Double

Still, its windows were open and I could get inside. And that was all I needed, since I possessed valuable, though untested, knowledge — I knew how to go about hot-wiring a car. It was something I’d picked up years ago from my brothers, who, while they never stole cars themselves, had traveled in a set where the ability to hot-wire was looked upon in the same way society people appreciate a low golf handicap.

I moved away from the protection of the greasewood bush and studied the front of the house. The door was shut and, owing to the lack of windows, I felt reasonably safe about going over to the car. Nonetheless, I hurried across the parking area in a crouch and slipped into the Cadillac on the passenger’s side, which faced away from the house. Wriggling across the hot black leather seat, I checked the ignition. No keys.

I lay down on the seat and reached under the dash for the ignition wires. When I located them, I started to put them together, then realized I needed a way to hold them in place once the car was started. My brothers had advocated always carrying a stick of chewing gum for this purpose, but I had nothing on me but the Swiss Army knife — and that certainly wouldn’t do the job. Glancing around the car, I spotted a paper clip on the floor and snatched it up.

Quickly I aligned the proper wires and pressed them together while I touched one foot to the gas pedal. The car started with a roar. I slipped the paper clip onto the wires and was about to sit up and put the car in gear when the engine died.

Damn! It must have something to do with the paper clip. Something to do with metal shorting out the current. I ducked down and tried again. The engine started — and died.

Somewhere outside I heard a noise. Sitting up, I peered over the seat back and through the rear window. The door of the house was open and a man was coming out.

The glare of sun bouncing off the trunk lid and onto the rear window blinded me, so the only thing I could tell about him was that he was big — and running toward the car.

I pounded my fist on the seat in frustration, then ducked down and moved back across to the passenger’s door. I slid out to the ground and threw a glance back along the road toward the rise. The sound of the man’s footsteps came closer.

I hated to run, but in my weakened condition there was no way I could stay and fight. I looked to the left and spotted the ruins of the water tower and loading platform, about three football fields away across the hard-packed, rocky sand. As the man closed in on the other side of the car, I stood up and plunged off toward the tower.

The footsteps came after me. A spurt of adrenaline enabled me to speed up, in spite of a wrenching pain in the side I’d fallen on earlier. My breath came in gasps; about halfway there I faltered and looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see the man gaining on me.

But he had turned, and now was running back toward the house. He wore blue pants, a white shirt, and had lightish hair. His gait was shambling and erratic.

It both surprised and relieved me; the man must be old or ill or out of shape. But I knew that this might only be a temporary reprieve. He was probably going back to get a gun.

I ran on, finally reaching the shed and skidding around it. I slammed into the wall, and there was a stinging in my bare arm. Glancing down, I saw splinters and bloody scrapes. A nail had caught my blouse and ripped it along the side.

I gritted my teeth in pain and irritation, leaning on the wall for a moment. If I could get to the road, I could make it to the Elephant Tree Ranger Station — and help. But if I tried to run along the road I would be an easy target for a man in a car; that was why I’d come this way in the first place. It was better to find shelter in the desert and then double back to the road later — under cover of night, if necessary.

About a hundred yards away was an outcropping of rock, and beyond it the desert sloped downward from the foothills. I started running toward it, but when I crossed the remains of the spur track, my foot caught and I fell. Scrabbling to my knees, I looked back toward the house. The man had not reappeared.

I got up and kept running.

The rocks were sandstone, steep and crumbly. I went up them on all fours, clawing for handholds. At the top I flattened to the ground, panting, and then began inching along. After about five feet I came to a drop-off that ended in a drift of rock and sand. I rolled down it, the fine powder filling my shoes and caking my nostrils, the rocks cutting into my skin. Then I struggled to my feet.

The desert spread before me, ripply and wrinkled, with occasional outcroppings before it merged with more of the low, eroded hills. The sky above was relentlessly blue and clear. As far as I could see, everything was tan, dotted with dead-looking scrub vegetation, hazed with shimmering heat. There was nowhere to hide nearby. Nowhere to escape Sugarman’s killer or the cruel rays of the sun.