Bones

Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

Nothing can keep you up all night as effectively as calculating what sort of condition you’ll be in the next day if you don’t fall asleep soon. I heard soft snoring from most of the other tents, including a double set of saws from the one where Bingle was curled up next to David. I heard the pacing first of Manton and Merrick, and later of Duke and Earl.

My claustrophobia kicked in — not able to stay long in the tent, soon I was sitting in its opening, watching the stars, listening to the insects, wondering what animals were making the other noises I heard — occasional rustlings and snapping sounds. Our food had been hung up high in bear bags, a safe three hundred feet from camp, but I wasn’t so sure we weren’t the object of ursine scrutiny.

I thought a lot about Frank — wondered if he were also lying awake, if the pilot’s radio message that we had arrived safely had reached him. I thought of my cousin Travis, who was staying with us. I thought about my dogs, my cat.

I tried hard to keep my thoughts away from memories of a particular time I had spent in the mountains, in a small room in a cabin, the captive of some rather brutal hosts. The nightmares induced by all that had happened there were fewer now, but I knew what might trigger them again — enclosed spaces, stress, new surroundings.

Think of something else.

I thought of Gillian Sayre. I thought of her mother. I stayed awake.

I was wondering if I should give in to the old memories of captivity, go ahead and think about them — dwell on them for God’s sake, if that would relieve the tension — when there was a sudden brightness on my face. A flashlight, quickly lowered. Both the path of the beam of light and the sound of footsteps made it clear that someone was making his way toward me. As he drew closer, I saw that it was Ben Sheridan. I moved to my feet as he reached me.

“Why are you awake?” he whispered, his breath fogging in the cold air. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Just waiting for my big chance to look through all your gear and touch everything that belongs to the Las Piernas P.D.,” I whispered back.

He was silent for a moment, then repeated, “Why are you awake?”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, why are you awake?”

“Shhh. Not so loud. You’ll wake the others.”

I waited.

“I did sleep,” he said.

“Not for long,” I said.

“You haven’t slept at all.”

“Ben, if you’ve slept, then how could you possibly know I haven’t?”

He started to move away again.

“I have problems with enclosed spaces,” I said.

He halted, then said, “Claustrophobia? The tent bothers you?”

“Yes.”

“Sleep outside.”

“It’s not just that.” But I couldn’t bring myself to say more.

We were interrupted then. Bingle had heard us, and he emerged from David’s tent, shaking himself as if he had just stepped out of a bath. Tufts of fur around his ears spiked out from his head, making him look genuinely woozy. The effect was comical.

David soon followed him out of the tent. Before I could apologize, David was whispering drowsily, “Hi, Ben. Need to borrow Bingle?”

“She does,” Ben said.

“What?” I asked, startled.

“Okay,” David said, turning to Bingle. “Duerme con ella,” he commanded in Spanish, pointing at me. Sleep with her. Bingle happily trotted over — and flopped down next to me.

“Wait a minute—”

“Keep him warm and he’ll be okay,” David said, and went back into his tent.

I looked up at Ben in some exasperation.

“He’ll wake you if you start to have a nightmare,” Ben said, and started to walk off.

“Who said anything about nightmares?” I asked.

He looked over his shoulder, then said, “No one.” He kept walking.

Bingle was watching me, a look of expectation on his face.

I sighed and got into my sleeping bag. Bingle did a brief inspection of the interior of the tent, then lay down next to me. He moved restlessly for a moment or two, until he seemed to find a position he liked — resting his head on my shoulder.