Bones ik-7 Page 12

  He cocked his head at me, perhaps wondering what I could mean by that at this time of day — then, when I continued to look at him as if I expected to be obeyed, he slowly moved to lie down close to Ben.

  I was tired, but I moved as quickly as I could back across the stream, through the woods to the camp we had set up that morning. I didn’t want to leave Ben alone any longer than necessary, or to be caught at the campsite if Parrish returned.

  The camp was some distance from where Ben lay. I didn’t know how well Parrish knew this area, but his awareness of the airstrip, his coyote tree, and the two burials were all indicators that he had been here again and again. The odds of successfully hiding from him for a long period of time weren’t great, but I only needed to manage it until J.C. and Andy returned by helicopter. That could be soon, I told myself.

  The camp was in shambles. Parrish had dumped the contents of the backpacks out onto the ground. Cookware, tent supports, clothing, sleeping bags, and other items were scattered over the site. Most were damp. For all the disarray, though, I felt some hope when I saw what was left.

  I found my own pack, looked it over and could see no damage. I picked up most of my clothing, putting on a few items for warmth. I had a moment of almost losing whatever semblance of calm I had managed up to then when I realized that he had taken all but one pair of my underwear. Telling myself that it was a very small matter to become upset over, given his day’s work, and congratulating myself because the pair he left was clean, I went back to the task at hand.

  I started to gather whatever I could remember seeing Ben wear, then thought better of it. If Parrish returned here and saw that the only clothing that was missing was mine and Ben’s, he might learn that Ben was alive.

  This brought me to my next task, one of the most difficult to face. Bracing myself, telling myself this was not the same as going through a battlefield, stealing coins off the bodies of soldiers, I began to sort through the belongings of the dead.

  I tried hard not to think of Earl wearing this shirt or David, this sweater. I would not think of what had happened in the meadow, or worse, who it had happened to. I came across the little wooden horse that Duke had whittled, felt tears welling up, and tucked the horse into my backpack, all the while telling myself I was a fool to add something so unnecessary to the pack.

  Stay alive. Keep Ben and Bingle alive. First things first.

  I took a duffel bag — the largest one I could find — instead of Ben’s backpack, and began to gather clothing belonging to each of the dead men, mixing Ben’s in with them.

  I did not take much of the clothing, saving room for food. But as I looked through the pile of belongings, I only found three packages of chicken noodle soup — which had been in Manton’s daypack — and Bingle’s dog food.

  You have water and a filter, I told myself. You also have lots of water purification tablets. If you’re rescued soon, you won’t even have to worry about feeding the dog.

  Although only one of the tents had been set up when Parrish went on his rampage, he had pulled the others from their nylon cases, scattering their supports, rainflies, and tie-downs. But I was able to find all parts for mine, and was pleased to discover that even the rainfly had not been damaged during his rampage.

  To this collection I added two well-stocked first aid kits, three sleeping bags that were unharmed — including my own — my insulation pad and one other, my stove and cookset, a flashlight, three candles, a tarp, some rope, a shaving kit that had Ben’s name on it, a plastic bucket, and a few other essentials.

  I considered it a major stroke of luck when I found Earl’s medications for his ear infection. One plastic cylinder held a decongestant, but the other might help me save Ben’s life. The label said it was Keflex, an antibiotic.

  Since Ben had lain in a damp meadow with open wounds for over an hour before I could reach him, infection was a major worry. But here, at least, was a weapon to fight it.

  I put on my own pack and made a quick false trail to the upper portion of the stream, trying to make it look as if I were heading back to the airstrip. I returned in a less obvious manner, and did my best to obscure my tracks. I picked up the duffel bag, and loaded down, cautiously made my way back to Ben and Bingle.

  A strong breeze kept my scent from Bingle, who growled as I approached. Until I called softly to him, I was half-afraid he’d start barking, or attack me outright.

  Ben was awake.

  “How are you doing?” I asked, setting down the duffel bag.

  “The others . . . ?”

  I shook my head.

  He looked away.

  I hurriedly unrolled one of the sleeping bags, put it over him. Carefully enunciating each word, like a man who had downed a pint of whiskey but was trying not to appear to be drunk, he said, “You should leave me here.”

  “Don’t start that bullshit,” I said.

  “It’s not. Makes sense.”

  “You took a hard blow to the head, I’m amazed you’re not screaming in pain from that leg wound, and you’ve just suffered a terrible loss. I’m not going to listen to you tell me that you’re the one who’s making sense.”

  He sighed.

  “Besides,” I said, “when have I listened to you, anyway?”

  “True,” he said, and fell silent.

  “Are you allergic to Keflex?”

  He shook his head.

  I read the label, which said to take one tablet four times a day. I gave him two of the pills, and helped him to drink more water.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Whose medication?”

  “They were Earl’s.” Before he could think too much about that, I added, “I’m going to set up the tent. Once we’re situated, I’ll try to do a better job of looking after your injuries. At least you’ll be warmer and drier.”

  I went to work. I put the tent up, and after a look at the darkening sky, added the rainfly. Once I had managed to get Ben, Bingle, and necessary gear inside the tent, there wasn’t much room to move around. Luckily, my claustrophobia didn’t kick in — I was too distracted by something I had noticed when I moved Ben inside the tent to think of my own concerns: his leg was bleeding again.

  I had more medical supplies to work with now, though, so I took off the makeshift splint and bandages and attempted to do a better job of it. Below the wound, his leg was a grayish color. At one point, he shouted in agony over some clumsiness on my part, and we both said, “Sorry!” in unison. I finished up and re-splinted it.

  I checked the head wound as well, which had also reopened, but was not bleeding nearly as much as the leg had been. I now had a chance to wash the rest of his face, to remove the bloodstains and dirt that had caked onto it while he lay out in the field.

  He was so pale, and his skin felt too cold. Although he was conscious, he was listless.

  I loosened his clothing, elevated his feet, and in addition to the pad and sleeping bag beneath him, placed another bag on top of him.

  “Talk to me, Ben.”

  He looked at me as if I had awakened him from a deep sleep.

  “What’s my name?” I asked.

  After a long, frightening moment, I asked again.

  “Irene,” he answered.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Long pause. “Four.”

  The correct answer was two.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ben.”

  “What’s the dog’s name?”

  “Bingle.”

  Bingle, who had been sniffing at the contents of the duffel bag, heard his name and moved closer to Ben; the dog was carrying something in his mouth. David’s sweater. He set it down, rubbed his face on it, then lay on top of it, head on paws.

  “David,” Ben whispered, shutting his eyes tightly. I took his hand and held it while he quietly wept.

  I know that people with head injuries are likely to become easily upset. But even if Ben had co
me back from that field unscathed, given the events of that day, I wouldn’t have blamed him for crying all night.

  Bingle worried over him and gently laid his head on Ben’s chest. Ben began lightly stroking his fur, but wore down quickly and fell asleep not long after Bingle nuzzled his cheek. I let go of his hand.

  I tried to feed Bingle, but he didn’t even sniff at the dried dog food I put out for him. I didn’t know David’s elaborate preparation routine — but I don’t think Bingle’s refusal to eat was a matter of being finicky.

  Ben awakened once, and I got him to drink more water.

  I decided not to waste the rain and set up a makeshift system for trapping it, using a trash bag to catch and funnel it into the plastic bucket.

  When I heard Ben stirring again, I made one of the packets of soup. He was more alert this time, and I was relieved to find that he was no longer seeing double. He was still pale, but not quite the chalk white of a few hours before, and his speech was clearer. All of these signs were so cheering that when I brought the soup to him, I didn’t mind bearing with the slow process of his feeding himself. I ate some of the soup, too, but gave him the lion’s share, convinced that if he went hungry he’d never recover, while I could forage for food if need be.

  “Thank you,” he said when he finished, then added, “I know you probably can’t imagine a fate worse than being stuck here with me—”

  “Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you. I know you don’t trust me, and being this dependent on me must really be galling.”

  He shook his head. “You should leave me here tomorrow. Save yourself.”

  “Hmm. Well, your martyrdom would spare me a lot of trouble, but without anything to do all day, I’d likely fall into a decline.”

  He smiled a little at that.

  “I don’t want to be out there alone with Parrish, Ben.”

  He considered this for a moment, then said, “Shall we call a truce?”

  “Yes — more than a truce. Allies.”

  “Allies, then,” he said. He lay back, and fell asleep again before the rain started.

  Bingle lay between us, his head on David’s sweater, which he had definitely claimed as his. I hoped that he might be content with that, and not go looking for the boot in the morning.

  There was no light in the tent; I was unwilling to use up my flashlight batteries, and lighting a candle inside a tent ranks among the more foolhardy things a person can do — even if you don’t make a crematorium out of the tent, you’re filling it with carbon monoxide. Besides, I had already decided that we would have a blackout come nightfall — Parrish might be watching for some beacon to our whereabouts.

  I wondered where Frank was, what he was doing. Worrying, undoubtedly. The rain would make him worry more. Under some circumstances, that would have annoyed me; tonight, I took comfort — if anyone would force the powers that be to look for us as soon as possible, Frank would. The more I considered this, the more sure I was of it. Frank would come for us. He would not let us be abandoned to whatever plans Parrish had made. I felt myself grow calmer.

  I tried hard to think of Parrish not as some mysterious bogeyman — the monster who tortured women, who booby-trapped graves — but as a flesh-and-blood enemy. He wasn’t endowed with superhuman powers. It was raining on him, too.

  I listened to Ben’s and Bingle’s breathing, to Ben’s occasional moans and Bingle’s occasional snores.

  I’d have to make the best of my allies, I decided.

  I might not capture or kill Parrish, but if the three of us could survive, I’d count it as a major victory.

  The rain kept falling, drumming harder now. I was exhausted, but ghosts in the meadow and thoughts of our common enemy kept me awake long into the night.

  Realizing that rest was armament, I finally fell asleep.

  19

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 18

  The Mojave Desert

  “Let me go in first,” Jack Fremont said, as Travis brought the van to a halt at the foot of the gravel drive. Jack had warned him not to pull into the drive itself — the man they had come to see was serious about backing up his no trespassing signs.

  Frank sat in the back of the van with the dogs.

  “I know the delays are killing you,” Jack said to him, “but once we get past Stinger’s little welcoming rituals, he’ll be able to save us a hell of a lot of time.”

  “Not if this weather holds,” Frank said, taking an anxious look at the sky.

  “Maybe not if it stays this bad,” Jack agreed, “but you wouldn’t make much progress on foot in this weather, either. Mud would slow you to a crawl.”

  “You sure you can trust this guy?” Frank asked, taking a wary look at the odd structure at the end of the drive. It was a homemade house if he’d ever seen one, a pile of cemented rocks and timber that looked more like a cross between a log cabin and a low-budget medieval castle than a home.

  “I’d trust Stinger Dalton with my life — and have on several occasions. Just give me a minute to get him used to the idea of having company.”

  They watched Jack move down the driveway, hands held up as if he were at gunpoint.

  “Oh, yeah, he trusts him with his life,” Travis said. “Trusts him to try and take it, looks like.”

  Frank shook his head. “Roll the windows down a little, I want to hear this.”

  Frank had been willing to go it alone to find Irene if that was what it would take, but he had been relieved when Travis insisted on being included. Jack had come over not much later, and seeing them preparing their gear, offered to join them.

  That had been an even greater relief, and not just because Jack was resourceful and a skilled outdoorsman. Jack said he would trust Stinger Dalton with his life, and Frank felt that same level of trust in Jack — a trust he seldom extended to others.

  Jack lived next door, and his concern for Irene would be nearly as great as his own, Frank knew. Jack hadn’t tried to talk him out of going up into the mountains. Without any hesitation, he had simply asked to be allowed to help.

  Watching Jack walking through the rain, hands held high, Frank wondered if Jack was risking life and limb for Irene right this moment. But as if Jack could feel their concern, he looked over his shoulder at them and smiled.

  Deke and Dunk lifted their noses to the open window, watching anxiously as Jack moved farther away from the van.

  It had been Jack’s idea to bring them along.

  “They aren’t trained to track,” Frank had objected, “and I don’t want to be worried about them. They won’t be able to find this group any faster than we will.”

  “There’s a male dog on this expedition she’s on, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe they’ll find this other dog, then. Besides, your dogs have been camping with me more than once. They’ll behave.”

  “For you, they will,” Travis said, speaking Frank’s thoughts on the subject aloud.

  But in the end, the dogs were allowed to join them. Frank had arranged for care of the cat. Finally, he had called Pete Baird and told him of his plans to find Irene. After listening to his partner’s warnings about the inevitable problems at work, Frank had refused Pete’s offer to join them.

  “I’d love to have you with me, but one of us getting into this much trouble will be bad enough. I need you in there to beg for my reinstatement. Besides, if Irene comes home safe and sound before I do, you can tell her where I am. And I need someone to cover what’s going on here — to try to contact me if anything comes up while I’m still within cell phone range.”

  “Anything else I can do for you before you’re fired for interfering in Thompson’s investigation?” Pete asked.

  “Yes. If we’re not back by Sunday at six, come looking for us.”

  So now Frank sat in the van, watching a man whom many people thought of as his most unlikely friend. Jack Fremont, tattooed and scar-faced, wearing black leather and sporting a gold hoop earring, his head comple
tely shaved, looked made to order for the job he had once held — leader of a biker gang. That Jack had been born into wealth, and — after a number of years on the road — was now one of the wealthiest men in Las Piernas, surprised almost anyone who learned of it. It wasn’t a fact he advertised. He fit better into the role he was playing now.

  “Stinger Dalton, you crusty-assed old son of a bitch, put your guns away!” he called.

  “Jack?” a low, gravelly voice called back. “By God, I don’t believe my fuckin’ eyes. I figured you were dead!”

  “What? And you think I wouldn’t have come haunting you before now?”

  The front door opened, and a thin man with a shotgun stepped onto a ramshackle front porch. He was of medium height, and was wearing jeans, heavy boots, and a sleeveless blue T-shirt. He had long, gray hair that he wore in a single braid down his back. His arms were covered with tattoos. As he came into view, the dogs began whining.

  “Hush,” Frank said to them, trying to hear the conversation outside.

  “What the fuck happened to your hair, dude? And who fucked up your face?”

  “You ask me the same questions every time you see me. You need someone to write you some new lines. Man, put the gun away. I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

  Dalton looked at the van with misgiving.

  “I’d never bring trouble to your door, Stinger. You know that.”

  “No feds?”

  “Shit, Stinger. We both know you aren’t hiding from the feds.”

  “Any of ’em feds?” he repeated obstinately.

  “No. One of ’em is a cop—”

  “What!” Dalton brought the gun up.

  Christ, Frank thought, why did you tell him?

  “Now, Stinger, in a minute here, I’m gonna take offense,” Jack said easily. “I’m trying to tell you that he’s a cop, but he’s not here on a beef or anything like that. He’s my friend. You’ve heard me talk about Frank. Works homicide in Las Piernas. But he needs to do some business with you that’s got nothing to do with him being a cop, except that maybe it will get his ass fired.”