I tried to recall what kind of shape he had been in just before I started running away from him. He had been giving me instructions . . . something about a woman named . . . named what? Nina Poolman. I was supposed to remember her name. But why?
I was tired, and I wanted to sleep, but thinking of Nick Parrish kept me awake, if not at my sharpest.
Faintly, I heard a man’s voice calling something.
I could almost believe it was my name, but I wasn’t sure.
The fog was rapidly lifting; out in the open, I might be seen more easily now. I slowly crawled back into the narrow space within the cluster of boulders.
Minutes later, I heard someone or something crashing through the brush, downstream from where I hid. Was it Parrish? Another deer? A bear? I didn’t dare rise from where I crouched.
I waited. The sound kept moving away. Probably an animal, I told myself. I couldn’t convince myself.
I fell asleep again; I don’t know for how long. In the distance, upstream, I could just make out the sound of a dog barking. I was nearly certain it was Bingle, but the barking had a quality to it that made me fear for both Ben and the dog. It could only mean that Parrish was near them.
I did not want to hide helplessly, listening to whatever horrible things Parrish might do to them, even as faint sounds from a distance.
I slowly left my hiding place. I found a long, sturdy stick, and sharpened it. As I looked at the finished product, I had to resist an urge to leave it behind, if for no other reason than to save myself from serving up embarrassment as a side dish to my own death.
There was no possibility of taking off at a run, but I tried to stretch as I moved along the bank of the stream, using my homemade spear as a walking stick, leaning against it through dizzy spells, doing my best to rid myself of the soreness that made my movements stiff and slow.
Again and again, I heard movement in the brush near the stream; each time I hid as best I could, waited, saw nothing.
As I walked, once more I found myself growing light-headed, feeling confused. The dizzy spells came more often. I stopped to drink again. I was exhausted and scared — of what possible use could I be to Ben and Bingle?
I had no sooner asked myself this question than I heard loud movement through the woods — much louder than before — followed by urgent barking. But if Bingle was here, what had happened to Ben?
I found myself filled with despair. Ben’s survival had never been assured, but his death was a blow I wasn’t ready for. With an effort, I regained my self-control. “Pay the bastard back!” I told myself, gripping my spear.
I was wondering if the dog was going to lead Parrish right to me, when I heard the helicopter. I couldn’t see it, but it sounded as big as God.
I was going to get to it first, I decided — I might be too late to save Ben, but maybe I could warn the pilot off before Parrish started shooting at it. I began moving toward the sound — which was difficult, because it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. I could hear nothing else. I took my knife out.
I saw movement to one side of me, and then Bingle loping toward me, and someone moving in the woods behind him.
Frantic, at first I stumbled away, but there was no time to run, so I crouched behind a fallen tree, spear in one hand, knife in the other.
Hoping that someone might be near enough to hear me over the helicopter, I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Bingle stopped in his tracks, looking puzzled.
Behind him, a vision appeared. Frank, coming through the woods.
For a few moments, I could only stare at him, wondering how Parrish had managed the disguise.
A great wind came up, blowing leaves and tree limbs and frightening birds and small animals. And me, a little.
The wind passed by, but the noise of the helicopter was still all-encompassing.
Frank slowed what had been a running approach, maybe because I was holding a sharp wooden stick and a knife in a threatening manner.
“Irene?”
I couldn’t hear him over the roar, but I could see him form the word. Best of all, I could see those gray-green eyes of his — his eyes, not Parrish’s. I dropped my weapons, got to my feet, and held out my arms.
He took me in his, and then I could hear him say my name. He said it over and over.
I probably should have told him not to fuss over me, and said that there were important things that needed to be done — but I was fresh out of wise and brave, and for a little while, all I could do was weep, and say his name to him, and tell Bingle that he was marvelous, too.
29
FRIDAY, LATE EVENING, MAY 19
St. Anne’s Hospital, Las Piernas
The doctors said they might not be able to save Ben’s leg, that they might have to amputate it below the knee.
This possibility was not a surprise to Ben. He had spoken of it in the helicopter.
Although he had been weak and feverish, and obviously in pain, he had been able to converse. Bingle had refused to be tethered out of reach of him, and sat quietly nearby, watching him intently.
Stinger Dalton had offered to take Ben to the closest hospital — “Or wherever you want to go,” he said, kneeling near the litter. “You’ll be out of pain sooner, but sometimes proximity ain’t the first consideration, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do,” Ben said. I held his hot, dry hand in one of my own. He looked at me, then back at Dalton. “Take me to St. Anne’s,” he said. “I know one of the orthopedic surgeons there. If he has to amputate, at least he’ll know what he’s doing.”
He saw my look of horror.
“If they take part of the leg,” he said, “it wasn’t because you did anything wrong. Understand?”
“But—”
“Understand?”
I stared at the amateurish bandage and makeshift splint. “I should have given you all of the Keflex,” I said weakly.
“Listen to me. The bullet did the damage, not you.”
“Maybe they won’t—”
“Don’t,” he said, closing his eyes. “Don’t.”
Not this, I begged God. Nothing more. Hadn’t he already been through enough?
“Do you want us to contact anyone?” Frank asked him. “Someone to meet you at the hospital?”
Ben didn’t answer right away.
“A family member or a friend?” Frank asked.
“No,” he said, not opening his eyes. “No one, thanks.”
This answer to Frank’s question made me worry about Ben as nothing else had. It was one thing to face the loss of a limb, another to face it without the support of family or friends.
Frank had his arm around me; I leaned my head against his shoulder. He felt solid and sturdy and safe. Ben was alive. Bingle was alive. I was alive.
I was alive, and fighting to feel something other than the numbness that kept creeping over me. Numbness and thirst. I kept drinking water, but I couldn’t seem to get enough of it.
As the helicopter had taken off, Ben squeezed my hand. I realized he was trying to say something to me over the roar of the engine and rotors. He looked awful. I loosened my seat belt and bent closer.
“The story.”
I looked at him in confusion.
“The knight.”
So I began shouting my half-assed version of a medieval German poet’s tale to him, but I didn’t get much further in the story before Ben’s grip slackened and his head lolled to one side. I froze mid-shout.
Frank hurriedly moved to Ben’s side, checking his pulse and breathing.
“He’s alive,” he reassured me. “His pulse is okay. He’s just passed out. I’m sure he’s been in a lot of pain. Dalton will get us back to Las Piernas in no time.”
J.C. stared at me as if fearing the next act in my bizarre program of in-flight entertainment. Bingle, Deke, and Dunk looked as if they were hating every moment of this ride, storytelling or no. Jack smiled and shouted, “You remember Parzival!”