“Hey, Nick!” I shouted. “Who’d you pimp for after your mother died?”
There was a gratifying silence before he shouted, “You’ll pay for that!”
“Taking up Mama’s slogan, Nicky?”
That put him into a hurry.
“¡Apúrate!” I said to Bingle, and we gave ourselves a head start. We made a lot of noise as we ran; Bingle kept up with me at an easy lope, enjoying the hell out of himself. I was having a harder time of it, slogging through the mud. Over our own noise, I soon heard Parrish crashing through the woods behind me.
I came to the first set of trees, veered around them, and positioned myself not far from the trees with the more visible rope. As soon as Parrish came into sight, I made a show of hurrying over that rope, Bingle leaping behind me. I heard Parrish shout, “Nice try!” just before he tripped on the other, hidden rope.
I heard him scream.
I kept running, calling Bingle to follow me. We ran for a long way, keeping to the trees, until finally I was sure Parrish was no longer following me.
I rested, feeling sick and shaky. I held on to Bingle. He gave no sign of scenting or hearing Parrish.
I waited as long as I could stand it. If one of those stakes had killed him, I wanted to get back to Ben.
At the very least, I knew I had wounded him. If he was only wounded, I wanted to know where he was. I had a job to finish.
I almost ran into him.
Bingle realized that he was near before I did, but not quite soon enough. He had kept downwind of us, and although Bingle had growled a moment before, I still gave a cry of surprise when Parrish stepped out from behind a tree.
His shirt was covered in blood, and he had tied a makeshift bandage around his left shoulder. In his right hand, he held a gun.
Bingle barked at him.
Parrish smiled. “I think I will begin by shooting that dog.”
25
FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
“How unsporting of you,” I said.
“Unsporting?” he said, looking faintly amused.
“I mean, shooting a dog that’s leashed and standing just ten or fifteen feet away from you? Wow — what a great hunter you’ve turned out to be.”
“Do you think this sort of nonsense will spare you anything at all? Am I supposed to be impressed?”
I hoped he was. I was proud of myself just because I hadn’t wet my pants yet. Bracing for the sound of gunfire, I stooped down near Bingle, sheltering his head. Not really much of a risk. Parrish might shoot me, but I knew it wouldn’t fit his fantasies. He would want my suffering to be much more prolonged. I almost wanted him to shoot me.
“Stand up!” he shouted.
I unsnapped Bingle’s leash.
“Give the dog a head start,” I said, staying low.
“You’re going to tell him to bite me,” he said, leveling the gun at me.
“No, you’d just kill him. I’ll tell him to cross the stream.”
“You expect me to believe he understands such a command?”
“You’ve seen how well trained he is. Give him the command yourself — say it in Spanish, he’ll obey you.”
“I don’t speak the languages of inferior peoples.”
“Prince of the polyglots,” I murmured.
“What?”
“I said, I doubt you’re such a great shot. I’ll give him the command. Let him cross the stream. See if you can shoot him at that distance. Even if you can’t hit him, you’ll scare him off.”
“Can’t hit him?” He laughed. “All right, Irene, you seem to need a lesson in respect. Perhaps this will provide a demonstration of sorts. But I’ll warn you that if you plan to have him attack me, I can easily squeeze off a shot before he gets near me.”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Let me calm him down.”
“Bingle,” I said in a low voice. “Bingle, ¿dónde está Ben? Búscalo, Bingle.”
Bingle stopped growling, looked at me, and cocked his head. He whined.
“Eres un perro maravilloso, Bingle. ¿Dónde está Ben? Es muy importante, Bingle. ¡Búscalo!”
He looked across the stream, back at me, then at Parrish. He looked at me and whined again.
“Bien, Bingle. ¿Listo? ¡Búscalo! Cuídalo. Por favor, Bingle. Ben, Bingle. Ben. ¡Apúrate, búscalo! ¡Cuídalo! ¡Vete!”
He moved off, stopped, and looked back at me. “¡Bien! ¡Sigue, adelante!”
I tried to keep my voice full of enthusiasm, thankful that Ben’s name wasn’t something like “Charles” or “Jim,” which would have been more noticeable among the Spanish words.
Bingle started moving again. Parrish said, “Follow him to the stream.”
He was never far behind me, and I had no doubt that the gun was trained on me, not the dog. Seeing us follow, Bingle was less reluctant, and began to make quick progress toward the felled tree.
“¡Adelante!” I said, wondering if he could manage getting up onto the tree.
I needn’t have worried; he was fit and agile, and was soon making his way across. But when I didn’t follow, he stopped.
“¡Lárgate!” I said. Scram!
He didn’t budge.
“I’ve had enough of this ridiculous mutt,” Parrish said, stepping out from behind me and aiming the gun at the dog.
“I knew you couldn’t do it,” I said quickly. “I knew you’d take an easy shot!”
“Hurry up then!”
“¡Lárgate!” I said again, in the sternest voice I could manage.
Bingle quickly moved away. When he was partly hidden by the branches, I yelled, “¡Apúrate, Bingle! ¡Vete!”
He obeyed. He ran away from the stream, into the trees. But he was not out of sight yet. Parrish was taking careful aim when I slammed into him, knocking us both into the mud. Parrish fired the gun as he fell, screaming as he hit his shoulder.
“¡Vete!, Bingle! ¡Vete!” I shouted again, even as I got to my feet. He was obeying, running through the trees. I tried to do the same.
I didn’t get far. Parrish rolled and grabbed my ankle, pulling me down, hard. I kicked and clawed, but he scrambled up on top of me, shoving my face deep into the mud, holding me there until my lungs were screaming for air. I struggled, tried to buck him off, tried to push up, but he was stronger. For a moment I wondered if this was where it would end, if I would simply be suffocated on this muddy bank, if Parrish’s plans for me were not so elaborate after all.
He yanked my head up by the hair. I gasped for air. He shoved my face down again.
By the fourth time, all I wanted was air. That’s all. Air. Just air. Just to be let up again. I was half out of my mind, panicked.
By the tenth, he could have taken anything he wanted.
He knew that, of course.
He went for twelve.
I think it was twelve. I had lost track. The world, all life, everything of importance had come down to taking the next breath.
“Wipe your face off!” he said angrily, dragging me up. He pushed me forward, seated me clumsily against the stump of the felled tree. He crouched in front of me and said it again. It took me a while to understand him. I was gasping. There still wasn’t enough air. The sky didn’t hold enough of the stuff.
“Wipe your face off or I’ll shove it back down into that muck,” he said. “Only I’ll piss in it first!”
I reached up with shaking hands and wiped my face. The slime wouldn’t all come off, of course. He reached over with one finger, drew something on each of my cheeks.
“There. Now I’ve branded you. You bear my initials.”
I felt a sudden dampness on my cheeks. I was crying.
They awakened something, those tears. A little spark of anger. At myself. But it was enough.
He was pleased by the tears, I could see. I wiped them away. His initials, too.