Now, as I held fast to the armrests of my seat while the plane jolted in the choppy air above the southern Sierra Nevadas, I watched the killer awaken not far from me. It was not difficult for me to imagine Nicholas Parrish stalking his prey, staring at Julia Sayre as she left the house to run errands, or as she worked in her garden, or came home from the store. Staring at her, while she imagined herself safe from harm.
Staring at her, much in the same way he was staring at me now.
3
MONDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 15
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
After a bouncy landing on a rough patch of ground that served as the airstrip, there was a wait before we were allowed to disembark. Bob Thompson addressed one of the guards as “Earl” and muttered some order to him. Earl was the first to exit; he returned shortly and, giving an “all clear,” worked with the other three guards to remove Parrish from the plane. Thompson was next, followed by a quiet young man who seemed to be his assistant — though not his partner. Thompson and Phil Newly, Parrish’s attorney, were the only members of the group that I had met before that day. A few years back, I had covered some crime stories, and had seen Newly around the courthouse.
Thompson and I had known each other for close to ten years. The contempt was both strong and mutual.
I figured that made me the show horse in the race to capture the hostility of the other passengers. Parrish was first by a length, followed by Newly. As a member of the press, I was a distant third.
Newly and Bill “Flash” Burden, an LPPD crime scene photographer, stepped off after the guards; then the pilot came back into the cabin and stood in the aisle. “Rest of you wait until they get Parrish settled,” he said, then left the plane. Minutes passed.
“Do you know who’s meeting us from the Forest Service?” I heard David Niles ask.
“J.C.,” said Ben Sheridan, the other anthropologist. “Andy is coming up with him.”
“Andy who?” I asked.
Sheridan eyed me coldly, then turned back to the window, frowning. After a moment’s silence, David Niles said, “Andy Stewart, a botanist who works with us sometimes.”
“Thank you, Dr. Niles.”
“Call me David.”
Sheridan sighed loudly. This only seemed to amuse David, but he didn’t say more to me. I had known that we would be meeting a couple of people at this airstrip; men who were being flown in from another location, but Thompson had only said they were “part of Sheridan’s team.”
“Okay, folks,” Earl called. I stood, but gestured to David to let Bingle — fidgety since the landing — lead the way. “Thanks,” he said, then followed the dog. That left me with Ben Sheridan, who was still frowning as he gazed out the window.
“Listen,” I began. “I don’t want to—”
“I’m not leaving you here to snoop around on the plane,” he interrupted. “Go on outside.”
I felt a flare of temper, checked it, and left the plane without saying another word to him.
I stretched at the bottom of the steps, taking in the view before me. We were in a long meadow, near the center of a narrow valley that was already shadowed and cooling. The scent of pine from nearby woods mixed with the fragrance of late spring blossoms in the meadow, of grass and earth. When I saw the slender mown strip where we had landed, I felt new respect for the pilot.
A base camp would be set up here.
Bingle, once he had relieved himself, began cavorting wildly through the meadow, not so much running as bouncing through it, stopping now and then to try to lure his handler into playing with him. But David, Sheridan, and everyone who wasn’t involved in guarding Parrish were busy unloading gear from the plane. I gathered my own, then moved to help the others. I had only taken a few steps when a voice from behind me asked, “Are you the reporter?”
I turned to see a lean, golden young man smiling at me. I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. His hair was short and spiky. He was tanned and had the kind of calf muscles a person can only get by moving his feet over long distances, on a bike or running or hiking. He wore a closely trimmed beard and a single earring in his right ear.
“Yes,” I said, setting down my backpack and extending a hand. “Irene Kelly.”
“Andy Stewart,” he said, with a firm handshake. “I’m the botanist for the team. J.C. and I got here at noon. We’re all set up. Can I give you a hand with anything?”
“I can manage this, but it looks as if Dr. Sheridan still has some gear in there.”
He grabbed another canvas bag and continued to chat with me, telling me that a Forest Service helicopter had brought them in earlier.
“Forgive me for asking, but why is a botanist needed for this search?”
“Well, whenever anybody like Mr. Parrish comes along and digs a hole, drops what will ultimately amount to a big chunk of fertilizer in it, and then covers it up again, nature doesn’t let that pass unnoticed. The plants he dug up, the new ones that begin to grow, the surrounding soil — he’s created a disturbance in the existing system. With enough practice, a botanist can learn to see the signs of that disturbance.”
“So you’re paid to look for changes in plant life?”
His face broke into a grin. “Paid? No, none of us are paid. Ben, David, and I do this forensic work voluntarily. I’m a grad student in biology; Ben and David teach in the anthropology department. David also pays for all of Bingle’s training and equipment. Even J.C. doesn’t get any special pay for coming along, although he’s on the Forest Service payroll while he’s here.” He paused. “If you don’t mind my asking the question you asked me — what’s a reporter doing here?”
“Good question. There are any number of folks, here and at home, who’d tell you I have no business being here.” I paused, trying to shut out the memory of the fight Frank and I had before I left.
