He cut more deeply into the firm flesh and once more angled the knife blade in and lifted. It wouldn’t budge. He cut frantically away at the hole, enlarging it, making it big enough to get his hand in so that he could get to the juice. The ground around him was littered with bits of cactus, its green skin and creamy flesh turning leathery in the sun and hot wind. He managed to get his hand in the hole, but there was no water, just tough cactus flesh. There was supposed to be water. Where was it? It was a lie. Anger lent him the strength to struggle to his feet. His hat fell to the ground, but he was too exhausted to retrieve it. He managed to stagger back to the graded road before he fell. It was the first time. The second time came fifty yards farther up the road. He actually made it to the uphill grade, almost another hundred yards, before going down the third time. He struggled to his feet and tottered a few steps before falling onto the sunbaked berm where the grade had been cut into the hillside. Even yet, he hoped for a Good Samaritan to come along and bring an end to his suffering.
27
Frank slipped along the left side of the canyon, keeping in the shade as much as possible. When he reached the broken boulders that formed the western edge of the small meadow, he headed out across the first of the table rocks without looking back. He felt amazingly calm. Either he would make it or he wouldn’t. His other option was the chute, and for him, the choice had been made two decades ago, when he had become wedged in the narrow rock passage. He headed for the drop. Once there, he would gain precious time and distance. Only this time, he’d take time to slow down and hit the sandy bottom with a degree of caution. The alternative was unthinkable. He imagined lying injured on the ground, waiting for Roy Miller to find him. He’d rather take his chances on a bullet in the back.
He came to a stop near the edge of the drop. The floor of the narrow defile was invisible in the shadowed grays of twilight. He lowered himself to a sitting position, took a measured breath, and pushed himself away from his perch. He landed without incident, rolling with the fall as soon as his feet touched the ground. He’d saved at least a half an hour over following the trail along the canyon wall. Even if Miller had seen him disappear, Frank doubted that he would chance a drop into the dark without knowing what lay in wait, or how to get out.
Now the thing to do was pace himself on the hike out, move quickly and avoid accident. He was without a canteen, but the evening cool had supplanted the heat of day, and he knew where to look for water. He worked his way back into the narrowing canyon walls toward the upstream end, where the arroyo ran fast with runoff from the thunderstorms that swept up the western face of the Panamints. He knelt down and, digging into the soft sand a few inches, felt the dampness that he had hoped would be there. After going down about a foot, his fingers were wet. Another few inches and water puddled into the hole. He took the kerchief from around his neck and soaked it. Then he squeezed it into his mouth. He was glad he couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, because he knew that the water seeping into the hole would be brown and muddy. He could taste the damp earthiness of it. No matter. The picture of Miller’s upturned face flashed through his mind, urging him to hurry, but he forced himself to stick with the process until he took in enough moisture to see him through to the bottom of the canyon, where he’d find his truck and would be able to really satisfy his thirst from one of the plastic jugs he kept behind the seat.
For a moment, Frank stood quietly in the dark arroyo, thinking of the walk down the canyon, then thinking of Linda and his caboose, the soft yellow light from the cupola brushing the piñon and juniper. He filled his lungs with the evening air, taking slow, deep breaths, preparing himself. A deep rose light flushed the sky for a moment, and just as quickly the land plunged into night. A soft breeze pulled at his clothing in small gusts. By morning, the wind would rise, a hot wind that would funnel through the canyon in a keening voice, a wind that came from the mouths of spirits long gone, singing wordless songs. He pushed thoughts of Roy Miller and the dead men in the canyon from his mind and concentrated on reaching his truck.
He set off at a moderate pace, moving down the canyon almost without noise or noticeable effort, slipping silently through the night shadows, taking pleasure in the rhythm of his movement. Would Linda have called Meecham? He didn’t think so. It would have been too late, well past five o’clock before she was sure he wasn’t coming. He wondered how long she stood waiting in the sun, her annoyance bubbling into anger. He smiled. How much he wanted to see her. To let her know that he was all right.
Damn that Eddie, and damn me for a fool’s fool for expecting him to be straight up, he thought. How many times did he have to relearn that people acted according to their own lights? Counting on people like Eddie Laguna was nothing more than wishful thinking. But Eddie shouldn’t have lied. The lie had nearly cost Frank his life, and he wasn’t out of it yet.
Throwing stones in a glass house, his mother’s voice whispered in his head. He hadn’t exactly lied to Dave Meecham, but he had withheld bits and pieces of truth. He knew it had been a deceitful act, worse because he’d understood the nature of his intent, and Dave Meecham was a friend. He would have to call Dave as soon as he could get to a phone. He sighed. That would be some conversation, explaining all this, explaining the two dead men, only this time he hadn’t just been a corpse finder; he’d been a corpse maker.
The sight of his truck filled him with a wave of relief. There it was, waiting for him, just as he’d left it, familiar and reassuring. The van Hickey had been driving loomed behind the truck. He’d have to do something about that, but first the .45. He unlocked the cab, felt around under the seat until he touched the rough-checked grip. Holding the .45 in his hand produced a surge of power. He shook his head. Frank Flynn, gun nut. He thought about Hickey’s death and the relief that swept over him when Hickey had fallen into the darkness, body thumping against the rocks. Relief? Oh, more than that. Now he wanted to kill Roy Miller, and he knew he might relish it. He could think of killing Miller as stamping out evil, but he knew better, for the evil had touched him, and he yearned to embrace it.
He tucked the pistol inside his belt with the clip-on holster and then removed a jug of water from behind the seat. He tipped it up to drink, glad that the water was warm; he could drink as much of it as he liked without the shock of the cold. He would maroon Miller here until others could come and take him. He wanted to find Linda and go home. Go to the creek and sit in the icy water, and let it wash him clean.
But for now, he had to disable the van and make tracks; that was the plan. He remembered Roy going back to make sure that Hickey had locked it up, carefully checking each door. Roy Miller was careful and methodical, as well as observant.
Frank found a fist-size rock and heaved it at the driver’s window. The safety glass shattered, forming a concave pocket, the starburst pattern catching bits of light. Frank picked up the rock from where it had fallen next to the door and hurled it again with greater force. This time, it smashed through, making a sufficiently large hole for him to reach in and unlock the door.
He shined his tiny flashlight around as he moved into the van’s interior. There was a large toolbox bolted against the right side of the open compartment. Bungee cords held spare motorcycle tires, belts, and an assortment of parts and tools against the wall. A clear plastic box lay on the floor next to the toolbox. It contained stacks of small drawers filled with miscellaneous nuts, bolts, screws, cotter pins, and other bits and pieces necessary for motorcycle road repairs. This was the party van, the mother ship, with tools, parts, and booze. It made long road trips possible for the Millers’ little social club. At the rear of the compartment, there were three twin-size mattresses. A cheap, grubby sleeping bag lay on the mattress along the right-hand side of the van. A foam-rubber pillow without a pillowcase protruded from the opening. The mattress on the opposite side was covered with a blanket that must have been pinned from underneath, neat and clean. The sleeping bag lay carefully folded on top. The center bed reflected the
same neat hand, a couple of wool blankets folded with matching corners, topped by a smaller tattered cover, a child’s blanket made of flammable material no longer legal. He picked it up, the soft folds of cheap blue synthetic cloth worn so thin that the blanket felt almost weightless. He refolded it and placed it back where he had found it, wondering why he was taking the trouble, since the owner now lay among the rocks in Surprise Canyon.
He went through the toolbox and found a pair of pliers and a large screwdriver and took down a battery strap hanging from the opposite wall. He had things to do. He flipped the hood release and went to work. It took about ten minutes to remove the battery and put it in the back of his truck. Miller wouldn’t be using the van for a while. Now it was time to leave. He turned the key in his truck and listened to the comforting purr and clatter of the engine. He eased the truck forward and then brought it to a stop. He lifted a half-full jug of water from behind the seat and carried it to the van, leaving it on the driver’s seat. Marooned was one thing, thirsty another.
Roy couldn’t understand what had happened to Eddie Laguna. One minute, the Indian had been there staring down at him, and then he had crossed over the rock slide, keeping next to the jumble of huge boulders that marked the end of the meadow as he headed toward the bottom of the canyon. Getting the rifle hadn’t taken Roy more than five minutes, but by that time Laguna had disappeared into the rocks. Roy took the trail they had come by, up and around the wall of boulders, then down into the canyon below, planning to cut the Indian off. Eventually, Laguna would have to come down the same way for his truck, and there was no way he’d be able to get past Roy. The canyon was too narrow. Shooting him would be a last resort. It wasn’t part of his plan. He had very special plans for Eddie Laguna, or whoever he was. He wondered about that. It was like the Indian had two personalities, mostly bullshit artist, but now and then there was something quick and sharp about him that didn’t fit with the rest. He’d find out in time, because he planned on having a long, slow conversation with Eddie Laguna, give him that new name.
Roy felt confident about heading off the Indian. He was making time, jogging in the flat sandy stretches, stepping along with sure-footed care over the rocky spots. Now and then he stopped and drank deeply, emptying the smaller canteen and tossing it aside after less than half an hour of walking. Going down the canyon in the evening cool was much easier than climbing up had been, but he was still thirsty from the heat and exertion. It seemed like his body couldn’t get enough water, which wasn’t a problem, since he had Eddie’s soft half-gallon canteen. He smiled to himself. The Indian would be getting pretty thirsty.
It came as a surprise to Roy when he rounded the last bend and saw the dark shape of the van pulled over at the side of the wash. It had taken less than half the time making his way down the canyon than it had going up in the afternoon heat. Something didn’t seem right, and then he realized that the Indian’s truck wasn’t there. How the hell could that be? How could Laguna have gotten past him? He couldn’t. Not unless he could fucking fly. Roy broke into a jog. Something was definitely wrong.
When he saw the smashed window, he cursed under his breath. Someone had stolen the Indian’s truck and made a try at his. He opened the driver’s door. A white plastic gallon jug rested on the seat, which was covered with bits of broken glass. He set the jug on the floor and brushed the glass from the seat. Then he put his key in the ignition and turned. Nothing. No strain of a dead battery, no metallic clicking, nothing. He pulled at the hood release and found it slack. Jumping from the van, he hurried around to the front and lifted the unlatched hood. It was too dark to see. He rummaged through the glove compartment until he found a book of matches. The feeble light from the match revealed all he needed to know. Only the battery straps remained dangling in the empty compartment.
Somehow, the Indian had been here first. In a few hours, there might be cops. He didn’t plan on waiting around. He retrieved the rifle from where he had left it resting against the side of the van. It would only be in his way. And it was sure to frighten off any offers of help. He stuffed it into Hickey’s grimy sleeping bag. Maybe he could get it later, maybe not. The thing was to move on. He refilled the soft canteen and drank from the plastic jug. Why had the Indian left the water?
It wasn’t that far to Ballarat, about eleven miles. He’d been paying attention to the odometer and the route down the wash to the dirt road that followed the power lines. When they’d come through the cluster of wooden shacks that was Ballarat, he’d seen other vehicles tucked up near some of the structures that still looked habitable. Now he took the handle from a socket wrench set and slipped it into the cargo pocket of his pants, in case he was called upon to perform roadside repairs. You never knew. He headed down the dirt track toward the intersection with the road. Not that far. Even in the dark he could make out huge support towers marching across the floor of the Panamint Valley.
28
The growl of an engine reverberated in the silence of the desert night. Roy stopped and listened, trying to discern its direction, his figure a dark silhouette, head thrust forward in concentration. He turned, homing in on the sound, his body still and motionless. There it was, coming up the valley. He could see lights lifting into the night sky, only to disappear again as the vehicle followed the rise and fall of the road tracing the contours of the land.
Roy waited for the approaching car or truck—he didn’t care which. By the sound of the engine, it was probably a truck. It was moving right along, kicking up a plume of dust and leaving a swirl of shadow. Roy tossed aside his canteen before the vehicle reached him, then stood in the road, waving both arms above his head, a man in distress. He knew he would stop for a stranded stranger, but then again, predators were curious and intelligent by nature. He waved his arms some more, assuming the role of supplicant. The truck came to a halt some fifty feet before reaching the point where Roy waited, a dark stick figure caught in the headlights, his shadow funneling away behind him in a grotesque parody of human form.
A raspy voice strained over the engine noise. “Whatcha want?”
“My car got stuck in a wash. I’ve been walking for hours. Can you give me a ride to town—or wherever you’re going. I need a drink of water and to get to a phone. You don’t happen to have any water with you, do you?”
“Wait a minute.” The truck eased its way forward until the driver’s window was alongside where Roy stood with head down and shoulders hunched, arms dangling at his sides as if heavy with the weight of exhaustion.
“Come on around the other side and get in.” The driver spoke around a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
The blocky vehicle was a much-used and much-abused International Travelall. The rear bench seat had been removed to make room for more important stuff than occasional passengers. From what Roy could see, it was full of junk—a pick, different-size shovels, and some sort of contraption he didn’t recognize, something with an engine. The front seat barely contained the broken springs, which pushed against the remains of a saddle blanket that served as a seat cover.
“Just shove that stuff on the floor.” The driver gestured to a pile of old magazines and newspapers scattered about on the passenger side and the floor of the cab.
“Man, am I glad to see you. I was about done in.”
The truck jerked its way forward, the dash lights and the glow of the driver’s cigarette dancing in the dark.
“I’m going to Ballarat. It’s as far as I go.” The raspy voice was thick with phlegm.
Roy found the sound disgusting, and the smell; the cab reeked of stale tobacco and whiskey fumes.
“Hey, that’s great, man. Say, you got any water?”
“Reach back of the seat and grab one a them plastic bottles.”
As Roy felt around in the dark, he heard the man mumbling something. “Say again? Couldn’t hear you.”
“I was jus’ wondering how someone could be so dumb.”
“How do you mean?”
“Yeah.” Roy nodded in the dark. “Oh yeah, but I drank it all. Wasn’t figuring on getting stuck.”
The driver sighed and made a sort of sucking sound of disapproval for all the fools in the world who didn’t know enough to carry extra water. Roy was thinking the guy had bad manners. He watched as the driver reached between his legs and tipped a pint bottle up to his mouth, taking a couple of deep swallows. Light reflecting back from the dim headlights as they passed over a cutbank in the road temporarily illuminated the cab, revealing the driver’s creased face, grim and lifeless in the pale light. He held the bottle up to the windshield, measuring the remainder against the light. “Well, shit, not enough left to be passing around.” He tipped back his head, emptying the bottle, and then lifted it above his mouth, shaking out the last few drops. The truck lurched up the berm on Roy’s right and scraped against a large clump of catclaw. Roy had been riding with his arm resting on the window ledge and the sharp spines lacerated his skin and tore at the sleeve of his shirt.
“Shit, watch what the fuck you’re doing.”
The driver grabbed the wheel, yanking the Travelall back on the graded road. “No harm done there, fella. We’re doin’ jus’ fine.”
Dark splotches of blood seeped through Roy’s tattered shirtsleeve. His arm was bleeding. Flickers of light touched the outer perimeter of Roy’s vision. “Hey, that was some driving there, man. Say what’s you’re name, mister?” Roy thrust his arm out in the dark of the cab. “Mine’s Leroy Miller.”
Shadow of the Raven Page 26