Lennox pushes away from the granite profusion, again into the blinding glare of the sun. The few moments in the shade have helped his vision, and he can see again in a wavering focus. His eyes sweep the terrain: strange outcroppings of rock, tall cacti, mesquite and creosote bush and cat-claw, thick clumps of cholla climbing halfway along a volcanic cone—
What’s that?
There, there, off to the right?
Something ... bright yellow, fiendishly reflecting the rays of the sun. Something made of metal—a car? the hood of a car? Is there a road over there? Are there people? A car means both, a car means help, a car means escape—is that a car?
Lennox feels the welling of relief, but tempered by the dim reminder of mirage, of other possible explanations for the brilliant reflection, of shattered hope. He fights down the urge to fling himself in that direction; it is a half-mile or more to where he sees the glare and he cannot run a half-mile, not now. Steadily, that is how he has to move, steadily.
But it is no more than a hundred yards before he breaks into a staggering and painful run ...
Eleven
For Jana, it had been a quiet day.
Her sketch pad was now, in late afternoon, half full with charcoal and pencil drawings of the stark landscape which lay spread out before her, and she had made several notes and observations to be incorporated into the text of Desert Adventure. The intense heat had bothered her considerably after a while, and she had had to periodically relocate the blanket and her position in order to remain in one of the shifting patches of shade; but there had been nothing else to disturb her work—no inquisitive visitors, animal or human—and in spite of her mild aversion to her surroundings, she had immersed herself in the day’s project as completely as she had immersed herself in the outline yesterday.
Sitting now in the shadow of an oddly humped outcropping of granite, she laid the sketch pad aside and drank from the bottle of mineral water. Then she sat leaning back on her hands, feeling hot and drowsy, not quite ready to make the drive back into Cuenca Seco. She allowed her thoughts to drift, and when the image of Don Harper materialized, she did not recoil from it.
Detachedly, as if she were a disinterested third party clinically examining a relationship between two other people, she placed him mentally against a changing background of memories: Washington Square in the Village, gray sky, fluttering pigeons, leafless trees like skeletal fingers reaching upward, his cheeks flushed from the bitter-cold winter wind, laughing; an off-Broadway theatre with no name, a dramatic production with a forgotten title, sitting intently forward, brow creased, eyes shining, totally absorbed in the illusion being enacted under the floodlights below; the sparkling blue of Long Island Sound, streaked with silver afternoon light, cold salt spray flecking his cheeks as the bow of the sleek white sailboat glides through gentle swells, one large soft hand competent on the tiller, the other possessively on her hip, shouting merriment into the wind ...
It was good then, she thought, it was fine then, but only because I was in love then. I was in love with fun and with excitement and with handsomeness and with charm and with sophistication—but not with Don Harper, the real Don Harper, the man. I didn’t know him, then, and maybe I wouldn’t have cared if I had. But it could never have lasted, I can see that now, it could never have been for us. Don has no depth, he has a tremendous surface but it is only a thin, thin veneer laid across an empty vacuum. He loves being a hedonist, he loves being an important account executive, he loves things—but not people, I don’t think so. He doesn’t love his wife, his poor wife, he never once mentioned loving her even after he told me about her. No, it was his position that he did not want to jeopardize, his pursuit of pleasure. He cared for me only as a decoration, public on his arm and private in his bed; and when the decoration began to take root, he threw it coldly and carelessly back into the jungle where he had first discovered it.
Lord, she wished she had been able to analyze Don and herself and the affair as objectively then as she seemed to be able to do now. The bitterness might not have been as overwhelming inside her, she might not have been so utterly demoralized, she might not have been so susceptible to—
Jana roused herself sharply. All right now, girl, that’s enough of that. You’re having a quiet day and you don’t want to spoil it by slipping back into the dark caverns of the past and there you go again with those damned literary images you silly broad. Shape up, look at that desert out there, look at that man? man out there?
Startled, Jana pulled onto her knees, onto her feet, staring intently at the child-sized figure which seemed to be staggering toward her across the rocky ground. My God! she thought, and then she did not know what to think. She felt a vague apprehension, a tiny cold cube of fright beginning to form in her stomach. Who was he? What was he doing out there? What did he want?
Her first impulse was to conceal herself in the rocks, perhaps he wouldn’t see her; then she thought of gathering up the blanket and the other things and running to the car and driving away very quickly. And then it was too late to do any of those things, even if she had been able, because he was waving his arms awkwardly, loosely above his head—he had seen her, he was coming to her.
Jana moved back against the rock, watching his approach, and as he grew from a child into an adult, his features became clearly defined. He was thin and his face, his clothes, his hair were caked with dust and sweat; he ran as if in great pain, blistered mouth open wide, the dry gasping of his breath audible in the desert stillness.
He came up to her, stopping several yards away, and knuckled his swollen eyes. He seemed to sway slightly, and Jana thought for a moment that he was going to fall. Compassion pressed at the edges of her anxiety, diminishing it. She relaxed somewhat, standing her ground; but she was still ready to bolt at the first sign of provocation.
“Who are you?” she said to him. “What happened to you?”
His mouth formed words, but he had no voice for them. He sank to his knees in the soft sand and braced his hands on his thighs, looking up at her. Relief and entreaty were apparent in his gaze, and the last vestiges of Jana’s wariness transformed into concern. Swiftly she caught up the bottle of mineral water —a little more than half full—and ran to where the man knelt watching her. She extended the bottle. He pulled it from her hands, making a sound that was almost a whimper. Head thrown back, holding the bottle in both hands, he sucked greedily at the neck of it. Water spilled out in his haste and washed away some of the thick dust on his lips, revealing them to be cracked and beaded with flecks of dried blood. Jana looked away.
He finished drinking, allowed the empty bottle to fall into the sand and drew the back of one sun-reddened arm gingerly over his mouth. Then, painfully, he pulled one leg under him and gained his feet, stumbling, finding his balance. Jana took an involuntary step backward, watching him now, but he made no move toward her. One corner of his mouth trembled, and all at once she realized that he was trying to smile.
“Can you talk now?” she asked him.
Soft, shuddering breath. “I ... I think ...”—testing his dust- and heat-parched vocal cords—“I think so.”
“How long have you been out there, under that sun?”
“All day. Years.”
“What happened?”
“My car quit running,” he said. “And I got lost. I’m not much of an outdoors man.”
“You should have stayed on the highway.”
“I wasn’t on a highway. I was out in the middle of nowhere. I’m a ... rock hunter, you see. That’s my hobby.”
“You must be an amateur to go hunting rocks dressed the way you are.”
“Well ... this is my first time on the desert.”
“Mine, too, as a matter of fact.”
“You don’t live in this area?”
“No. I’m just a tourist.”
“Are you alone here?”
Her tentative smile faded slightly. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I just though
t you might be. I saw the sun reflecting off your car, and then I saw you ...” He ran a hand through his dusty hair, and looked beyond her to where the roadbed was visible through the rocks. “Where does that road lead?”
“To Cuenca Seco.”
“What about the other direction?”
“It’s a dead end.”
“How far to Cuenca Seco?”
“About seven miles.”
“Can you take me there? Right now?”
“Well ...”
“I’ve got to get to a service station or a garage—some place that has a wrecker for my car.”
Jana considered it. He seemed harmless enough, an even worse tenderfoot that she was; and he hadn’t even looked at her as a woman, only as a savior, a beacon in a sea of arid heat. She couldn’t very well refuse him, not after what he had obviously been through today. He looked exhausted, and those blisters and skin cracks and sunburned patches needed medication. She was being too cautious—overreacting. This was the desert, not the streets of New York City. There was a different set of rules applicable out here.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll take you in.”
“Thanks, Miss—”
“Hennessey, Jana Hennessey.”
“Thanks, Miss Hennessey.”
“What’s your name?”
“Delaney,” he said. “Pete Delaney.”
Jana turned and began gathering up the blanket and the other things. She said, “You probably haven’t eaten all day, have you?”
“No,” he answered. “Nothing.”
“There’s some crackers and cheese in my bag. You’re welcome to what’s left.”
“Thanks,” he said again, softly, and followed her across to the waiting Triumph ...
Twelve
Di Parma didn’t like what they were doing.
He didn’t like it one single damned bit.
What was the matter with Harry, anyway? He was acting like this was a picnic or something, sitting over there grinning in that funny little way of his, his eyes all bright. Vollyer was the best in the business, everybody said that, and he was a nice guy, too, and a friend. It was a real pleasure to work with him. You learned a lot from Harry, there was no doubt about that. But what kind of thing was this?
They had been on this damned twisting dirt road all day now, driving back and forth at ten miles an hour and all they had seen was some kid in a jeep chasing jackrabbits a half-mile from the county road—and him three hours ago. This guy, this Lennox, wasn’t going to show up around here, Harry was crazy if he thought that’s what was going to happen. The son of a bitch was long gone by now, he had made it back to that oasis or to the intrastate highway to flag down a car. Oh sure, Harry sitting there telling him about percentages and how you had to put yourself in Lennox’s shoes, but it still didn’t make any sense. Di Parma couldn’t see it at all.
What they should have done, they should have cut out. They should have hit the highway and driven straight back to the state capital and caught the first plane home. That’s what they should have done. So all right, the guy saw them make the hit. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as they had first thought. Lennox didn’t know their names, maybe he hadn’t even seen their faces clear enough to make a positive identification. Maybe he wouldn’t even go to the cops at all. A drifter like that, he wouldn’t want to get involved in any killing, he’d probably move out fast if he was a runner the way Harry kept saying he was. It was crazy to hang around on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. When the cops found the target’s body, they’d be leery of any strangers who had no good reason for being in the area. Christ, they were asking for it, they were just asking for it, it was crazy.
Di Parma reached down and turned the air conditioner up a little higher. It was hot inside the Buick, the bitch heat got through the windshield and through the other windows and the sun was so bright it was like having needles poked into your eyes after a while. He had a throbbing headache.
He didn’t want to be here, he wanted to be on that plane, he wanted to be home with Jean. He wanted to be in bed with her, holding her close, telling her how much he loved her. Oh Jesus, he loved her! He was crazy for her, to touch her, to be near her. She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful thing in the world. Her hair was like silk; he ran his fingers through her hair and he thought of silk and kitten fur and everything soft that he had ever touched. And her skin like rich cream and her body so perfect, and her laugh—oh, that laugh she had! Like music playing, sweet and low and warm. She loved him too, she told him that almost as often as he told her. She wanted to give him a kid. Imagine him with a kid; he’d never liked kids much but now he wanted one, he wanted to have one with Jean. A little girl. A little girl that looked like her, sweet and soft, and they would call her Jeannie, what else?
God, he wished he was with Jean!
Di Parma turned to look at Vollyer, and Harry was sitting there with that little smile, that damned little smile, sucking on an orange and looking out at the desert. He would tell Di Parma to stop any minute now, like he’d done a dozen times before, and then he would get out with those binoculars he’d taken from the target’s cabin and he would sweep the desert with them and he wouldn’t see anything this time either. It was crazy, it was just plain crazy.
“Harry,” he said impulsively, “Harry, haven’t we been out here long enough? He’s not going to show, Harry. I tell you, he’s not going to show.”
“We’ll give him a little more time,” Vollyer said, and it was the same thing he had said five or six times already. “You can’t make it five miles across the desert in a couple of hours, Livio.”
“You don’t know that’s what he’s doing,” Di Parma said.
“That’s right, I don’t know it.”
“And what if he is? What if he does reach this road like you figure? Maybe he won’t walk right along it. Maybe he’ll hide in the rocks when he sees a car. How do you know he didn’t spot this one back at the oasis? He might recognize it, keep to ground.”
“It’s a chance we’re taking.” Vollyer said evenly. “He’s a runner, Livio.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Runners don’t think, they just react.”
“Harry—”
“Stop the car,” Vollyer said suddenly.
“What?”
“Stop the car!”
“For Christ’s sake,” Di Parma said. He touched the brakes. Vollyer had the door open before the Buick came to a complete standstill, pulling off his sunglasses and raising the binoculars to his eyes. He was looking straight ahead, down the length of the road.
“There’s a car coming,” he said. “See the dust down there?”
Di Parma stared through the windshield. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Pull off in those rocks there. Hurry it up, Livio.”
Di Parma took the Buick off the road on the left, out of sight behind a jagged formation of sandstone that arched skyward thirty feet or more. Vollyer swung out, the binoculars in one hand, the Remington scope handgun in the other. Di Parma shut off the engine and followed him.
The sandstone arch was smooth and gently sloped on its backside, and Vollyer climbed it hastily, face bright red from the exertion. When he reached the top, he stretched out prone and stared along the road at the growing dust cloud.
Di Parma dropped down beside him. “It’s just another kid in a jeep.”
“Maybe.”
“Who else would it be?”
“Does that matter? We don’t want to be seen out here.”
“Why the gun, Harry?”
“Just in case.”
“We’re taking a hell of a lot of chances.”
“At this point, that’s the name of the game.”
“Harry, this is no goddamn game!”
Vollyer turned his head slowly and looked at Di Parma. “Shut up, Livio,” he said softly.
Di Parma could not see Vollyer’s eyes behind the smoky lens of the sunglasses, but the set of his mo
uth was hard and white. Harry was wound up tight, that was for sure. He’d never seen him wound up this tight before. His own guts were roped into a knot, because even if he didn’t like to admit it to himself, he was afraid of Vollyer. He had heard stories about what Harry was like when he was strung out, and they weren’t stories you liked to hear about your partner. If he got Harry down on him, he was begging for trouble he might not be able to handle. The thing for him to do was to go along with Vollyer, whether he liked it or not—to trust him as he had in the past. Harry would snap out of it pretty soon; you didn’t stay on top in this kind of business for twenty-five years by making the wrong moves. But this whole assignment had turned into a bummer, and there was no telling what would happen next when the luck was running sour. He had to get out of this, for Jean’s sake; she could never know what he really did for a living, never. She thought he was a salesman for farm tools. He hated lying to her, but it was the only way, she would never have understood—
Vollyer caught his arm. “Sports car,” he said.
Di Parma looked along the road, and the machine was nearing them rapidly. It was a sleek yellow Triumph with New York plates; the dust cloud billowed out behind it like a gigantic dun-colored parachute attached by invisible wires. Di Parma squinted against the glare of the sun, and he could see two people inside, a woman driving and the passenger a man sitting hunched forward on the seat.
The Triumph drew parallel to them, and Vollyer and Di Parma were far enough away and at enough of an angle to be able to look through the open window on the passenger side. They saw the dust-streaked, sunburned face of the man, saw it clearly, and it was the same face smiling out from the portrait photograph in Vollyer’s pocket—it was him, Lennox, the witness. Di Parma, staring, was incredulous. Harry had been right, he had been backing a winner after all. Jesus, the guy had come straight across the desert and hit this road ...
Panic! Page 8