Double

39: McCone

I stepped around the dark green branches of a greasewood bush, out of the sun’s glare, and stared at the place where my car had been. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened. Sugarman’s murderer had found the magnetic key case under the dash and had driven the MG, as well as Sugarman’s Datsun, off someplace — probably not too far away or he wouldn’t have been able to walk back. The Cadillac must belong to him, and I was certain he hadn’t been so foolish as to leave the keys in the ignition.

Still, its windows were open and I could get inside. And that was all I needed, since I possessed valuable, though untested, knowledge — I knew how to go about hot-wiring a car. It was something I’d picked up years ago from my brothers, who, while they never stole cars themselves, had traveled in a set where the ability to hot-wire was looked upon in the same way society people appreciate a low golf handicap.

I moved away from the protection of the greasewood bush and studied the front of the house. The door was shut and, owing to the lack of windows, I felt reasonably safe about going over to the car. Nonetheless, I hurried across the parking area in a crouch and slipped into the Cadillac on the passenger’s side, which faced away from the house. Wriggling across the hot black leather seat, I checked the ignition. No keys.

I lay down on the seat and reached under the dash for the ignition wires. When I located them, I started to put them together, then realized I needed a way to hold them in place once the car was started. My brothers had advocated always carrying a stick of chewing gum for this purpose, but I had nothing on me but the Swiss Army knife — and that certainly wouldn’t do the job. Glancing around the car, I spotted a paper clip on the floor and snatched it up.

Quickly I aligned the proper wires and pressed them together while I touched one foot to the gas pedal. The car started with a roar. I slipped the paper clip onto the wires and was about to sit up and put the car in gear when the engine died.

Damn! It must have something to do with the paper clip. Something to do with metal shorting out the current. I ducked down and tried again. The engine started — and died.

Somewhere outside I heard a noise. Sitting up, I peered over the seat back and through the rear window. The door of the house was open and a man was coming out.

The glare of sun bouncing off the trunk lid and onto the rear window blinded me, so the only thing I could tell about him was that he was big — and running toward the car.

I pounded my fist on the seat in frustration, then ducked down and moved back across to the passenger’s door. I slid out to the ground and threw a glance back along the road toward the rise. The sound of the man’s footsteps came closer.

I hated to run, but in my weakened condition there was no way I could stay and fight. I looked to the left and spotted the ruins of the water tower and loading platform, about three football fields away across the hard-packed, rocky sand. As the man closed in on the other side of the car, I stood up and plunged off toward the tower.

The footsteps came after me. A spurt of adrenaline enabled me to speed up, in spite of a wrenching pain in the side I’d fallen on earlier. My breath came in gasps; about halfway there I faltered and looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see the man gaining on me.

But he had turned, and now was running back toward the house. He wore blue pants, a white shirt, and had lightish hair. His gait was shambling and erratic.

It both surprised and relieved me; the man must be old or ill or out of shape. But I knew that this might only be a temporary reprieve. He was probably going back to get a gun.

I ran on, finally reaching the shed and skidding around it. I slammed into the wall, and there was a stinging in my bare arm. Glancing down, I saw splinters and bloody scrapes. A nail had caught my blouse and ripped it along the side.

I gritted my teeth in pain and irritation, leaning on the wall for a moment. If I could get to the road, I could make it to the Elephant Tree Ranger Station — and help. But if I tried to run along the road I would be an easy target for a man in a car; that was why I’d come this way in the first place. It was better to find shelter in the desert and then double back to the road later — under cover of night, if necessary.

About a hundred yards away was an outcropping of rock, and beyond it the desert sloped downward from the foothills. I started running toward it, but when I crossed the remains of the spur track, my foot caught and I fell. Scrabbling to my knees, I looked back toward the house. The man had not reappeared.

I got up and kept running.

The rocks were sandstone, steep and crumbly. I went up them on all fours, clawing for handholds. At the top I flattened to the ground, panting, and then began inching along. After about five feet I came to a drop-off that ended in a drift of rock and sand. I rolled down it, the fine powder filling my shoes and caking my nostrils, the rocks cutting into my skin. Then I struggled to my feet.

The desert spread before me, ripply and wrinkled, with occasional outcroppings before it merged with more of the low, eroded hills. The sky above was relentlessly blue and clear. As far as I could see, everything was tan, dotted with dead-looking scrub vegetation, hazed with shimmering heat. There was nowhere to hide nearby. Nowhere to escape Sugarman’s killer or the cruel rays of the sun.

I pivoted to the right and then the left, finally spotting a wash full of thorny underbrush. It was hundreds of yards away, across open country where I could easily be sighted, but it was my only chance.

Once again I ran.

The sand was not so rocky here, and I felt as if I were running in slow motion. The intense heat seared my lungs. Every step brought wrenching pain to my side; my tongue was so dry it felt swollen. For moments it seemed as if I were running on an endless tan treadmill, but then the wash grew closer, and closer...

It was deep and rocky, full of mesquite and dead-looking cheesebush. I barely broke stride at its edge, sliding and tumbling down to the bottom. The rocks cut into my skin, tore at my clothing. I rolled to a stop against a low, rounded chuparosa bush, its thorny branches poking into my side.

There had been no sign of the man as I crossed the open sand, but that didn’t mean I was safe. This wash, with its tall mesquite trees, was probably the only shelter within miles; it wouldn’t take the man long to figure out I’d run for it. And it might be sheltering other things than me: there might be rattlesnakes; they went for shade in the heat of the day. I couldn’t stay here.

Looking around for snakes, I got up and moved under the nearest mesquite, temporarily out of the sun, and looked off along the wash. It curved away for a long distance, becoming rockier, with sparser vegetation.

Not promising, I thought, but I’ll have to follow it.

I felt a trickling on my upper arm and looked down. Blood oozed from a deep cut. Funny — the blood didn’t feel warm, the way it usually did when you cut yourself. But of course, my skin was heated to a degree far higher than ninety-eight point six. I brushed the blood away, wiped my hand on my jeans. Then I started along the wash.

It curved and branched, as unpredictable as the flash floods that had helped to form it. I followed the branches that afforded the most protection from the sun, ever alert for the presence of snakes, trying at the same time to maintain my mental fix on the direction of the road. If the wash eventually came out closer to it, I would chance moving into open country and going for help.

The terrain kept getting rougher. After a while I was stumbling over large rocks, then clambering over boulders. Periodically I glanced over my shoulder and up at the rim of the wash, but there was no sign of a man with a gun. Gradually the wash narrowed, and finally it ended in a rough V of sandstone.

The V created shade, and I slumped down in it. My head was pounding, my tongue swollen. Sweat came out on my body, but dried almost immediately. Even the matted hair at the nape of my neck was barely damp. Dust caked my nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.

Got to have water, I thought.

A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the sandstone.

Can’t stay here without water, I thought. I’ll die without it.

I thought of Don. His familiar, swarthy face swam in the darkness behind my eyelids. A couple of days ago I’d been worried because of an unknown woman named Laura, a lie he’d told me. Now I was worried I’d never see Don again. And what of my family? Or Wolf? What about my other friends, and the folks at All Souls?

I pictured them all, and then the images blurred and were gone. The dizziness passed, and I opened my eyes. I was looking at the sharply sloping side of the wash above me.

You’ve got to climb it, I told myself. You’re boxed in down here.

I struggled to my feet and started up.

There were very few hand or toe holds, and I kept slipping backward. For minutes it seemed I lost more ground than I gained. The knees of my jeans tore out and my already sunburned skin became scraped and bloody. Sliding on my stomach, I finally gained the rim of the wash.

I lay there gasping, looking around. No one was in sight, and all around stretched the barren, sun-washed desert. It was dotted with spiny cactus, sand verbena, and ocotillo, but otherwise there were no signs of life. None of the little animals that lived out there were stirring, and there wasn’t even a jeep track to show that anyone had been here before me.

I couldn’t see the house or the water tower. I couldn’t see the road to Les Club, or Split Mountain Road, or the utility lines that stretched along it. If those lines had been visible, I could have got to the ranger station and help. But they were nowhere in sight.

I stared bleakly into the distance, realizing I was lost.

I’d lost all sense of direction while following the curving, branching wash. The hills ranged around me, but I couldn’t tell if the ones I was looking at were the same I’d seen earlier as I’d lain on top of the sandstone outcropping within sight of the old water tower. I stood up and searched for a landmark, but saw nothing.

How far had I come from the house? I wondered. How long had I been out here? Hours, it must be. My tongue clogged my mouth, my eyes were dry and sandpapery. How much longer could I last? I didn’t even know which direction to take to get to civilization.

Direction. I could figure direction from the sun — the damned sun. It beat down on me in pulsing waves. I glanced up, shading my eyes, and noted its position.

The unpaved road to Les Club — whatever its name was — ran southwest. Southwest. But that didn’t matter now. I needed shelter. And water.

Once again I scanned the horizon, my eyes burning. There had to be something...

And then I saw a gray-green haze. Clouds of smoke some distance away. Smoke? I strained my eyes. The clouds swam into focus.

Trees. Smoke trees, named for the illusion I’d just witnessed. And other trees — tamarisks, and what could be desert willows. Trees that grew near water holes...

They seemed an infinity away, across an endless stretch of rocky sand. How far? I wondered. Half a mile? More? It didn’t matter. Those trees meant shade — water.

I began moving again.

I went more slowly this time, to conserve my flagging strength. My breath wheezed in my throat, and wherever there was a little shade, I stopped and rested. Still my heart felt as if it would explode. My skin felt as if it might begin to bubble. I stumbled a number of times, fell twice. But I kept going, gasping and clutching my side, and thinking of water. The trees loomed larger, and then I reached them and plunged into them, down a rocky incline, to the bottom where the water would be.

I fell flat, the shade of the trees coming between me and the wicked sun rays. I lay there for a moment, then pulled myself up and crawled on all fours to the water hole. Leaned forward, toward the precious water.

Only it wasn’t there.

At another time of the year it would be. But not in August. Not in the hottest month of the year.

My throat constricted and a whine came from my lips. I crouched there, staring into the sun-cracked bottom of the water hole. My sight blurred and visions started to dance before me.

Sugarman hanging on the cross... Elaine’s broken body... Others, out of the past: bodies with strangled faces... bloodied heads... stab wounds... bullet holes...

I would join them — all of them, this legion of the dead.

Then the visions were gone. I lowered my head to the ground. And lost consciousness.