight when he walked on it.

  I forced myself to think in terms of escaping him, drawing him away from Ben. My first frantic thoughts included improbable methods of killing him: throwing a large rock at him while he was chopping down the tree, beaning him while his hands were occupied; swinging across the stream from a vine, Tarzan-style, plunging my knife into him while the ax was stuck in the wood; whittling a javelin and spearing him while he was halfway across the river.

  All impractical. I have a decent pitching arm, but this was no straight shot, and if I missed him, he’d shoot me; there were no convenient Tarzan-strength vines; even if I had the time to whittle a javelin, chances of learning to throw one accurately for a one-chance, winner-takes-all shot were nil.

  I did find another stick that could be used as a club, and a few baseball-sized rocks. If he had somehow seen me watching him, and came after me before I crossed to the other side, I’d use whatever was at hand to stop him.

  There was a slow creaking sound, then a thunderous crack. The tree began to give way, its upper branches catching and snapping like gunfire as they struck the branches of other trees on the way down. It hit the ground on my side of the stream with a loud bang that shook the earth beneath me.

  Bingle flattened himself to the ground and put his ears back, but stayed next to me. I peered cautiously from my hiding place.

  Nick Parrish stood surveying his handiwork. He could easily cross over now; the lowest branches of the tree would present an obstacle or two at this end, but he had chosen his crossing place and bridge material well.

  Would he plan on my being this close? Would he know that I might have moved toward the sound of him felling a tree? I didn’t think so. He would expect me to run. He expected fear.

/>   He was looking at the ax now, and as he did, I tried not to think of him using it on me. He expects fear, I told myself again. Don’t give it to him.

  So I tried to think about the ax being in my own hands, which suddenly made me wonder — whose ax was it? I couldn’t remember anyone hiking with one, or using one in the past few days. Did he have other tools and weapons cached nearby?

  He carried the ax with him as he began to walk along the tree trunk. He used it as a kind of balance. He moved cautiously. Closer and closer.

  He had his hands full, the gun holstered. The temptation to try pitching one of the rocks at him was strong. The stream wasn’t very far below him, only about four feet. It was running swift and cold, but I wasn’t sure how deep. He wasn’t looking toward me now; he was getting closer to the branches, which would partially obscure him. I might not have a better chance. But if I missed? Perhaps I could still evade him.

  I had picked up one of the rocks and was weighing it in my hand when he lost his balance. He had almost reached my side of the stream when one of the branches supporting the fallen trunk gave way beneath his added weight, The whole trunk suddenly dropped a few inches, and Parrish lunged forward. He let go of the ax and grasped wildly at the branches nearest him.

  The ax fell into the rushing water below, but the branch he had grabbed held. He pulled himself upright, looking shaken. My enjoyment of that was brief.

  Whispering to Bingle to remain quiet, I watched as Parrish quickly made his way to safety, and onto the bank. I moved behind a fallen tree, no longer risking watching him, listening as he moved through the woods. He came closer to where I crouched. I took my club in hand. He paused not far from me, and for a moment I was sure he had seen me, and that he was merely deciding how best to take me captive. But he moved on, heading downstream, toward the place where he had heard Bingle barking.

  I made myself wait a little longer, then stood and stretched. Bingle stretched his back legs, then followed me to Parrish’s bridge. I snapped the leash onto his harness, hoping he wouldn’t balk at crossing the noisy current. If he fell in, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to keep him from being swept downstream.