“Absolutely,” Andy said. “He’s in great shape. He can cover distances in a day that would have most of us looking as wiped out as Phil Newly was at lunch.”
By late that afternoon, I began to wonder if we would make it to an area where we could set up camp, let alone to Julia Sayre’s grave. We had wasted a lot of time, and the air was cooling rapidly. Clouds were gathering overhead — cirrus clouds. We might be in for a storm.
Thompson apparently had the same concerns. He stopped the procession. “We don’t seem to be heading in the direction of the valley you indicated on the map,” he complained to Parrish.
“I was wrong,” Parrish said. “I know exactly where I’m going now.”
Just then the breeze shifted a little. Bingle lifted his nose and made a chuffing sound, then began to whine, looking at David, ears pitched forward.
“Is he alerting?” Ben asked softly from behind me.
David was focused on the dog. “
The dog started to move ahead, and David hurried to catch up with him. I followed, ignoring Thompson’s “Get back here!”
The dog was moving rapidly now, and soon was out of sight. “Bingle!
We reached it at the same time, both giving a cry of revulsion at the same moment. Bingle was at the base of a pine tree that at first seemed draped in some strange, gray moss. But it was not moss. The objects dangling from its branches were animals. Coyotes. A dozen or so carcasses, hanging upside down, in varying states of decay, nailed to the lower branches, as if someone had started to decorate a macabre Christmas tree.
I put my hand over my mouth, fighting off the urge to be sick.
David was quieting Bingle, praising the dog, but I could hear the shakiness in his voice.
We heard the sound of the others, pushing their way through the woods behind us.
Nicholas Parrish looked up at the tree and smiled. “I told you we were headed in the right direction.”
6
TUESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON, MAY 16
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
Flash took pictures. Merrick, arms held back by Manton, red-faced with anger, shouted at Parrish that he was “one sick fuck,” while Manton did his best to keep his fellow guard from punching the prisoner. Parrish kept smiling.
I had watched the others arrive at the coyote tree; their faces had expressed first horror, then fury. Ben Sheridan, although briefly startled when he first saw the tree, now calmly studied it. He turned to Flash. “We’ll need photographs of this, Mr. Burden.”
Merrick, seeing Ben start to take notes, shouted, “That turn you on, Sheridan?”
“Shut up, Merrick,” Bob Thompson said without heat, moving closer to the tree, studying it as well.
“From several angles, please, Mr. Burden,” Ben said, then glancing at Merrick added, “if you videotape, please keep the sound off. David, perhaps it would be best to move Bingle away.”
“There’s a small clearing about fifty yards away — down that pathway, there,” Parrish said, pointing. No one thanked him for his help.
I stayed for a while, but no one else was talking. I saw Thompson take out his GPS. I used my compass to note the position of the tree.
I wondered if Thompson would ask for additional charges to be brought against Parrish for this — maybe J.C. could bring them on behalf of the Forest Service. I forced myself to count the coyotes — there were twelve of them. They appeared to have some sort of coating on them. Much as I tried to mentally brace myself, the sight made my stomach churn. I turned to Parrish. “Why?”
He grinned and said, “Feeling a kinship with them? Perhaps you’d like me to hang you here among them. Let them sway against you in the breeze.”
I felt a sudden surge of anger, but just as quickly saw that he enjoyed my reaction — so I clenched my teeth against a retort.
Quietly, Thompson asked me to leave, and for once, I was happy to comply with his request.
When I caught up with Andy and David, they were playing tug-of-war with Bingle, using a cotton rope toy that had the worn look of a favorite plaything. I joined in the game. The dog would shake the rope fiercely and then proudly prance around the clearing whenever he took it away from one of us, high-stepping as he let the others know who had won the encounter, looking slyly at each of us to dare the next comer. It was almost enough to take our minds off what was happening by the tree, but not quite.
“David,” Andy said, “you’ve been around this type of guy before. Why do you think Parrish did that?”
“There could be any number of explanations,” David said, “but if you’re trying to make any real sense of it, well, that’s something for a forensic psychologist to tackle.”
“He’s insane,” Andy said.
“Not by the legal definition,” David said. “He was found competent to stand trial.”
“According to Newly, Parrish was a severely abused child,” I said.
“Oh?” David said. “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. His mother is dead and his sister has mysteriously disappeared, so we only have Parrish’s word about the abuse. In fact, he’s probably the only person on earth who knows where his sister is — either one of you believe she’s still breathing?”
Silence.
“Did he kill his mother?” Andy asked.
