Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

  behind that looked like a motel or restaurant or both. With the roar of the engine in my ears, there was no way of knowing whether anybody was shooting; I'd only know that if 1, or that damned petrol tank, were hit. But I'd made my choice: I was running and now I had to decide where I was running to!

  It would be stupid to try to land on the jetty itself. There I'd be ludicrously exposed. I decided to drive the boat directly on to the beach. Unless I was desperately unlucky, the speedboat's shallow draught would make that possible for me, but the cruisers would sit deeper in the water and have to approach the jetty.

  Something fizzed by me and 1 didn't need two guesses at what it was. Then I actually saw, ahead of me on the smooth water, the angry little splash of another bullet. It was mad to run; suddenly I knew how mad it was to run. But wouldn't it be equally mad to slow down, to let them catch me again, to offer myself tamely for whatever they had in mind?

  I swung the steering wheel from side to side, zigzagging towards the shore, hoping that made me a more difficult target. Now the wooden jetty was leaping towards me and beyond it the grey desert shale sloped upwards from the water's edge. I tore in a wide arc towards the end of the jetty, then snapped the throttle shut as the boat raced towards the beach. Also, I bloody nearly killed myself. I realized suddenly that hitting the beach at that speed would be almost like hitting a wall, and swung up my legs to brace them against the edge of the front decking. The boat struck with a sudden, murderous grating sound, and the stern swung round like a whip, catapulting me into the shallow water. If it had flung me on to the shale, I'd have been skinned; as it was I was merely soaked and shaken and only a few feet from the edge.

  Getting to my feet, I 'splashed wildly out of the water and began to run towards the building. A rapid glance back showed the two cruisers moving quickly towards the jetty. And up ahead, the building seemed deserted. I'd maybe sixty yards to cover and before I'd gone twenty I realized just how hot it was. On the water, moving fast, I hadn't felt the heat; here on land it was as though I'd stepped into an oven. God but I'd been stupid!

  My soaking clothes clung to my skin as I raced up the slight incline. The whole place looked deserted, too; windows reflecting the sun back seemed both blind and blinding. I was out of the pan and into the fire with a vengeance. Another glance back as I came close to the building. The two cruisers were approaching the jetty now, one on each side, and men were poised aboard them to jump ashore and come after me. I ducked quickly round the corner of the building and saw the glass doors with the '

  closed' sign hanging discouragingly. I looked round wildly, frantically, for some kind of bolt hole, but there was just the bare asphalt of the approach road. In a few minutes, I thought despairingly, I'd be trapped, held firmly in the sights of a rifle with the bleak choice of surrendering or being shot. If they gave me the choice!

  I sprinted across the front of the building and turned the corner. A car park. Two cars. And a man getting out of one of them twenty yards away. Probably he ran the place and was just arriving to open up. He turned inquiringly as he heard my running footsteps.

  `Happened to you?'

  Ì'm being chased. Hunted,' I gasped. I knew how stupid it must sound. 'There are men with rifles! Help me, for God's sake!'

  He stared at me for a second. I said, 'Quickly. Please. Get me away from here!' —

  wondering what I'd have done in his place.

  "Kay. Get in!' He flung the door wide and I more or less dived across the front seat, scrambling to the far side. Rapidly he slid in beside me. The motor spun and the tyres squealed as the car tore out of the park towards the road.

  `Thanks. Christ, thanks!' I stared across him, waiting for my pursuers to come into view round the angle of the building. And they did; four men, moving fast. One raised his rifle and fired as the car lurched on to the approach road, but we weren't hit. A few seconds later they were out of sight as the car tore over a little rise. I began to explain: Ì

  don't know why. They just—'

  `Save it.' He was concentrating on what he was doing, whamming the big car along the shimmering tarmac with skill and judgment, hands easy on the wheel. The soft suspension bounced us, but he took the bends easily, sun-. tanned face still but watchful. After three or four miles there was a crossroads. Signs pointed left to Echo Bay and Las Vegas, right to Glendale. We took neither, ploughing straight on. As I stared ahead the scenery changed with startling suddenness from greyish shale to weird reddish rock. Another sign came up SCENIC RIM DRIVE: VALLEY OF FIRE STATE PARK and he swung left, away from it, plunging down a lesser road among the red rock formations. We'd both looked back pretty often, he through the mirror, I by turning in my seat. So far I'd seen nothing. But now I did. A blue car was racing over the rise behind us. I watched it in dismay. The empty car at Overton Beach had been blue, too .. . That was when he began to brake. I turned in surprise, but the braking was sharp and the big car slowed suddenly, flinging me forward, almost out of my seat. By the time I'd grabbed the padded ledge and was pushing myself back, he'd stopped. Also a revolver had appeared in his hand and was pointing at me.

  Òut,' he said.

  `But

  Òut.'

  The tanned face was expressionless. I said, 'They're right behind—'

  Ì'll count to three.'

  I forced my eyes /away from him, looking back up the road. The blue car was closing fast. I said, 'They'll kill me.' Òne.'

  `Christ!' I reached behind me, for the door handle,

  `Two.'

  I pulled the handle, swung the door open and lurched out. The blue car was only a couple of hundred yards away and slowing. I looked round me desperately. There was a gap of sorts in the rearing rocks at the roadside. .I flung myself towards its doubtful shelter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As I stumbled quickly between the sheltering rocks, I heard the car stop and doors open and close. Then there was silence. I kept going, frantic to get space and distance between myself and the road. Already I was disturbingly conscious of the heat. The sun blasted down out of a brilliant sky; there was no wind; the spaces between the rocks were filled with air so hot it was uncomfortable to breathe. In the open spaces it was worse. I tripped and fell, then dragged myself to my feet and plunged on between two red, rock outcrops. Within fifty yards sweat was streaming off me. Then five more yards and a bend in the narrow passage and I was faced with a blind end, a massive lump of red sandstone ten feet high, blocking the way. But it was fissured, there were big cracks. Maybe I could scramble up . . . I tore at it, jammed my foot into a low crevice, grabbed for handholds., and forced my way up. Seven or eight feet above ground was a narrow ledge and I strained to reach it, managed to haul myself up. From there to the top was simple: two easy footholds and I was standing, then flinging myself flat as a bullet sang by. The rock was intensely hot to the touch; I could feel it even through my soaking clothes and it was too hot for my bare hands. All the same, I had to get off the flat top of that rock. I turned, rolling over across the bumpy, scorching surface towards the far edge and glanced down. The drop was a good fifteen feet into a rough fissure strewn with stones. I swung my legs over the edge and eased my body backward, trying to grip the smooth rock with hands that demanded relief from the burning contact 'with the red sandstone. Then my feet found a ledge, but there was nothing for my hands, no way down but to jump and pray I didn't break leg or ankle.

  The jar as I landed hammered at joints I scarcely knew I had, and drove the breath out of me, but at least there was a passage now and it seemed to offer a route away through the stone jungle. I staggered bone-achingly on, threading my way along the defile. Òver here!' The shout came from behind me, and not so far behind at that. I looked over my shoulder and saw a man standing, not fifty yards away, on top of a rock. He was raising his rifle. I flung myself sideways into the shelter of a boulder and heard the crack of the shot. Now if I moved it would be into the open into his sights. But no, there was another gap, dark in the swel
tering shadow, four or five feet away. I took a deep breath, launched myself into it and found that a rocky track led steeply upward. By now I could scarcely breathe; the heat was unbelievable, the air itself seemed to scorch my lungs, sweat cascaded out of my hair and off my forehead and ran saltily into my eyes. Valley of Fire the sign had said, one place in the burning Nevada desert that had been singled out for its heat, one place hotter than all the others. Oh God!

  I staggered up the narrow track, my heart beginning to hammer frighteningly. Then I blundered out into the open, where another defile crossed mine and instantly a rifle cracked and I heard the bullet fizz by, smacking into a rock to my right. I dived forward, flinging my body headlong into the defile ahead, scraping knees and elbows painfully on the rough sandstone. It ,was like diving on to emery paper. But I was up quickly and driving my body forward because there was nothing else I could do. It couldn't go on. I'd travelled only about a quarter mile and I was almost exhausted, my energy was being drained away fast by the murderous combination of heat and height. Up there, three or four thousand feet above sea level, the air is thinner. I was flogging along with my sea-level lungs and a body accustomed to temperate climates, in a high-altitude desert.

  Trying to move fast, I knew I was slowing with every step, forcing each leg forward with my hands on my knees, not even aware until I heard the shot that I'd left shelter and was exposed again. Blindly I flung myself flat, but on to a lump of rock that smashed against my ribs and sent a tremendous flash of pain through my body. I glanced back dizzily. I could see nobody, but that didn't mean a thing; they could be in any of a hundred places, waiting to pick me off as I rose. I didn't rise. I edged my body agonizingly forward across the baking rock until I could slide into a dark, protected crevice and crouched there, gasping, knowing I was done. I no longer had the strength to run, barely the strength to crawl. I was bruised and beginning to suffer from oxygen starvation; sweat was sluicing out of me and the sun was hot as hell. What lay ahead, if I lived that long, was heatstroke.

  That was when the thought struck me. I don't know why it hadn't hit me before. It came in the form of a question, and the question was: if they were hunting me with rifles, why in hell hadn't they hit me? Because they were bad shots? Hardly. At forty or fifty yards it'

  s not difficult to hit a man-sized target. Then why? Even to think was appallingly difficult. I felt as though I were crouching in a furnace and my mind seemed to be only a quarter my own. I forced myself to concentrate. On the lake I'd been forced along, shepherded, driven northward. And then, at Overton Beach, there hadn't been a cruiser between me and the shore. And in the car . . . the shot that had been fired at the car had missed. From fifty yards it had missed a car? A car! The driver had been in cahoots too, waiting for me. That's why they hadn't hit the car. But up here? Among the red rocks? A rifleman need only go high, wait for me to show myself and pick me off, True or false?

  It could only be true. So why was I still in one sweaty piece? There had been at least two easy chances.

  I thought I knew the answer, but still I weighed it carefully. The only possible answer seemed to be that they hadn't shot me because they didn't want to shoot me. But was that the only possible answer? It seemed to be, unless they were all blind and their hands trembled as badly as mine. Which couldn't be true. They could stroll in the heat, come slowly and easily towards an unarmed man. Also, they'd be accustomed to the temperature, to the high land.

  No. The first answer must be the right one. They didn't want to shoot me. Next question: what did they want? No answer; no way of guessing. I didn't begin to comprehend what was happening. But . . . I clung to the one thought: they weren't going to shoot me!

  Slowly I forced myself to stand upright and looked round for a way to the top of the rocks. If I was wrong, they'd shoot me now instead of ten minutes from now, by which time I'd be a sweating, semi-conscious wreck a short distance farther on. Over there. Over there it would be easier. There was a worn rock forming almost a staircase upward. I began to climb, awkwardly because my strength was almost gone, making each upward step with an audible grunt of effort. One more yard and I would be in clear sight. I hesitated. What if I were wrong? But I 'already knew the answer to that. I took a deep, gasping breath and forced myself higher.

  Crack! The bullet smacked into the sandstone a yard from me and instinctively I almost dived for cover again. I was trembling so much I could hardly keep my balance, but I forced myself to straighten and turned my head to look in the direction from which the shot had come. A man was standing there, atop a rock, rifle at his shoulder, perhaps forty yards away. As I watched he moved his head to sight and fired again and red stone chips flew from the rock a couple of feet away. Two shots at forty yards. Two shots that missed. I struggled one weary step higher, straightened and stood with my hands loose at my sides, staring across at him.

  Then a movement caught my eye. Another man, another rifle, off to my right. The next shot came from him and it, too, flew w by. I looked round. There were two more of them, an arc of four men, all with rifles at the shoulder, all close. And quite suddenly they all started firing at once. God knows how many shots there were! And God knows why I didn't fling myself down on the blistering rock! From four directions the shots whistled past, one after another, a stutter of firing that sounded almost like a machine gun. I ber closing my eyes, clamping my teeth together, waiting for one to hit me. It seemed impossible that among all that rifle fire not one bullet should touch me, even by accident. Then, suddenly the last sounds had bounced away among the rocks and I was standing in an incredible flat silence, uninjured, looking across that weird landscape from one man to the next. For all of a minute it stayed like that. Then one of them shouted, 'Okay, let's go!

  ' And they turned their backs to me and began to move slowly away, back down towards the road.

  Maybe it was the relief, perhaps sheer weakness, but I was suddenly dizzy and almost passed out. I know I stood swaying in the burning sunlight until the sheer heat of it reminded me that to collapse on the spot would be more certainly-lethal than the rifle fire.

  It took me nearly an hour to pick my way back to the road and even though it was downhill, I wasn't recovering at all. Sweat still flooded out of me, breathing was difficult. I remember glancing at my watch and being astonished that it was still only eleven, and realizing that the worst of the heat was still to come. The two cars had long gone, of course, and the road was deserted. I stood beside it for a little while until I realized just how hot the sun was on my head and neck, so I found myself a shady place beside a big boulder and crouched there, waiting. It was forty minutes before a vehicle came along and I must have been halfdozing because I almost missed it. In a panic I staggered out of the shade on to the road, waving my arms, and forced it to stop or run me down.

  I blinked at it. The car was bright and clean and shiny and the blazing sun shone blindingly off its chromium. Then the door opened and a middle-aged woman got out. When she spoke, there was a quaver in her voice.

  Ìs something wrong?'

  I almost laughed,' not because the words were funny, or even because they were conventional, but because I was close to hysteria.

  I said, simply, 'I got lost.' My month was so dry it hurt to speak.

  `Lost?' The quaver was still them She was torn between a wish to help and fear of this unknown stranger on a lonely. road.

  `Lost,' I croaked. 'I've been out in the sun. Have you water?'

  `Water? No.'

  _ .`Could you give me a lift?'

  `You're British?'

  `Yes."

  The quaver disappeared, Nobody's afraid of the British, I suppose. She said, 'I'm going to Vegas.'

  I managed a grin of thanks. 'Perfect!'

  Only two miles along the road we came to a building labelled Visitor Center and she stopped. 'There'll be water in there.'

  There was. I drank about six pints of it and walked back to the car feeling it switching round inside me..I'd al
so washed and I felt better.

  We talked a bit on the fifty miles or so into Las Vegas. However had I got lost? I told'

  her a little lie about setting off for a walk from Echo Bay. Walk! She was horrified and gave me a long, solicitous lecture on the manifold dangers of walking in the United States. It wasn't she said, like England. She was right there. She was a nice woman, her ancestors came from Noocastle,

  and she insisted on driving me right to the Dime Palace, where she warned me again with some severity about walking, and drove away with a wave.

  I walked into the foyer, and a large man in a uniform that would have stifled him five yards away from the air conditioning, looked at my dishevelled state as though he was contemplating throwing me back on to the street.

  Tour-one-oh-five, please.'

  `Here it is, sir.' The smiling girl handed me an envelope along with my room key. I looked at it for a moment then ripped it open with my thumb. A single sheet of paper, folded once, no signature, type-written. It read: 'Take three o'clock United Airlines flight Chicago. Connect direct to London. You will be watched. If you do not go, you will be killed.'

  I swallowed. The message was clear enough, the morning's horror recent enough. I still didn't understand why, couldn't see how I could be a danger to anyone, or why it should be necessary to somebody to get me out of the US. But evidently it was, and Susannah Rhodes certainly wasn't worth staying for. Not at the price I'd pay. Alex Scown would be annoyed or worse, but Scown at least wasn't a killer. Not in the short term, anyway. I said, 'My account please.'