Blind Pursuit

13

In a haze of light Gund treads a familiar path through a dry wash. Steep embankments rise on both sides, crawling with twisted palo verde trees rooted in the powdery soil.

Javelinas have been here recently; he smells their skunklike odor. The strong scent, the crunch of loose pebbles under his sneakers, the filigree traceries of sunlight on a fallen saguaro’s exposed ribs-all of it is vivid and distinct, more real than reality.

The experience is by no means new to him. He knows every detail intimately, anticipates what he will see even before he reaches the narrow end of the arroyo, before he takes hold of a palo verde’s green trunk and climbs the crumbling rise, before he reaches the top and lifts his head above the rim.

Beyond a waving stand of bitterweed in yellow bloom, under the blue expansive sky, she lounges in a recliner. Posed like a model-head thrown back, arms relaxed at her sides, long, tanned legs glistening with lotion. She breathes, and the hills of her breasts rise and fall, their movement fascinating.

She wears denim shorts and a cotton shirt, partially unbuttoned, showing inches of smooth flesh.

The tingle in his groin tells him he is getting hard and stiff down there. Though he hates the feeling, he cannot turn away.

Abruptly she sits up, turns her head from side to side, eyes masked behind sunglasses. Always he worries that she’s sensed his presence somehow; she never has. She is merely confirming that she’s alone.

Her hand moves to her shirt and undoes the remaining buttons one at a time.

The shirt opens. He has lived this moment a thousand times, yet the sight of her bare chest still robs him of breath.

Squirt of suntan lotion into her open palm. Her hand creams the oil over her cleavage, her breasts. She rubs harder, fingering her nipples. Her legs flex as her head lolls. Glint of sunlight on her mirrored lenses. One hand caresses her breasts while the other drifts lazily down to the zipper of her shorts. She wears no underpants. Lotion on her finger. The finger curling inside…

Gund woke.

His breathing was loud and labored above the pounding of his heart.

Blinking, he registered a smear of morning light caught in the window curtains. He must have kicked off the covers during the night. Naked, he lay motionless, arms and legs splayed.

Beside the bed, an upended apple crate supported a gooseneck lamp and dime-store alarm clock. The short and long hands of the clock were at seven and three: 7:15.

He’d awoken fifteen minutes before his alarm was set to go off. Strange.

After dropping the letter in Annie’s mailbox, he’d come directly home, arriving at five in the morning. He had shed his clothes-the outfit from last night lay scattered on the floor like a trail of clothes left by a melting man-and collapsed into bed, falling instantly asleep.

That had been only two hours ago. He would have expected to sleep straight through.

Perhaps a residuum of excitement over last night’s successful enterprise had roused him. Or the nagging sense of urgency, the awareness of a looming deadline, which had been with him for the past two weeks.

He studied the wall opposite the bed, bare of ornament save for the single decorative item found in his apartment, a calendar showing scenes of America’s national parks. Today’s date was April 17. A Tuesday.

It had been April 3 when he purchased the two cans of gasoline that now lay under the tarp in the rear of his van. Three days later he had bought a badminton set at a toy store. The net, shuttles, and rackets had gone into the trash; he had wanted only the metal stakes used to put up the net.

They were hidden under the tarp also.

Funny how he had done these things without quite permitting himself to know where his actions would lead. Oh, he did know, of course, but in some peculiar way he seemed able to block out that knowledge and operate on automatic pilot, making his purchases and preparations with no conscious planning, no definite intentions.

It was always that way. But this time things would be different. This time he had Erin Reilly to help him.

If she could.

And if not…

Then the stakes and the gasoline would be used for her.

His mouth twisted, and a groan shuddered out of him, thick and wheezy.

He wondered how much time he had before the compulsion became irresistible. A month? Two weeks?

Perhaps not long enough for Erin to do her work. But it had to be. For his sake and hers.

Therapy. The prospect simultaneously frightened and intrigued him. He supposed she would ask him about his childhood, his sex life. Those appeared to be the standard avenues of inquiry.

Some evasion would be necessary in both areas. There were things he wouldn’t reveal, secrets he meant to keep.

Dreams. That was another topic sure to arise. Well, there was only one dream that mattered, the dream that had visited him on so many nights, the dream that would not let him go.

A frown crossed his face. The dream…

That was what had woken him ahead of the alarm clock. Of course.

Slowly he raised his head and, for the first time since opening his eyes, looked at himself. He preferred never to see his unclothed body. His pale white flesh, thick around his waist, repelled him, and he found the hairy swatch of his genitalia troubling in some obscure way.

Still, he looked, then released a relieved sigh. His penis was soft, flaccid. He did not have an erection. Good.

Erections scared and disgusted him. Pain and shame were inextricably intertwined with any reminder of the sexual act.

He thought again of the dream. Lotion on her finger; her finger between her legs…

The stream of images would unwind in his mind throughout the day, persistent as a migraine, unless he did something to push the memory away.

He knew what was necessary. The photo. His special picture.

Quickly he rose from bed and threw on a robe, belting it to hide his body from himself. Barefoot, he left the bedroom and proceeded down the hall to the den at the far end.

The den contained just three sticks of furniture-a writing desk he’d salvaged years ago from a retiring professor’s office, the desk’s swivel chair, and a steel file cabinet. Dust dressed everything in a dull gray coat.

At the back of the file cabinet, in an unlabeled manila folder, he kept the photograph.

Carefully he took it out, then sat in the desk chair and studied it in a band of light filtering through a gash in the curtain.

The photo’s corners were dog-eared, the edges worn from repeated handling. It had been crisp and new when he’d obtained it. But since then, nearly every night, he’d found himself drawn to the picture, gazing at it sometimes for hours.

The picture calmed him, as it always did. He lost himself in it and felt the world slide away.

Relaxed now, the dream banished, he could examine his own feelings more objectively.

Yes, his ugly impulses were stirring. But he could control them. He could hold off the need to take action. He could refrain from taking Erin outside the ranch, to the arroyo. He could stop himself from ending her life in a shout of flame.

He was certain of it.

Almost certain, anyway.