Double

41: McCone

I was lying on my right side, arm folded under me. Sharp objects poked into my flesh. My arm tingled painfully. I moved off it, moaning with the effort, and opened my eyes.

My cheek was pressed against the sandy ground. I was staring at the roots of a low green shrub that had a whitish sheen, as if it had been dusted with flour. I tried to push myself up and found my arm was nearly numb. Rolling over on my back, I looked up through tree branches at the sky. It was clear blue, and little patterns of sunlight shone through the dark tracery. Sunlight that slanted from the left.

My lips were badly cracked and dry. I opened my mouth and tried to lick them, but my tongue was even dryer. It was very hot, and I hurt all over. What had happened?

Images flickered in my mind. Sand... a rocky wash... a high outcropping... hills... trees in the distance...

The desert. I had run across the desert in the blazing heat. And got lost.

Something rustled in the dry shrubbery near me. A rattlesnake? Alarmed, I sat up, my body aching, and looked around. I was lying at the edge of a dry water hole in the shade of a clump of stunted desert willows. Their branches were gray and brittle-looking, because there was no water...

My thirst came back full force, along with a dull pounding in my head. My eyes ached as I studied my surroundings.

I was at the bottom of a shallow wash filled with dormant vegetation. The water hole’s bottom was sun-cracked, without even a trickle of moisture. It was very hot, but nothing like what I’d experienced running through the sand. The slight drop in temperature and the shade from the trees had probably saved my life, slowing the rate of my dehydration so I’d regained consciousness.

From the angle of the sun’s rays, I could tell it was sinking. The desert would cool off after dark. Perhaps then I could cross the wastes once more and find my way to civilization.

But there was not much chance of that. For one thing, I knew I couldn’t travel any farther without water. For another, when it was dark I would run the risk of becoming even more disoriented. I knew nothing about the moon or constellations that would help me chart my course. My only real chance was to get to high ground now, while it was still light, to see if I could spot the water tower and the road. That was what I should have done before, but fear, exhaustion, and thirst had clouded my thinking.

Shakily I got to my feet and moved up the slope to the rim of the wash. About a hundred yards off to the west was a rocky outcropping. If I could get to the top of it and pinpoint the old water tower or the utility lines along Split Mountain Road, I could move in the straightest line to Elephant Tree Ranger Station.

A sudden wave of dizziness swept over me. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to pass. And knew beyond a doubt that I’d never get to those rocks if I didn’t have water.

When I opened my eyes, I began looking at the plants around me, trying to remember my high-school biology field trips. This vegetation might look dead, but in actuality it was only dormant, waiting for the return of the life-giving moisture. Many plants stored water. But did any of these? No.

What I needed was a barrel cactus. And what I saw, on the other side of the wash, leaning toward a path of sun that streamed through the tree branches, was one of the cylindrical, spine-studded plants. To me, it was as good as finding a lake.

I got up and stumbled over to the cactus, running my hand over its trunk, not caring that the thorns scratched my skin. It was a small one — around three feet high — but large enough to contain enough liquid to refresh me and get me back to civilization. Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, I found the Swiss Army knife. Thank God I’d stuffed it in there before I’d jumped out of the vent from the dungeon.

I opened the knife to the largest blade and began sawing at the cactus a few inches below its crown. It was tough and fibrous, and the knife cut slowly. I gave in to my impatience and hacked at it. In a few minutes I yanked the crown off like the lid of a pot.

Dropping the crown, I reached inside the cactus and scooped out a handful of the wet pulp. I pressed it to my mouth, sucking and gulping, feeling the moisture trickle down my face and throat and under my blouse. I reached in for more pulp, cupping my hands carefully now so I wouldn’t waste any. It was sticky and bitter-tasting and heavenly.

My stomach gave a sudden contraction, and I warned myself to take it easy. There was nothing in it — hadn’t been for almost two days now — and I didn’t want to dehydrate myself further by getting sick. I took my time sucking the pulp and resting, and when I felt stronger, I cut out chunks of the cactus and stuffed them in my pockets. They would provide extra moisture in my trek back across the desert.

Then I began moving toward the nearby outcropping of rock. I went slowly this time, telling myself that my earlier panic had cost me valuable strength and energy. Sugarman’s killer was not out here looking for me; he’d have been beating the brush in that wash long before this if he were. In all likelihood, he was waiting at the house, thinking I’d eventually double back that way.

I climbed the rocky outcropping and stood shading my eyes and peering around. At first I saw nothing but the brush-dotted sand stretching to the hills. But then I made out a leaning black spire with a dark square next to it. And behind it, a series of lumps. It had to be the outlines of the water tower, the loading platform, and the house.

I looked up at the sun, taking a fix on my position. Since the house was southeast of here, I’d be walking with the sun more or less at my back. It would beat down on my head and shoulders, but at least I wouldn’t be blinded by it.

Scrambling down off the rocks, I began my long trek. I moved carefully, stopping in what shade I found to suck on the chunks of cactus I carried. The sun sank lower and its rays were less punishing. I judged the time to be about five o’clock.

After what must have been an hour, I finally reached the sandstone outcropping several hundreds of yards away from the water tower. I paused beyond it, resting and sucking moisture from my last piece of cactus. Then I started up the steep, sandy slope and, when I had reached it, cautiously poked my head over the top.

In the distance, the house lay quiet in the afternoon heat. The Cadillac was still parked in front. And beyond it now was a maroon car — some sort of compact. My spirits rose slightly. It could be help. If I could get to the shed beside the loading dock, I could watch and wait. And after dark, if nothing else happened, I could walk to the ranger station — maybe hitch a ride, if there was some traffic out this way — and summon the law.

I stood, ready to drop to the ground if I heard any sound. All remained quiet. I slid down the other side of the outcropping, the rocks scraping my already battered flesh, and staggered toward the shed.

I was about twenty yards away from it when the man stepped out from behind it with a gun in his hand and opened fire at me.

A buzzing noise whined close to my ear, and then the shot cracked. Panic ripped through me. I whirled and ran back toward the outcropping, my feet churning on the rocky ground.

A second buzzing noise. A second crack. My goal was too far away. I knew I wouldn’t make it—

I felt a jarring impact in the middle of my body. It staggered me and pitched me forward as I heard the third shot. My face hit the sand. Numbness spread through me; the heat seemed suddenly gone, replaced by an icy, enveloping cold.

I thought: My God, I’m going to die...