Bones

His shirt was covered in blood, and he had tied a makeshift bandage around his left shoulder. In his right hand, he held a gun.

Bingle barked at him.

Parrish smiled. “I think I will begin by shooting that dog.”

25

FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 19

Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

“How unsporting of you,” I said.

“Unsporting?” he said, looking faintly amused.

“I mean, shooting a dog that’s leashed and standing just ten or fifteen feet away from you? Wow — what a great hunter you’ve turned out to be.”

“Do you think this sort of nonsense will spare you anything at all? Am I supposed to be impressed?”

I hoped he was. I was proud of myself just because I hadn’t wet my pants yet. Bracing for the sound of gunfire, I stooped down near Bingle, sheltering his head. Not really much of a risk. Parrish might shoot me, but I knew it wouldn’t fit his fantasies. He would want my suffering to be much more prolonged. I almost wanted him to shoot me.

“Stand up!” he shouted.

I unsnapped Bingle’s leash.

“Give the dog a head start,” I said, staying low.

“You’re going to tell him to bite me,” he said, leveling the gun at me.

“No, you’d just kill him. I’ll tell him to cross the stream.”

“You expect me to believe he understands such a command?”

“You’ve seen how well trained he is. Give him the command yourself — say it in Spanish, he’ll obey you.”

“I don’t speak the languages of inferior peoples.”

“Prince of the polyglots,” I murmured.

“What?”

“I said, I doubt you’re such a great shot. I’ll give him the command. Let him cross the stream. See if you can shoot him at that distance. Even if you can’t hit him, you’ll scare him off.”

“Can’t hit him?” He laughed. “All right, Irene, you seem to need a lesson in respect. Perhaps this will provide a demonstration of sorts. But I’ll warn you that if you plan to have him attack me, I can easily squeeze off a shot before he gets near me.”

“We’ll see,” I said. “Let me calm him down.”

“Bingle,” I said in a low voice. “Bingle, ?donde esta Ben? Buscalo, Bingle.”

Bingle stopped growling, looked at me, and cocked his head. He whined.

“Eres un perro maravilloso, Bingle. ?Donde esta Ben? Es muy importante, Bingle. ?Buscalo!”

He looked across the stream, back at me, then at Parrish. He looked at me and whined again.

“Bien, Bingle. ?Listo? ?Buscalo! Cuidalo. Por favor, Bingle. Ben, Bingle. Ben. ?Apurate, buscalo! ?Cuidalo! ?Vete!”

He moved off, stopped, and looked back at me. “?Bien! ?Sigue, adelante!”

I tried to keep my voice full of enthusiasm, thankful that Ben’s name wasn’t something like “Charles” or “Jim,” which would have been more noticeable among the Spanish words.

Bingle started moving again. Parrish said, “Follow him to the stream.”

He was never far behind me, and I had no doubt that the gun was trained on me, not the dog. Seeing us follow, Bingle was less reluctant, and began to make quick progress toward the felled tree.

“?Adelante!” I said, wondering if he could manage getting up onto the tree.

I needn’t have worried; he was fit and agile, and was soon making his way across. But when I didn’t follow, he stopped.

“?Largate!” I said. Scram!

He didn’t budge.

“I’ve had enough of this ridiculous mutt,” Parrish said, stepping out from behind me and aiming the gun at the dog.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” I said quickly. “I knew you’d take an easy shot!”

“Hurry up then!”

“?Largate!” I said again, in the sternest voice I could manage.

Bingle quickly moved away. When he was partly hidden by the branches, I yelled, “?Apurate, Bingle! ?Vete!”

He obeyed. He ran away from the stream, into the trees. But he was not out of sight yet. Parrish was taking careful aim when I slammed into him, knocking us both into the mud. Parrish fired the gun as he fell, screaming as he hit his shoulder.