Bones

“He’s here!” I shouted. “He’s here in the store!”

Frank knew I didn’t mean Elvis — and opened his jacket to have better access to his gun.

I hurriedly described the shirt and cap.

“Stay here!” he said, leaving me with the cart, while he and Jack moved in opposite directions, cautiously peering down each aisle, and yet keeping me within sight. Other shoppers were beginning to give us curious stares; a woman became alarmed when Frank sharply ordered her to “Keep back!”

I saw Frank tense, then relax. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Could I ask you to come this way for a moment?”

He guided a man who wore a cap and a dark green shirt into view. He was about Parrish’s height and build, had Parrish’s hair color, and looked nothing at all like him otherwise. “Is this the man you saw?” Frank asked.

I nodded.

“Thank you,” he said to the man, who looked at me as if he suspected I was out on a weekend pass.

“What’s this all about?” he asked warily.

“Nothing,” I said, my mouth dry. “Forgive me, I thought you were someone else.”

I took that first Monday morning off — much to John’s annoyance — and went with Frank and Bingle to David’s house. As we drew closer to David’s neighborhood — one of Las Piernas’s older neighborhoods, with small but well-maintained homes on large lots — Bingle began sticking his nose out the windows, sniffing and snorting; by the time we turned onto his street, he was whining and pacing anxiously in the backseat, his tail wagging rapidly.

When we pulled up in front of the house, he began barking — sharp, short barks.

“Tranquilo,” I said.

I saw an old woman part the curtains in the front window of the house across the street.

Bingle behaved himself as we walked to the front door, but it obviously required effort. Once we stepped inside, Frank unsnapped the leash, and the dog bounded through the house.

The big living room had little furniture — a sofa and chair, a television and VCR, and a bookcase. This latter held a number of videotapes, books about dogs and anthropology, and titles by Twain, Thurber, and Wodehouse.

Bingle distracted me from taking in much more of the decor. He was hurrying from room to room at an anxious trot, whimpering. Several times he came back, looked up at me, and whined. I began following him.

“What’s he up to?” Frank asked.

I felt my throat tighten. “I think he’s looking for David.”

In one bedroom, Bingle jumped up on the unmade bed, and rubbed his face against the sheets and pillows; in the closet, he put his nose into each of the shoes and then rolled in a pile of laundry; in the bathroom, he sniffed at hairbrushes, a toothbrush, drains, and the toilet seat.

I tried talking to him, but he just hurried out into another bedroom, one with a single dresser and a neatly made bed. He took a quick look around, nuzzled the pillow and whined, then went out into the kitchen, where Frank had started gathering his food, feeding instructions, and dog toys. Bingle ignored him.

Bingle moved to a door off the kitchen and scratched at it. I opened it; it led to the garage. There were stacks of cardboard boxes here; he gave them a cursory sniff and made his way to a back door, frantically pawing at it. He started barking.

I opened it, and followed him out into a large fenced yard, with two dog runs. Bingle looked into one of these and barked again. The one marked “Boolean.”

There was no lock on it. I unlatched its gate, which creaked as I opened it. Bingle went inside, sniffed around, and again looked back at me. It was as if he were willing me to answer some question. I knelt down, and answered the one I thought he might be asking.

“They’re gone, Bingle,” I said, wishing I had never brought him here.

He sat down, studied me silently for a moment, then raised his head back and howled — not the high, crooning note he had playfully sung for David, but a low, primal and plaintive lament, a sound to beckon ghosts.

Three nights later, I sneaked Bingle into the hospital. I know an ornery nun on the staff at St. Anne’s, and with her help and the cooperation of a couple of guards, we arrived on Ben’s floor not long before the end of that evening’s visiting hours. I had given the dog the command to be silent, but he already seemed to sense that he was part of a clandestine operation. He was at his most charming with Sister Theresa and the guards. He padded along quietly at my side. While I could see that his nose was working overtime, he didn’t insist on checking out any of what must have been a multitude of intriguing scents.

Ben was expecting us; the visit was his suggestion, although I don’t think he thought I’d be able to pull it off. Bingle wasn’t eating. “I regret bringing him to David’s now,” I told Ben, “but I think part of what’s depressing him is that everyone who is familiar to him is gone from his life now — David, Bool, and as far as he knows, you.”

Ben’s doubts that Bingle missed him were put to rest by the dog’s reaction to seeing him. Bingle’s ears came up, and his tail wagged furiously. He approached the bed quickly, but carefully, and after giving a little “rowl” of excitement, gently nuzzled and kissed Ben.

Bingle’s presence wasn’t such bad medicine for Ben, either. They both looked the happiest I had seen them in days.

It was during this reunion that the door to Ben’s room opened and a nearly illegally gorgeous blonde walked in. She was tall and thin, had large, long-lashed, sea green eyes, high cheekbones, a lovely nose, and any number of other features that made me wonder how many women had to take an extra ration of ugly so that God could make this one turn out so beautiful. She was wearing a conservatively cut beige business suit and carried flowers — a cheery bouquet in an elegant ceramic vase — a personal touch, I thought, not your standard issue green glass from the florist.

“I seem to have come at a bad time,” she said.