I might not have locked the van; in fact, the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that I had not locked the van when I bought the maps, that Parrish had been inside it, that he had put the bones of some of his victims in the van.
Up ahead, I saw a flash of dark green and drove faster.
Bones.
I felt ill. I rolled down all the windows. There was not enough air.
I forced myself to look in the rearview mirror.
I saw the camper fixtures — cabinets, the small sink, stove and refrigerator, a fold-up table and seats that could be made into beds. I stared and stared, but there were no bones.
It was a huge relief and no relief at all.
I looked back at the road just as an old man with a hat on pulled his Dodge Dart out into my lane without looking; I swerved and narrowly missed him. He had the nerve to honk at me.
What the hell did I think I was doing? Even if it was Parrish in the Honda, what was I going to do? I wasn’t armed.
I’ll see if it’s him. If it is, I’ll get the license plate number.
Fine.
There! In the far left lane, stopped at a light and two cars back from the intersection, a dark green Honda Accord waited. I couldn’t see the driver. The light turned green, but I was delayed by a driver trying to turn left. The Honda was getting away!
Finally the car turned and I sped to the next intersection. I put the van in park, opened the door, and stood on the door frame, trying to get a look at the green Honda’s driver. A man — a man who could be Parrish. I couldn’t see the Honda’s plates.
The driver of the car behind me honked and flipped me the bird. The light had changed. More horns honked. I got back inside the van and moved forward, signaling a lane change, trying to get over to the left lane, desperate to keep track of the Honda.
But the driver in the lane next to mine was the fellow who had given me the finger. Still angry at me, he refused to let me pass. Red-faced, he shook his fist at me, and promptly rear-ended the car in front of him, which then came into my lane. I slammed on the brakes.
I was boxed in.
Through my open windows, I heard the red-faced finger flipper shouting that it was my fault. When I looked for the Honda again, it was gone.
Ignoring Red Face, I asked the guy who had been rear-ended if he was okay. He was. He turned to Red Face, told him to shut the hell up, and to my surprise, was obeyed.
The story provided amusement over dinner — that is, the part of the story I told, which was very little of it, after all, and had nothing to do with Hondas or bones.
The subtle scent of bones had plagued me even after I reached home. I took a long, hot shower, and my thoughts returned again and again to the events of the afternoon.
There could be bones in one of the cabinets inside the van. There were many little cubbyholes and crannies to search, I thought.
But what if I searched and there weren’t any bones?
If you’re scared and there’s nothing to be scared of and you prove to yourself that there’s nothing to be scared of and you’re
The longer the warm water washed over me, the more it seemed to me that a search itself would be the act of a truly crazy woman. I made a vow to ignore the scent.
So somehow I made the story of buying maps and the red-faced man and a rear-end collision funny, and if my own laughter was a little brittle, no one but Frank seemed to notice.
When I saw that Frank also noticed the trembling of my hands when I spread out the topo maps, I hoped that he ascribed it to the area shown on the maps, and not what happened when I had purchased them.
I focused on the maps. It required concentration. My mind cleared.
Beginning with the largest-scale map, we tried to find the fastest and easiest routes a man could take from the cave — where evidence of Parrish’s stay had since been found — to the ranger station and Helitack unit.
There were other ways to get in and out of the ranger station without using the dirt road, but J.C. had definitely chosen the quickest method of reaching us.
“The road you took looks closer to the meadow than the airstrip,” I said.
“It is, but the hike in and out is rough and steep.” He showed us the route he had taken. “It would be extremely difficult to carry a body out over it, and I’m not sure every hiker in that group could have managed that trail.”
“We had lots of different levels of experience,” I agreed. “If he hadn’t set the trap, your idea of sending a helicopter to the meadow would have been the best one.”
He made a harsh, low sound, as if I had hit him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Instead,” he said bitterly, “my brilliant idea got David and Flash and the others killed.”
“What?!” Ben and I said in unison.
He told us his version of how decisions had been made on the ridge near the coyote tree. He felt sure that
