Most likely, he figured, it was Duke or Earl. They were both veterans, they knew their stuff. Neither one of them would put Irene in danger, but either one would be able to keep track of Irene and Parrish, figure out where the bastard was taking her, keep the pressure on so that Parrish wouldn’t have time for . . . for other things. He began to feel a little better about Irene’s chances of surviving.
“Bring the dogs,” Frank said over the radio. “Let’s see if they can find Bingle.”
The dogs took them to the stream. They moved along one bank, where Bingle’s paw prints could still be seen now and then. But Deke and Dunk seemed distracted, often taking more interest in the local wildlife than in trailing another dog, Deke at one point nearly pulling Travis down into the mud when she decided to chase a squirrel. Jack scolded, and they settled down a little.
Frank, who was wondering if he had just spent twenty precious minutes setting up a squirrel hunt, looked upstream. He came to a halt. “Holy shit — a bridge.”
The others saw it too then — a felled tree, lying across the water. They hurried to it.
“Cut recently,” Jack said, “and I mean, very recently. Everything around here has been soaked with rain. But this pine is fairly dry — and fresh enough to smell the cut.”
Frank looked at the ground. The signs were confusing — two sets of boot prints, both people able to stand, and the dog nearby. There were other signs of disturbance — in one place handprints in the mud. Hers? He couldn’t be sure.
Maybe Duke or Earl had made a move here — and failed. Maybe the sixth man lost his life here, and his body was downstream.
But someone had found the strength and time to fell a good-sized tree.
“Let’s see what’s over on the other bank,” he said.
There were more confused prints, but the dogs seemed excited again, whining. Jack found Bingle’s prints again, and they followed them until Travis suddenly shouted, “Her tent!”
It was there, set up in the woods. She had even made something to catch rain. “Irene!” Frank called. “Irene!”
There was no answer.
They looked in the tent; there were signs she had slept here, but Frank soon noticed that there was a mixture of clothing in the tent. The dogs were very interested in one side of it, and looking closer, Frank saw a small amount of blood there.
“She got across that stream and camped here,” Jack said.
Frank picked up one of her shirts; no gash or sign of a wound or bleeding on it, or her bedroll. If she wasn’t the wounded one, maybe Parrish didn’t have her. Maybe she was with the other survivor. “Let’s see if that dog left any other tracks.”
As it happened, they didn’t need to look for tracks.
Deke, catching Bingle’s scent, began barking. Dunk took up the cry.
Near a group of boulders, Jack was the first one to see a large German shepherd emerge. The dog apparently decided that they were all close enough, because he began barking ferociously. Deke and Dunk immediately flattened themselves onto the ground, tails wagging nervously, as if bowing in supplication and begging his pardon.
“That sweater he’s got on has them in awe,” Travis said.
“No,” Jack said, “he’s born to rule. Deke and Dunk are just acknowledging that fact — although I’m sure they’ll test it later on.”
Telling Deke and Dunk — quite unnecessarily — to stay, the three men tried to approach the other dog, but Bingle bared his teeth at them, and continued to growl and bark.
Frank tried to recall the day he had spent working with David Niles and the dog, and suddenly remembered that the dog was given commands in Spanish.
“¡Bingle, cállate!” he said firmly.
The dog stopped barking and looked at him, cocking his head to one side. “¡Bien, Bingle, muy bien!”
From somewhere nearby — none of them could figure out where, at first — a faint voice said, “Bingle, it’s okay. Está bien, Bingle.”
“Who’s there?” Frank called.
“Ben Sheridan.”
“Ben! It’s Frank Harriman. Where are you?”
“Here. Down in the rocks — I’m injured or I’d crawl up to you. Bingle can show you where I am. How do I say, ‘Come here’?”
“Ven acá,” Travis answered, reminding Frank that Irene’s cousin was the most fluent speaker of Spanish among them,
The dog was looking at Travis, apparently hesitating over this new set of orders, when Ben repeated them. He hurried to obey the more familiar voice, and the men almost missed seeing the place he had scrambled down.
Peering down into the rocks, Frank said, “We’ll get you out as soon as we can—”
“Never mind that — did you find Irene?”
Frank swallowed hard. “She’s not with you?”
“Oh, God!” Ben said. “You’ve got to find her! Never mind me!”
“Tell me what happened!”
“Parrish—”
“We know he killed the others — did anyone else escape?”
“No,” Ben said weakly. “Except — Andy and J.C. weren’t with us, thank God. Parrish came after us this morning, chopping down a tree. She hid me in here and tried to lure him away from me. I — I didn’t want her to! But I can’t walk and—”
“We know how hardheaded she can be,” Jack said. “Where did she go?”
“Back across the stream, I think. I heard gunfire, and then Bingle came to me, but maybe he was just shooting at the dog — I thought I heard her yelling to him after the gunfire.”
“Go on, Frank,” Jack said. “Travis and I can take care of Dr. Sheridan here. I’ll call Stinger, see if he can get up in the air and start looking now. Fog has cleared off.”
“You speak Spanish, right?” Ben asked Frank.
“Yes.”
“Take Bingle. He’s had a rough couple of days, but he’s trained in search and rescue.”
“I once saw David work with him,” Frank said. “But I’m not sure Bingle will want to listen to me.”
“He won’t ever work as well with anyone as he did with David. David—” He seemed unable to continue for a moment. “Please take Bingle with you — it’s worth a try. I think the command is, ‘Find ’em,’ and ask him ‘Where is Irene?’ Praise him a lot, make it a game. He won’t need a leash. I think he’s attached to her; I think he’s wanted to look for her anyway — he’s been acting very worried.”
“Ask Stinger to get that helicopter up as soon as he can,” Frank said, and called to Bingle.
The dog hesitated, looking back at Ben.
“How do I say, ‘Go with him’?” Ben asked.
“Ve con él,” Travis said.
Ben repeated the phrase to Bingle as a command, indicating Frank. He repeated it three times, and finally, Bingle scrambled back up to where Frank waited.
Frank saw that the dog was now focused on him, seeming almost impatient. He tried to recall everything he had seen David do with the dog.
“Travis, you have hold of Deke and Dunk?” he asked.
“All set,” Travis said.
“Bingle,” Frank said. “¿Estás listo?”
Bingle barked, and wagged his tail.
Frank held out the shirt he had found in the tent, hoping that Irene had worn it recently.
The dog sniffed at it.
“¿Dónde está Irene? ¡Dónde está Irene? ¡Búscala!”
Bingle barked and bounded toward the stream.
28
FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
There was no thought, at first, of anything but flight.
I ran blindly, into the fog, through the trees. The fog and the forest were at once my shield and my obstacle; together they hid me from him, but because of them I could not simply run, flat out, as fast as I could go.
At home, I ran almost every day on the beach, but there were few flat and forgiving stretches here. The altitude, the mud, and the unevenness of the terrain were only part of the problem — I wasn’t exactly starting out peppy and refreshed. Despite my weariness, though, I ran hard — for a time, the threat of being at Nick Parrish’s mercy was enough to sustain me.