“Comfy?” I asked.
He snorted.
I buried a hand in his thick coat, and found myself smiling. A few minutes later, I was asleep.
I awakened briefly when Bingle left me the next morning, but slept in a little longer, until the sounds of the camp stirring to life were too much to snooze through.
Not long after breakfast, we left the base camp. Only the pilot stayed behind with the heaviest gear. Parrish claimed that Julia Sayre was buried at least a day’s hike from the airstrip. Backpacks on, we began our journey into the forest.
Our progress was slow. Following the lead of a man who was handcuffed and heavily guarded — and perhaps savoring his last days outside of prison — was only part of the reason for our sluggish pace.
Ben and David had extra equipment to be carried, beyond the usual camping gear, and were heavily loaded down.
The group was large, and within it our level of experience varied from novice to expert. I suppose I fell somewhere in the middle; plenty of time spent hiking and backpacking, but nothing recent. J.C., the ranger, was undoubtedly the most seasoned backpacker, with Andy a close second; Flash, Houghton, David, and Ben only a little less so, but all were certainly at home in the outdoors. Bob Thompson and Phil Newly were the apparent novices. Duke was the oldest of the guards — he had shown me a photo of his new grandson, and a story about his high school days made me guess that he was in his early fifties. He was in better shape than Merrick or Manton, who were in their early thirties. Earl, somewhere in between in age, was also somewhere in between in fitness.
Flash Burden could have run circles around all of them. He was enthusiastically taking shots of wildflowers, double-checking with Andy before scribbling their names in his photographer’s notebook. Andy only corrected him once or twice. They soon fell into easy talk about places they had gone hiking or rock climbing.
It was difficult to judge Parrish’s experience on the trail. My suspicions were that in this forest, at least, he was absolutely at home. Perhaps in other forests as well. His boots, for example, were his own, and they were well made and broken in. He did not panic, as Phil Newly did, when a gopher snake hurried across the trail.
Bingle was not disturbed by wildlife, either. He didn’t chase squirrels or other small animals, even when it was clear that he had noticed them. For the most part, he stayed near David, his behavior alternately regal and clownish.
At times, he walked near Ben. I learned from David that there was good reason for Bingle’s attachment to Ben — for the last few months, Ben had been living at David’s house. Although David was reluctant to supply details, apparently Ben had split up with a girlfriend, moved out, and was staying with David until the end of the semester. “He plans to find a place of his own then, even though I’ve told him he can stay on if he’d like. The dogs and I have enjoyed his company.”
“Forgive me if I have a hard time understanding why,” I said.
He smiled and said, “No, I guess Ben hasn’t made a great impression on anybody on this trip. He’s not at his best right now.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, all sorts of reasons,” he said vaguely, and moved on.
We eventually stopped for lunch in a small clearing that didn’t allow us to spread out as much as we had before. Nick Parrish used this opportunity to resume staring at me. Bingle, perhaps remembering who had shared a tent with him, took exception to this, standing rigid and growling at him.
“
“What did you say to him?” Parrish asked.
David didn’t answer.
“You appear to have a protector, Ms. Kelly,” Parrish said. “For now, anyway.”
“Leave her alone, Parrish,” Earl said.
“But I think Ms. Kelly ought to be interviewing me, don’t you?”
I was spared having to answer as the last member of the group hobbled into the clearing. Phil Newly moved gingerly toward a large flat rock, then sat down on it with a sigh. It was obvious that he was about to cripple himself with those new boots. For the last half mile or so, he had been walking as if every step were over hot glass.
I was searching through my pack for some of the moleskin I had brought, when Ben Sheridan walked up to him and said, “Take your boots off.”
Newly blushed and said, “I beg your pardon?”
“Take your boots off! You’ve probably got blisters. You should have spoken up on the trail.”
“I’ll leave them on, thank you,” Newly said, with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Don’t make a bigger nuisance of yourself by being stubborn,” Ben said. “You’re endangering this whole trip by damaging your feet. Or perhaps that’s what you have in mind?”
“Now see here—”
“Ignore his manners, Phil,” I said. “He’s right about the blisters. Dangerous if they become infected.”
But he wasn’t ready to give in, and instead took out a Global Positioning System device and began the process of taking a reading. Not hiding his exasperation, Ben walked off.
“You ever use one of these handheld GPS receivers?” Newly asked me.
“No,” I said. “I manage okay with a compass, an altimeter, and a map.” And a little help from J.C., I added silently. His familiarity with the area had helped me identify features of the terrain more than once.
