I laughed and started to leave, then bent back down and hugged him. He seemed a little surprised at first, but then he hugged back. “Be safe,” he said.
“You, too.”
I stood up and had climbed about halfway out when he said, “Thank you.”
“You keep fighting, Ben Sheridan, or I’ll really be pissed off at you.”
“Take care, Lois Lane.”
“Sure thing, Quincy.”
“Oh God, don’t make me a pathologist!”
I reached the top of the rock pile, saw him below me, suddenly looking vulnerable and alone. I almost considered staying with him, but I knew that we’d be fish in a barrel for Parrish if he found us.
Maybe he saw my indecision, because he said, “Shove old Nicky off a cliff and come back and tell me the rest of Parzival.”
“Sure. I’ll try not to make you wait to hear the ending.”
I took one last look at him, hoped it wasn’t really a last look, waved, and began my journey back to the stream, listening to Parrish’s ax ringing out its challenge, its siren call, its alarm.
24
FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
He was strong.
I suppose I had known that before, but watching him swing that ax at the tree on the opposite bank disheartened me, made me wonder what on earth had led me to believe I could defeat him.
He was swinging hard, angrily. The tree was not huge — a pine tree that was tall enough to span the stream and thick enough to support his weight when he walked on it.
I forced myself to think in terms of escaping him, drawing him away from Ben. My first frantic thoughts included improbable methods of killing him: throwing a large rock at him while he was chopping down the tree, beaning him while his hands were occupied; swinging across the stream from a vine, Tarzan-style, plunging my knife into him while the ax was stuck in the wood; whittling a javelin and spearing him while he was halfway across the river.
All impractical. I have a decent pitching arm, but this was no straight shot, and if I missed him, he’d shoot me; there were no convenient Tarzan-strength vines; even if I had the time to whittle a javelin, chances of learning to throw one accurately for a one-chance, winner-takes-all shot were nil.
I did find another stick that could be used as a club, and a few baseball-sized rocks. If he had somehow seen me watching him, and came after me before I crossed to the other side, I’d use whatever was at hand to stop him.
There was a slow creaking sound, then a thunderous crack. The tree began to give way, its upper branches catching and snapping like gunfire as they struck the branches of other trees on the way down. It hit the ground on my side of the stream with a loud bang that shook the earth beneath me.
Bingle flattened himself to the ground and put his ears back, but stayed next to me. I peered cautiously from my hiding place.
Nick Parrish stood surveying his handiwork. He could easily cross over now; the lowest branches of the tree would present an obstacle or two at this end, but he had chosen his crossing place and bridge material well.
Would he plan on my being this close? Would he know that I might have moved toward the sound of him felling a tree? I didn’t think so. He would expect me to run. He expected fear.
He was looking at the ax now, and as he did, I tried not to think of him using it on me. He expects fear, I told myself again. Don’t give it to him.
So I tried to think about the ax being in my own hands, which suddenly made me wonder — whose ax was it? I couldn’t remember anyone hiking with one, or using one in the past few days. Did he have other tools and weapons cached nearby?
He carried the ax with him as he began to walk along the tree trunk. He used it as a kind of balance. He moved cautiously. Closer and closer.
He had his hands full, the gun holstered. The temptation to try pitching one of the rocks at him was strong. The stream wasn’t very far below him, only about four feet. It was running swift and cold, but I wasn’t sure how deep. He wasn’t looking toward me now; he was getting closer to the branches, which would partially obscure him. I might not have a better chance. But if I missed? Perhaps I could still evade him.
I had picked up one of the rocks and was weighing it in my hand when he lost his balance. He had almost reached my side of the stream when one of the branches supporting the fallen trunk gave way beneath his added weight, The whole trunk suddenly dropped a few inches, and Parrish lunged forward. He let go of the ax and grasped wildly at the branches nearest him.
The ax fell into the rushing water below, but the branch he had grabbed held. He pulled himself upright, looking shaken. My enjoyment of that was brief.
Whispering to Bingle to remain quiet, I watched as Parrish quickly made his way to safety, and onto the bank. I moved behind a fallen tree, no longer risking watching him, listening as he moved through the woods. He came closer to where I crouched. I took my club in hand. He paused not far from me, and for a moment I was sure he had seen me, and that he was merely deciding how best to take me captive. But he moved on, heading downstream, toward the place where he had heard Bingle barking.
I made myself wait a little longer, then stood and stretched. Bingle stretched his back legs, then followed me to Parrish’s bridge. I snapped the leash onto his harness, hoping he wouldn’t balk at crossing the noisy current. If he fell in, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to keep him from being swept downstream.
I needn’t have worried. He didn’t resist my efforts to help him scramble up onto the tree, and once we were clear of the branches, he began to move so quickly and easily that I had to concentrate on keeping up with him, rather than on thoughts of falling into the water.
