Thompson’s eyes narrowed. He looked ready to deliver Parrish a beating. He clenched his fists, then turned from Parrish, pacing two stiff steps away before saying, “Make camp here. We’ll look for her in the morning.”
And so we all went to work setting up tents. No one spoke much that night; there was none of the joking or camaraderie of the evening before. Bingle stayed with David, which was all right, I wasn’t going to sleep. I’m sure I’m not the only one who lay awake that night, thinking of Julia Sayre being marched to this meadow, forced to dig her own grave. Not the only one, I’m sure, who thought it was worse somehow that Parrish had transformed this paradise into her hell.
And I’m sure I’m not the only one who wondered just how far away from us she lay.
7
WEDNESDAY MORNING, MAY 17
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
Just after dawn the next morning, I went for a short walk, telling Manton, who was on watch with Merrick, which direction I planned to go. I hadn’t hiked far when I found a shallow cave, not quite ten feet deep. If it had ever been the lair of an animal, it had long since been abandoned. There was nothing in the way of a cache of food or a nest, no scat, no bones of smaller prey, no bits of fur. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that the cave looked a little too clean. No animal I could think of would leave so little evidence of its residence there.
I decided to ask J.C., the ranger, about it when he caught up to us again. It also occurred to me that Parrish could have made use of this place, and if so, the experts in our search group might be able to detect traces of his activities there.
I began to feel uneasy, and try as I might to chalk it up to another round of claustrophobia, I knew that wasn’t the case. I hurried outside and went through the routine of using the compass and altimeter to calm myself down. I made a note of the cave’s location and headed back to camp.
Although it was still early when I returned to the meadow, most of the others were up and about. Manton was studying a photograph of a blonde with shoulder-length hair, holding his thumb over part of the picture.
“Your wife?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s pretty.”
“Thanks.”
I started to walk away, but as if it had just occurred to him, he said, “Hey, you’re a woman . . .”
I turned back to him. What woman can resist responding to that observation? You always know what’s coming next. Its equivalent is, “Hey, you speak Urdu, translate this.” On behalf of your Urdu-speaking sisters, you listen.
“Tell me something,” he continued. “You think her hair looks better like this?”
“Your thumb’s in the way.”
“No, that’s where she cut her hair, just before I came up here. Pissed me off. We argued.”
“Let me see,” I said, and he handed it to me. I studied it for a moment. “She’s pretty either way, don’t you think?”
He took the photo back. “Yeah, I guess so. I guess I just need to get used to it.” He yawned. “Nothing I can do about it now.” He moved off to his tent.
Several yards away, Ben and Andy stood on top of a large, rounded boulder. Both were using field glasses; Andy pointed down the field, seeming to indicate a particular location, and Ben focused his binoculars in that direction. They then lowered their binoculars and made markings on a piece of paper. As I watched, this process was repeated several times.
I moved closer to them. Andy saw me and called out a greeting. “Come up here,” he said. “I’ll show you some of the signs we look for.”
Ben was obviously displeased with this suggestion, and walked away before I reached the boulder.
“Here,” Andy said, handing me his binoculars. “Look out over there, just to the right of that tree.” He waited while I located the place he was indicating. “What do you see?” he asked.
I studied the meadow, which sloped gently upward from where we had camped. “Mostly grass and wildflowers,” I said.
“Is the grass all the same height?”
I studied it again, more carefully this time, then said, “No! There’s a patch of shorter growth.”
“Right,” he said. “It might be shorter because it’s newer. We found several places like that in this meadow, and mapped them out. We’ll need to take a closer look to get an idea of what caused the growth to be different there.”
“Is that where David will search with Bingle?”
“Maybe. Usually he likes to start by giving Bingle a chance to sniff around on his own, without any guidance from us — see if he gives an alert.”
“Like he did at the coyote tree?”
“No — not exactly. Bingle gives a very clear signal when he smells human blood or remains. He’s trained to look specifically for human rather than animal remains. The way he reacted to the coyote tree — I think he was just upset.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“Me, neither.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Anyway, Ben and I will be checking out the places where the plant life is disturbed while David works with Bingle. Any number of natural factors can cause a change in plant life, of course, but I think one or two of the areas we want to look at are typical of burial places.”
“Typical?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
