But when Travis and Jack appeared with the dogs, Frank noticed that the tracks he was following angled off, away from the camp. What did that mean? If the boot tracks were Irene’s — who was the other person? Parrish? Was he wounded? Was she?
No, hers — if they were hers — were the boot prints, deep, but distorted by something that had come by later, flattening a wide swath of grass. But he remembered seeing marks like these at other crime scenes, wherever a killer had dragged a body . . .
Oh God, no.
He began running alongside the path of the flattened grass. But when he had followed it through the trees, he came to a place where two people had stood — or so it seemed. There were three boots, and a mark he couldn’t make out. And the dog’s tracks. Nothing was being dragged. And then only two prints, but much deeper than before. The smaller boots, but — carrying something? Someone?
Two people had survived. Maybe Parrish had been wounded by the guards, but forced Irene to . . . what? Drag him behind her? He couldn’t picture it. More likely he had tied her up and dragged her along.
The tracks grew harder to follow, and eventually, he lost them. Looking for them, he came across a different set of prints.
Something wasn’t adding up. He counted again. J.C. and Andy had gone to the airstrip — that left Parrish, Thompson, Duke, Earl, Merrick, Manton, Flash, Sheridan, Niles, and Irene. Ten people. If the marks on the grass were made by Parrish and Irene, that left eight. Merrick and Manton shot, that left six.
Six pairs of booted feet. But there were only ten boots scattered by the explosion, not twelve. If someone else survived, who? And where was he?
Most likely, he figured, it was Duke or Earl. They were both veterans, they knew their stuff. Neither one of them would put Irene in danger, but either one would be able to keep track of Irene and Parrish, figure out where the bastard was taking her, keep the pressure on so that Parrish wouldn’t have time for . . . for other things. He began to feel a little better about Irene’s chances of surviving.
“Bring the dogs,” Frank said over the radio. “Let’s see if they can find Bingle.”
The dogs took them to the stream. They moved along one bank, where Bingle’s paw prints could still be seen now and then. But Deke and Dunk seemed distracted, often taking more interest in the local wildlife than in trailing another dog, Deke at one point nearly pulling Travis down into the mud when she decided to chase a squirrel. Jack scolded, and they settled down a little.
Frank, who was wondering if he had just spent twenty precious minutes setting up a squirrel hunt, looked upstream. He came to a halt. “Holy shit — a bridge.”
The others saw it too then — a felled tree, lying across the water. They hurried to it.
“Cut recently,” Jack said, “and I mean, very recently. Everything around here has been soaked with rain. But this pine is fairly dry — and fresh enough to smell the cut.”
Frank looked at the ground. The signs were confusing — two sets of boot prints, both people able to stand, and the dog nearby. There were other signs of disturbance — in one place handprints in the mud. Hers? He couldn’t be sure.
Maybe Duke or Earl had made a move here — and failed. Maybe the sixth man lost his life here, and his body was downstream.
But someone had found the strength and time to fell a good-sized tree.
“Let’s see what’s over on the other bank,” he said.
There were more confused prints, but the dogs seemed excited again, whining. Jack found Bingle’s prints again, and they followed them until Travis suddenly shouted, “Her tent!”
It was there, set up in the woods. She had even made something to catch rain. “Irene!” Frank called. “Irene!”
There was no answer.
They looked in the tent; there were signs she had slept here, but Frank soon noticed that there was a mixture of clothing in the tent. The dogs were very interested in one side of it, and looking closer, Frank saw a small amount of blood there.
“She got across that stream and camped here,” Jack said.
Frank picked up one of her shirts; no gash or sign of a wound or bleeding on it, or her bedroll. If she wasn’t the wounded one, maybe Parrish didn’t have her. Maybe she was with the other survivor. “Let’s see if that dog left any other tracks.”
As it happened, they didn’t need to look for tracks.
Deke, catching Bingle’s scent, began barking. Dunk took up the cry.
Near a group of boulders, Jack was the first one to see a large German shepherd emerge. The dog apparently decided that they were all close enough, because he began barking ferociously. Deke and Dunk immediately flattened themselves onto the ground, tails wagging nervously, as if bowing in supplication and begging his pardon.
“That sweater he’s got on has them in awe,” Travis said.
“No,” Jack said, “he’s born to rule. Deke and Dunk are just acknowledging that fact — although I’m sure they’ll test it later on.”
Telling Deke and Dunk — quite unnecessarily — to stay, the three men tried to approach the other dog, but Bingle bared his teeth at them, and continued to growl and bark.
Frank tried to recall the day he had spent working with David Niles and the dog, and suddenly remembered that the dog was given commands in Spanish.
“
The dog stopped barking and looked at him, cocking his head to one side. “
