“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.
“Ben?” 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.