Bones (16 page)

I checked Ben as best I could for less apparent injuries. I wasn't able to discover any, but I did find a pair of unused latex gloves in one of his shirt pockets. I put them on, got my knife out again and cut the pant leg away.

Under other circumstances, the damage to his lower left leg might have horrified me. After all I had seen just a few minutes before, it had no power to shock me. It was a through-and-through bullet wound, a shot that had entered sideways, from the inside front of his leg between his knee and ankle, and exited on the other side--the messier side. It seemed to have broken at least one of his lower leg bones. The wound had bled profusely--at least, to my inexperienced eye, there seemed to be a lot of blood--but there was very little bleeding from it now.

The few first aid items I carried in my daypack were not intended for treating shooting victims, but there was enough clean gauze and tape to make a pressure bandage for the leg wound.

He moaned. I moved nearer his face and called his name again. Say the injured person's name often--I remembered that this was one of the rules. He opened his eyes, stared up at me.

"Ben? Can you understand me?"

He closed his eyes.

"Ben!"

He looked up at me. Bingle barked. Ben slowly turned his head toward the dog, groaned, and closed his eyes again. "Raining," he said thickly, hardly more than a whisper.

"No," I said. "It was raining, but it has stopped now."

He made no response.

"Ben! Ben!"

"Go away."

"Ben. Wake up!"

He didn't respond.

"Ben Sheridan, listen to me--I don't want to get shot just because I'm out here with you. So wake up!"

Nothing.

"Bingle needs you, all right? What would David say if he knew you didn't take care of his dog?"

"David," he said miserably, but opened his eyes.

"Are you hurt anywhere besides your head and leg?"

He frowned. "Don't know. Can't think." He lifted his head, tried to move. "Dizzy," he said, closing his eyes.

"Does your neck or back hurt?"

"No--my head. My leg--broken, I think."

I picked up his right hand. "Squeeze my hand."

He did. Weak, but a grasp. I tried the same thing with the left.

"You passed test number one with flying colors." I moved to his boots. "Try moving your right foot, Ben."

He moved it.

"Your left."

Nothing, but the attempt made him cry out.

"Can't," he whispered. "Can't."

"Don't worry about that now. We need to get out of this field, then you can sleep if you want to--but not now. Stay awake."

"Okay," he said, then added, "for Bingle."

"Suit yourself, asshole. Just stay awake."

I saw a small, fleeting smile. I had to admire that--in the amount of pain he must have been in, I don't know many people who could have managed it.

"I can't leave you in this field," I said. "Parrish may be back."

He rolled to his right side, as if he was going to try to move to his feet, and promptly threw up.

"Christ," he said.

"It's probably because you hit your head," I said, taking my neckcloth off and wiping his face. I helped him rinse his mouth. "At the very least, you've probably got a concussion. And if you're going to be sick, it's much better for you to be lying on your side. Dangerous to be lying on your back."

I helped him lift his head a little, to offer him water. He seemed thirsty, but soon closed his eyes. "Go away."

"Stay awake, Ben."

"Go away."

"Bingle, remember?"

"Damned dog," he said, but opened his eyes again.

I tried to make him comfortable, to do what I could to keep him from going into shock. But nothing I needed was at hand, and more than anything, I wanted to get us the hell out of that meadow.

I kept looking back at the ridge. No sign of Parrish. Not yet.

"Bingle," I said, "VCuidalo!"

The dog moved closer to Ben.

"What?" Ben said groggily. "What did you say?"

"I said it to Bingle. I told him to watch over you. It was an experiment, really, but he seems to know the command."

"What?" Ben said again.

"Stay awake."

I hurried to make another search of the area near the grave, concentrating on objects, locking my mind away from thoughts of the dead scattered all around me.

In my haste, I didn't move as carefully as I had before, and something made a cracking sound beneath my right foot--a small piece of bone.

Steady--keep going. Just ignore it. It can't hurt you.

I kept moving, but now my fear of Parrish's return began to reassert itself. It found its way to my knees and ankles--my steps grew clumsy and slow.

Stop thinking about him! For God's sake, get a move on! You've got to help Ben.

I found one of the duffel bags that held the anthropologists' equipment, largely unscathed. The same was true of Bingle's equipment. I hoisted both bags and brought them closer to Ben. I praised Bingle, and could not help thinking that he seemed happy to have something to do.

I used the support pieces from the sieves that had been used to sift dirt and a roll of duct tape I found in the bag to splint Ben's left leg. I also took a few small items that looked as if they might be useful later on, including a small tarp, and put them in my daypack.

Ben had lost consciousness again, but when I shouted his name, he came around. He wouldn't talk to me, but when I asked him to help me move him to a half-sitting position, he did.

"Are you thirsty?"

He swallowed, nodded slightly.

I held my water bottle up to his mouth. He managed to drink a little more this time.

"I'm going to have to do something that is going to hurt like hell, Ben. But we have to get out of the meadow, and in among the trees. From there, I'm probably going to have to move you again, but I promise I won't do that more than I have to, okay? But I need you to help me as much as you can."

He did. I supplied most of the lifting power, but he managed to move to a standing position. We soon found that he was unable to put any weight on his left leg. He leaned heavily on me and tried hopping. He gave a shout of pain and passed out again. I barely managed to lower him to the ground without dropping him.

Don't panic, I told myself, but I envisioned Parrish sighting the rifle on my head as I pulled out the tarp. Could he hit me from this distance? I didn't think so, but I crouched lower in the tall grass.

Ben came to, and though his wakefulness was helpful while I was putting him on the tarp, knowing what lay ahead, I wished he had stayed unconscious.

I lifted the corner of the tarp near his head, and began dragging him over the bumpy ground.

"Bingle," he called, making a weak gesture with his hand.

The dog hesitated, looking back toward David's boot, then followed us.

I stood, nervously giving up concealment for speed, but it was still slow going. Ben made no protests, but he grimaced in pain. By the time we reached the trees, tears streaked their way through the dirt and bloodstains on his face. I stopped, and he wiped the tears away, embarrassed.

But my thoughts were elsewhere. Panting with exertion, I looked up at the ridge.

Where are you, Parrish?

Had he come back? For all I knew, he could be hiding in the trees ahead, waiting to attack us. I listened, and heard a hundred sounds that might have been made by him. I looked back at the meadow. Not an option.

Something hit the ground behind me and I jumped away with a yelp. I was moving to shield Ben when he said, "Pinecone. Fell from the tree."

"Oh. I thought it might be--"

"Watch Bingle," he gritted out, closing his eyes against a fresh wave of pain.

I studied the dog. He was calmly studying me. I realized what Ben meant, then. Parrish wasn't nearby. Bingle would have reacted.

I took Ben as far as I could into the forest, where eventually there were too many obstacles to allow me to continue dragging him. I brought him to his feet again. I moved in front of him, took his arms and pulled them over my shoulders, rolled him up on my back, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the woods. I'm not in bad shape, but carrying him was awkward and exhausting. The ground was too uneven to make this a smooth trip. Occasionally, despite Ben's efforts to hide his torment, sharp cries escaped him. Bingle began whining in sympathy.

When we came to ground with fewer rocks, bushes, and branches on it, I set him down. He had passed out again. I took a few minutes to catch my breath. Then I unfolded the tarp again, placed Ben on it, and pulled him deeper into the trees.

We reached the stream. I told Bingle to stay--the water was deep enough to make me worry that he wouldn't be able to swim it if he fell in. I scouted ahead and found a relatively narrow place to cross. There was no way to make it if I dragged Ben after me, though, so I cut the tarp and bundled it around his legs, taping it on to him like a bizarre form of waders, to help keep him dry if I fell. I managed to rouse him long enough to help me get him on my back again. Slowly and carefully, I stepped from flat rock to flat rock. I only lost my balance once, misstepping into chilly, knee-deep water midstream and nearly dumping him in.

We made it across. I had jostled Ben badly, though, and by the time I laid him down among the trees on the other side, he was unconscious again. This whole endeavor had cost us hours, and I wondered how much blood he'd lost. I moved him onto his side, into a position that would ensure that he could breathe and would not choke on his own vomit, should he get sick again. I cut the tarp-waders off, and was pleased to see that at least one of us had stayed fairly dry.

Bingle whimpered anxiously, perhaps afraid we were leaving him behind. I went back for him as soon as I could. It took much less time to cross without Ben on my back, and soon I had fitted Bingle in a harness and returned with him. He nimbly made it to the other bank without incident.

I did some quick scouting and found a place that seemed to be fairly safe, out of view of the meadow and stream. I dragged Ben there.

My next concern was keeping Ben from going into shock. In part, that would require warmth. I took off my jacket and what layers of warm clothing I thought I could safely spare. Then, remembering my first night in the mountains, said to Bingle, "Duerme con el." Sleep with him.

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.