by Jan Burke
“Oh?” he said. “You mean, I’d feel the way you do about my having to undergo an amputation?”
I was dumbfounded. “I don’t feel that way,” I said at last.
“Bullshit. You hide it better than you did at first, but you still blame yourself.”
I started to deny it, then changed my mind and rushed headlong into the fray. “As a matter of fact, I do! Talk about shielding! You know it’s my fault.”
“What? I know no such thing. I know Parrish shot me. I painted that bull’s-eye on myself, as I recall — in fact, I distinctly remember that you called out to me, tried to prevent me from running into that meadow.”
“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “But who took forever to find you out there? Who didn’t know how to properly care for the wound? Who didn’t give you enough Keflex?”
He stared at me incredulously and said, “Keflex?”
“Don’t try to lie to me! At the hospital, they said that was the drug they were giving you to try to stop the infection. Only it was too late. And the whole time, I had Earl’s pills, and if I had given you more—”
“Wait! Do you mean — do you think — don’t tell me that you’ve spent all these months believing that!”
“It’s true,” I said.
“Irene, the bullet damaged the artery. That’s why they amputated. Not because of infection.”
“But they gave you—”
“Yes, they gave me something to fight the infection, but do me a favor and ask Dr. Riley to tell you what sort of intravenous megadose of that drug they were talking about. That infection was beyond anything that could be stopped by tablet form doses. Earl’s entire prescription couldn’t have stopped it.”
“Then why did you bother taking any of it?”
He looked pointedly at his left leg and said, “You do what you can with what you have.”
I couldn’t speak.
“As for getting to me in time, we both know you did the safe, smart thing and waited until Parrish was gone.”
“But maybe I could have—”
“Irene! You damned idiot! Listen to yourself.”
I shut up.
“Tell you what,” he said. “If you reveal to me now that you have a medical degree, that you had surgical tools in your backpack, and that we were actually very close to a sterile operating room up there in the mountains, I will start heaping blame upon you for not saving my leg. Otherwise, stop feeling bad about your role in all of this. You’re the person who allowed me to keep my life, not the person who caused me to lose part of my leg.”
I felt tears rolling down my face. “God damn,” I said, wiping them away. “I never used to do this. I really hate it.”
“Are you saying that so I’ll know you’re more macho than I am?”
“What?”
“You’ve seen me cry.”
“You went through a lot.”
He laughed. “Just me, and all by myself, right?”
“No, but—”
He made a T of his hands — the “time out” sign.
“Yes?”
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Irene Kelly, not guilty. Not guilty for trusting that Gillian Sayre was telling her the truth. Not guilty in the matter of the deaths of her friends and companions. Not guilty in the loss of Ben Sheridan’s leg. Not guilty for any other thing that went wrong because she was human, or didn’t know everything that could possibly be known about the universe and its inhabitants.”
I blew my nose.
“Thank you, your honor,” he said. “Court is adjourned. You are now free to forgive yourself.”
I went back to Jo Robinson, and I told her that I knew what was wrong with me. I stopped fighting the process of taking a look at my way of thinking about things, and before long, I was back at work and not seeing her anymore. Just as I was starting to enjoy it.
Gillian Sayre is still awaiting trial. Phil Newly, cleared of all suspicion, once toyed with the idea of defending her, but decided to stick with his retirement plan. Lately he has sent e-mail to me about once a week, telling me about his new life. He says he might do a little pro bono work now and then, but is enjoying the slower pace.
Jason Sayre sends e-mail, too. He’s living with his grandmother. He likes to write to me, he says, because Jack and I are the only ones who will talk to him about what happened. Jack, who has all but asked if he can adopt him, visits him fairly often; they still talk on the tin telephone.
Giles Sayre sold his business and moved with his new wife to a town not far from the one where Jason lives, but seldom visits his son.
Jim Houghton came back to Las Piernas. He had been spending time with a retired airplane mechanic who had taught Nicholas Parrish how to fly and repair small planes. Using information the older man gave him about Nick Parrish’s favorite places to fly, Houghton discovered where Nicholas Parrish had buried his sister. It was not far from a desert airstrip. The body was not alone. The recovery and identification of the other remains is slowed by concerns for worker safety. There has been a renewed interest in missing persons cases in towns where Parrish once lived.
After giving police information on the location of the graves, Houghton came by to apologize to me. I told him that it wasn’t necessary, that I had stood trial in the same courtroom he had himself in, and that all charges had been dropped against both of us. We talked for a long time, and I gave him Jo Robinson’s card. I don’t know if he ever called her.
Nicholas Parrish remains at St. Anne’s, although the district attorney, who looked over the original deal and decided a guilty plea and life imprisonment might be fine after all, is looking into the possibility of having a judge rule on the matter, and moving Parrish to a state prison hospital. If not, and if there is a trial, I know some people who will testify against the defendant.
Frank and I bought Ben’s Jeep when he decided David’s pickup was better suited to his needs. The Jeep is big enough to hold the two of us and the dogs and camping gear.
Sometimes we go camping alone; sometimes with Pete and Rachel, or Tom Cassidy and other old friends. Quite often J.C., Andy, Jack, Stinger, and Travis join us up in the mountains. Ben comes along, too, with Anna, his new girlfriend, a woman he met on the SAR team. We all liked her from the start; she doesn’t have any difficulty fitting into our chaotic camping style. She has two dogs of her own. Camping with Stinger Dalton and six big, rowdy dogs is always chaotic.
Bingle still leads the pack.
He still barks.
I still insist on sleeping with the tent flap open.
But we all sleep through the night.
Notes and Acknowledgments
While the southern Sierra Nevada mountains include many meadows, ridges, and other features that may resemble those in this book, the landscape in Bones is fictional, as are the ranger station and other settings.
Readers who are interested in the tale of Parzival will find it beautifully retold in Katherine Paterson’s Parzival: The Quest of the Grail Knight, or may prefer to read Professor A. T. Hatto’s scholarly introduction and translation of the full work by Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival.
Several forensic anthropologists took time from their hectic schedules to answer my questions and to comment on the manuscript. I’m especially grateful to Paul Sledzik, Curator of the Anatomical Collections of the National Museum of Health and Medicine, Armed Forces Institute of Pathology; Marilyn London, Department of Anthropology, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution, and Forensic Anthropology Consultant to the Rhode Island Office of Medical Examiners; Diane France, Director, Human Identification Laboratory, Colorado State University; and William Haglund, former Chief Medical Investigator, King County Medical Examiner’s Office, Seattle, Washington, Senior Forensic Consultant for the United Nations Criminal Tribunals, and Director of the Forensic Program for Physicians for Human Rights.
Bingle and Boolean were inspired by several real cadaver dogs, whose trainers and handlers were extremely g
enerous with their time and help. Many thanks to Dr. Ed David, Deputy Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Maine and the trainer and handler of Wraith and Shadow, Maine’s two cadaver/crime scene dogs; Beth Barkley, SAR/cadaver dog trainer and handler of Sirius, Czar, and Jadzia; the handlers and dogs of Search Services America — Mike and Kelly, Eileen and Reilly, Ross and Maverick, George and Smoky, Blair and Thor; Deputy Al Nelson, bloodhound handler and trainer, Jefferson County (Colorado) Sheriff’s Department and member of NecroSearch. Additional dog information came from Linda McDermott, Chair of the K-9 Unit of the Angeles chapter of the Sierra Club, and Orbin Pratt, DVM.
My thanks to Vaughn Askue, who has more than thirty years of experience as a pilot and Technical Support Manager for Sikorsky Helicopters; Deputy David Kitchings, Pilot, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Aero Bureau; Dave Nalle, Assistant Captain, Kernville Helitack; Ranger Judy Schutza, Kernville Station, U.S. Forest Service; Nick Agosta, TNG Helicopter Company; and Noelani Mars, Professional Helicopter Pilots Association. I’m grateful to Hal Higdon, senior writer, Runner’s World and Benji Durden, Olympic marathoner, for their helpful suggestions regarding the effects of altitude, terrain, and other factors during Irene’s run through the mountains. Thanks also to Dr. Ed Dohring and Dr. Michael Strauss, orthopedic surgeons; Dr. Marvin Zamost; Joan Dilley; Wayne Reynardson, list owner of AMP-L, and the members of that list; Todd Cignetti; Flex-Foot, Inc., especially Jeff Gerber; David Barnhart, C.P.O.; Michael Pavelski, C.P.O; Mary Kay Razo, school psychologist; Dale Carter, Latin Blood Books, Professor Emeritus of Spanish at California State University, Los Angeles; Steve Burr; Debbie Arrington; Sharon Weissman; Tonya Pearsley; Sandra Cvar; and Dr. Christine Padesky and Dr. Kathleen Mooney of the Padesky Center for Cognitive Therapy — friends who responded quickly and enthusiastically when I told them Irene needed therapy.
My family and friends have been supportive as always, and I again thank my agent and my publisher’s hardworking sales reps.
I am deeply indebted to my editors, Laurie Bernstein and Marysue Rucci, for their perceptive comments and many hours of work on the manuscript.
Carolyn Reidy, thank you for your kind words of encouragement.
As for my husband, Tim Burke — I’m having holy cards printed.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 84852360-bea0-497b-9307-d51c09552ca1
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 6.8.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Jan Burke
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