Valley of the Moon

by Bronwyn Archer

  So did the Lamborghini driver.

  I sped through the garage and drove back to the exit. I handed my ticket to the guard and looked behind me. It’s not going to be following you.

  But it was. Two cars back. The guard opened the gate and I sped out. I blew through a yellow light, but the Lamborghini blew a red and got behind me again. I couldn’t see who was driving. What did they want me to do? Pull over and walk out with my hands up on the Vegas strip?

  I gunned the engine and raced down the street, scanning the side streets looking for a good place lose them.

  Ahead, I saw signs for Highway 15. There was a motorcycle cop standing on the curb next to the onramp. He was writing a ticket for a skinny junkie with long blond dreads. I pulled over behind the cop’s bike.

  The Lamborghini veered off the road onto the shoulder, half a block behind me.

  A blast of baking hot air hit me in the face when I opened the window.

  “Officer!” I yelled. The cop looked up. He was a beefy guy with a Burt Reynolds mustache and mirrored sunglasses.

  They must hand those sunglasses out at cop school.

  “Young lady, you are holding up the flow of traffic. You can’t stop here.”

  “There’s a man in a black Lamborghini behind me and he has a gun.” I pointed. The Lamborghini driver revved his engine, reversed, and then shot forward, executing an illegal U-turn across the double yellow lines. I could see the plates clearly now: SAVITCH 1.

  “It’s your lucky day, pal,” the cop told the surprised junkie as he jumped on his bike. He edged out into traffic and sped away in the direction of the Lamborghini. Horns blasted behind me. I had nowhere to go except up and onto the highway.

  ***

  Highway 15 out of Las Vegas heads north through an extreme desert wasteland—an open-air furnace of dust and strange rocky outcroppings dotting the landscape. The Ferrari was not responding well to the heat, and neither was I. Squashed possums and assorted roadkill cooked on the blistering asphalt. Life was tough in the desert for everyone.

  I was out of water and totally exhausted. I could barely see straight. I just wanted to ditch my cursed car and crawl into a cool, dark hole and die.

  Which was looking like a definite possibility.

  I pulled in to a tiny truck stop off the main road and parked at a gas pump between two giant semi trucks. My legs were so numb and tingly that I had to haul them out of the car with my good arm.

  I needed water, and then I had to call Maya. I needed to know if Alexander was still alive, or lying dead next to the pink-haired girl.

  The dingy desert oasis consisted of a small, windowless casino, a snack shop, and a few gas pumps. I left my car hitched to the nozzle and went into the snack shop, which smelled like the worst B.O. I bought a bag of trail mix and two big bottles of lukewarm water, and chugged half of one while I waited for the vacant-eyed old, toothless lady behind the counter to ring me up.

  “Excuse me, is there a phone here I can use?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Phone’s dead. Try the casino.”

  Two beer-bellied truck drivers in stained jeans stumbled out of the casino and staggered past me as I approached it. Inside, I inhaled the fragrant stench of stale liquor, cigarettes, and more B.O. The dimly lit casino glowed with rows of blaring slot machines.

  A massive, tattooed arm swung out of the darkness and stopped me in my tracks.

  “I.D.” The bouncer shifted his enormous body on a tiny stool. He was dressed exactly like a Hell’s Angel.

  “Oh, I just need to use the phone.”

  “And I need to see some I.D.”

  “Look, this is an emergency!”

  He jerked his head towards the door. “Try the gas station.”

  Disgusted, I trudged back to my car with my bag of water bottles. The semi-truck driver next to me leaned out his window and grinned. He had a long beard and wore a red bandana around his head.

  “Hey, Missy! That’s a sweet ride you got,” he said. “There must be a car show going on around here.”

  “I doubt it.” I hung the gas nozzle back on the pump and yanked my car door open. The truck’s engine came to life with an enormous roar, and he chugged away in an acrid cloud of exhaust.

  Revealing the car on the other side of the gas pump.

  A black Lamborghini Aventador, covered in dust. SAVITCH 1 plates.

  A silent scream stuck in my throat. I threw myself into the seat, jammed the keys into the ignition, and dropped my foot onto the gas pedal as hard as I could. I took a hard corner pulling out of the gas station, and a huge spray of dust exploded behind me.

  In my rearview mirror, two men dressed in black ran out of the snack shop. I screamed again, this time out loud. Just find people. Find a bunch of people, pull over, and run. They can’t shoot you in front of people. Well, they might, but they probably won’t.

  Blind with panic, I raced in the opposite direction of the interstate, down a small two-lane highway. The long, flat road was featureless. There was nowhere to hide. I sped towards the low, red mountains in the distance, mumbling a prayer.

  ***

  At 120 miles per hour, I didn’t notice the police car until it was right behind me.

  I hit my brakes and he shot past me. My tires burned a long, black ribbon on the road and the brakes screamed. The cop did a U-turn, kicking up huge dust clouds. But wait—why hadn’t I thought of this before? Cops carry guns. He’d protect me. No way the Russians would do something with a cop hanging around.

  I wanted to leap out of the car and throw myself into his arms, but instead I waited with my hands at 10 and 2 o’clock. His cowboy boots crunched in the orange dirt. He was sunburned under his flat-brimmed Smoky the Bear hat. It was a risk, talking to a cop, but I was out of options. I was so tired of running.

  I peeked up at him and saw my face reflected in his sunglasses. I was pale, almost gray-faced, with spots of bright red on each cheek. My hair was a matted, sweaty mess.

  “You in a big damn hurry today, girl?”

  “Yes, Officer, I am. There are some men chasing me. They’re probably armed, and they’ll be here any second.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, peering into my car. “License and registration.”

  “But, Officer, they’re right behind—”

  “I said, license and registration.” I pounded the steering wheel and started babbling to the tan stretch pants—which were pressed up against the low Ferrari window.

  “Please, you have to believe me,” I pleaded. “They’re in a black Lamborghini and you need to call for some backup or let me go, now.”

  “Remain in your vehicle, Ma’am. I’m citing you for noncompliance.”

  “No, wait!” But he was already walking back to his Nevada State trooper car. If I drove away, I would be driving away from the one good guy for miles around who had a weapon. I, meanwhile, had nothing. I started digging around in the bottom of my duffel bag for something, anything I could use if they showed up. My hands bumped a pair of jeans at the bottom and something glassy and cold slid out of one of the pant legs.

  It was a cell phone.

  Victor’s cell phone.

  The screen showed that someone had searched for it multiple times.

  I had been carrying my own tracking device this whole time.

  In my rearview, the cop was standing next to his car and talking into his CB radio. I threw the phone as hard as I could out the window. It sailed through the air and disappeared into the scrubby red wasteland.

  Then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a supercar’s engine. In the distance, a glistening, low-slung black shape flew towards us. A blinding white glare glinted off its hood.

  “They’re here!” I screamed out the window. “Officer!” My foot itched to jam the gas pedal. I started my engine and the trooper’s head snapped in my direction.

  The Lamborghini came flying over a rise in the road and braked hard. It cruised slowly past him, like a shark prowling shallow wat
ers. The cop stepped out into the road and waved at them to pull over. They slowed down, but didn’t stop.

  I held my breath and ducked down as they rolled past me. I peeked over my dashboard and watched them come to a full stop in the middle of the road 50 yards ahead of me.

  Then, a tremendous squeal of tires as the Lamborghini reversed and hurtled straight towards me backwards.

  I choked out a scream and slammed my foot down on the gas.

  The Ferrari shot forward like a rocket and I lost control. It veered to the right and skidded out in the red dust.

  The Lamborghini came barreling into the exact spot I’d been in a split second before. It swerved as it raced backwards, brakes burning, and smashed head on into the front of the trooper’s car. The cop, who had been standing by his open car door, tried to leap out of the way, but it was too late. The patrol car spun like a top and hit the cop, sending him flying. The Lamborghini came to a stop in a shallow ditch on the opposite side of the road. Black smoke poured out of its wheel wells as its tires spun.

  The cop. I could see him lying behind his totaled car. His legs jerked, so he wasn’t dead. Yet.

  But I couldn’t help him. Just like the girl in Independence. Another innocent person hurt, maybe killed, because of me. I looked from the fallen cop to the Lamborghini spinning its wheels in the red dust, its engine shrieking like a jet plane taking off.

  A horrible, sick feeling seeped through my body. The road, the dust, and the bright sun blurred before my eyes. For some reason, I couldn’t get my legs to move. I was paralyzed for a few seconds, just staring at the horrific scene.

  I wrestled my panic into submission and hit the gas. The Ferrari responded like it was scared, too. We bounced off the dirt and back onto the reassuring grip of sunbaked asphalt.

  I rounded a bend in the road and shot past a sign that read:

  Valley of Fire State Park

  Red, twisted rock formations suddenly rose up on both sides of the road. The long, flat desert road became a wavy ribbon of gray through a low mountain range. There was a small turnout where a couple of RVs and SUVs were parked. A few hikers strolled out of the hills wearing rock climbing gear and expensive-looking backpacks.

  I pulled off the road and parked behind the last RV. When I swung my legs out of the car, they were like rubber. I grabbed my backpack and staggered towards a steep, narrow trail. Scrambling up the path, I slipped on loose rocks and panted in the arid heat, until I found a small ledge about forty feet above the ground. From this vantage point, I had a good view of the parking lot and the road beyond it.

  I heard the Lamborghini before I saw it. It came screaming around the corner as it approached the parking lot. I prayed for it to drive right by. Not to see my car. Not to stop. But it skidded to a stop and pulled up right next to my car. The back end was dented and badly scratched.

  Arkady stepped out. He pressed his face to my car window, and then casually lit a cigarette, as if he hadn’t just tried to commit vehicular manslaughter. I crouched down low so they wouldn’t see me if they happened to look up.

  The shorter one, Sergei, stepped out, talking fast into his phone. Arkady yelled at him in Russian, and Sergei spat on the ground. He stashed his phone in his jacket, walked up to the rocks right below me, unzipped his pants, and peed.

  Wailing sirens split the air. I realized they must have found the trooper. Maybe he’d be okay. Any minute they’d find the Lamborghini and it would all be over. I would be safe.

  I scooted forward to check the road. A pebble bounced off the ledge and hit the ground, right behind Sergei.

  His head jerked up. He zipped his fly and took a few steps over to the path I took.

  The sirens got louder. Arkady shouted at him in Russian. I crawled away from the ledge and headed through the narrow passageway that led up through sheer rock walls. Behind me, the sun was going down. The afternoon light searing the mountains made them glow deep reddish orange.

  I clambered up. At the top, the path split, and I jumped down to a lower ledge. My shoes skidded on loose pebbles and I slammed into a boulder. My left shoulder took the full force of the fall. Hot flares of pain blinded me. I clamped my hand over my mouth, but my scream echoed across the red ridges.

  I heard faint shouting below me. I found a piece of flat rock half-hidden behind the boulder and collapsed. I peeked over the edge—it was a long drop to the desert floor below. Aching with thirst, I envisioned ice-cold waterfalls and crystal-clear rivers. And Alexander. I pictured him driving towards me, his beautiful face contorted with worry. Why would someone work this hard to help someone he doesn’t even know? I was going to die without finding out what was in Georgette’s will. Without learning my mother’s secrets.

  In the parched silence, I could hear my heart thumping in my ears. At first it sounded like: you’re still alive, you’re still alive, you’re still alive. But then it morphed into: you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die.

  The desert sky was in a full riot of color. Pink and orange clouds streaked to the horizon. I had never watched the sun set over anything but the Pacific Ocean or the Sonoma Mountains. I wondered if I would ever see Sonoma again. I was so far from home. And so alone.

  I was squinting into the light when a shadow fell over my rocky ledge. I turned my head and saw a tall black figure behind me. I screamed and scrambled to my feet.

  Arkady lunged towards me, and I fell. My throat was so parched that my screams sounded like strangled gasps. Sharp rocks sliced my palms and my stomach as he dragged me towards him.

  Rough hands flipped me onto my back and an iron knee hammered into my chest. The setting sun was painting the rocks a hellish shade of crimson.

  “You can’t hide anymore, girl.”

  “Get off me!” I gasped. “I can’t breathe.” He just snickered and muttered something in Russian.

  “You try to kill Victor, you stupid girl? You can’t kill him, okay? But I can kill you.” His mouth split into a wide grimace and something flashed silver in his hand. My arms were pinned under my hips.

  He brought the knife to my throat. The blade was smooth and cold against my skin. He glanced at the injury in my shoulder. “Did that hurt?” He drew the blade across my exposed injury, opening the wound.

  My vision went black for a few seconds as pain wracked my body. I screamed, but my raspy throat barely made a sound. I kicked my legs in a desperate attempt to get him off me. The knife flashed red above my head, reflecting the fiery surroundings. He held it above me and pointed it at my chest. This is how you die. Maybe it will be quick. You’ll see your mother. Soon. I screamed out for my mother, for God, for anyone, to help me.

  Then, in an instant, the crushing weight lifted. I gasped in deep lungfuls of dusty air. Arkady scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide, staring at something. His face drained white, and he let out a high-pitched scream.

  He took a step backwards and slipped on loose rocks.

  In a moment of lucid thought, I swung my leg out.

  My foot caught the back of his heel. He tripped, arms flailing, and plummeted right over the ledge with a strangled shriek.

  I scrambled to the edge, cradling my throbbing left arm, and peeked over. It was at least sixty feet straight down.

  As I scanned the ground for a sign of his body, my ponytail spilled forward and dangled over the precipice.

  Something grabbed onto my ponytail. I gasped and saw Arkady, barely clinging to the side of the cliff a few feet to my left. His face was contorted. Red dirt and sweat coated his face. He cursed in Russian.

  My neck started twisting at an awkward angle as he pulled my hair, and me, down. I screamed at him to let go and tried to brace myself with my feet, but his weight on my hair only increased, pressing my face hard into the hard rocky ledge. His body was like an anchor dragging me down, and I slid, inch by inch, towards the edge.

  Then—I saw something glittering in the dust a few feet away from me. Arkady’s knife. My hand clawed the ground, b
ut I couldn’t reach it.

  He pulled me another inch closer to the edge.

  I closed my eyes and prayed.

  Your godmother. Ask your godmother!

  “Georgette!” I rasped. “Help me! Aide moi!”

  Something scraped the ground. I felt something press into my palm.

  My eyes opened. I was holding the knife.

  I didn’t have time to marvel at the incredible thing that had just happened. My fingers tightened around the black handle. Please be sharp.

  I counted to three and swung my arm below the cliff hard as I could. I sawed once, twice, three times. With the third stroke, the wide blade sliced cleanly through my target. Arkady let out a hideous, strangled cry as he fell.

  I heard a sickening crunch.

  And then it got really quiet.

  When I mustered the courage to look down, I spotted a black boot in the shadows below. A huge boulder on the ground obscured the rest of his body. There was a blotch of bright red blood smeared across its top.

  I threw the knife into the ravine and sat up.

  What had Arkady seen that made him back away like that? He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

  Suddenly, there was a loud chuk chuk chuk right behind me. Startled, I turned in time to see an enormous mountain goat a few feet away, looking right at me. Its eyes were huge and shiny black. He put his great white horns down to the ground, leaped across a deep crevasse, and disappeared behind a craggy rock tower.

  I tried to catch my breath as the adrenaline drained away.

  I gingerly felt the back of my head.

  Short, spiky tufts of hair were all that remained of my ponytail.

  21

  Mare Humboldtianum ~ Sea of Alexander von Humboldt

  A young couple APPEARED behind me. They wore matching hiking outfits.

  “Hey, are you okay? We thought we heard somebody screaming up here.”I stumbled to my feet and the man grabbed my elbow to help me up. I hissed in pain and sat back down.

  The woman noticed the blood.