Bones

“Thanks for the invitation, Phil, but if I don’t eat this meal I’m planning to make, I have to pack it on my back tomorrow. Besides, I don’t think I want to watch Nick Parrish enjoying a steak dinner.”

“I believe Earl will be serving a bologna sandwich to my client.”

I smiled. “And you didn’t object?”

“Not much.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “I don’t have to like my clients, Irene. I just have to provide them with the best legal defense work I can offer.”

“But Parrish didn’t seem to want much of a defense, did he?”

“I was opposed to this deal.”

“They had a solid case against him.”

“Irene, please—”

“Okay, okay. I’m not hopelessly naive about what can become of a solid case once you’ve had a crack at it.”

He laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, say you’ll join us.”

“Sorry, Phil. The journalist in me says I’d write a better story if I tried to build a sense of camaraderie and all that, but I figure we’ll have plenty of time to be in each other’s faces over the next two or three days.”

“All right, then, I won’t pressure you. But don’t stay away all evening — you’ll just look as if you’re pouting.”

“You’re right,” I acknowledged, feeling a little disappointed that I’d have to lace up my gloves and go back into the ring. “See you later.”

Wondering if, during the years I was away from it, any aspect of backpacking had improved more than freeze-dried food, I cleaned up and rejoined the group, which had gathered around a small campfire. Earl and Duke had taken Parrish into his tent and were on duty there; but one of the other cops, Manton, was friendly to me, as was Flash Burden, the photographer. With two exceptions — Bob Thompson and Ben Sheridan — there wasn’t much after-dinner hostility at all.

Not long after I arrived, Thompson said he was going to bed. “I suggest the rest of you do the same.” The others, however, ignored him.

Manton noticed my uneasy glances toward the tent where Parrish had been taken and said, “Don’t worry, we aren’t gonna let him out of our sight. You’ll be okay.”

“Thanks,” I said, but could not rid myself of the notion that Parrish was lying wide awake, listening to every word, every sound from beyond his tent.

A sharp sound made me glance over at Ben Sheridan, who was snapping twigs into smaller and smaller pieces. I wasn’t the only one who was having trouble relaxing in the great outdoors.

The others soon distracted me, though, as they began to tease me about missing out on the steaks.

“Took less time to prepare the steaks than it took for old Dave there to make his dog’s dinner,” Merrick said, and launched into an exaggerated tale of David’s elaborate preparation of Bingle’s food.

“Hey, I’ve got to take good care of Bingle,” David said. “?Estas bien, Bingle?” Bingle, sitting between him and Ben, leaned over to kiss David on the ear.

“Goddamn,” Manton said, “you let that dog kiss you after he’s gone around licking dead bodies?”

“Bingle, he’s slandering you!” David said, in a tone that caused the dog to bark. “Bingle only kisses the living. Of course, a guy with breath like yours might confuse him, Manton, so maybe he won’t kiss you.”

“What is that stuff you feed him?” Flash Burden asked.

“Oh, that’s my own secret Super-Hero-In-Training formula.”

“It produces its own acronym,” Andy chimed in.

“Just don’t step in it like you stepped on my punch line, kid,” David said, but without malice.

Bingle lay quietly, ears forward, watching David. David, I noticed, spent a lot of time watching Bingle, too.

Andy asked about Bool, and David explained that he had injured one of his paws during the search for Kara Lane. “Bool gets involved in finding a scent, he doesn’t exactly watch where he’s going. He’ll be okay, but he’s not ready for a search like this one. I’ve got a friend who trains bloodhounds, he’s keeping an eye on Bool while I’m here.”

“This shepherd must be the smarter of the two,” Manton said.

David smiled. “Bingle is certainly a highly educated dog. He’s bilingual, too. ?Correcto, Bingle?” Bingle sat up again and gave a single sharp bark. “And besides his cadaver training, he’s had voice training.”

“Voice training?” Manton asked.

“Cantame, Bingle,” David said, and began singing “Home on the Range.” Bingle chimed in with perfect pitch at the chorus. I’d swear we all heard that dog sing the lyrics. Nobody could keep a straight face. Almost nobody.

“Enough, David,” Ben said sharply.

Silence.

Everyone shifted a little uncomfortably, except for David and Bingle. Both dog and man looked at Ben, Bingle cocking his head to one side, puzzled.

“Ah, the discouraging word,” David said softly, without a trace of anger. He began quietly praising Bingle.

Ben stood and walked off.

5

TUESDAY, MAY 16, 2:25 A.M.