Double

I pivoted to the right and then the left, finally spotting a wash full of thorny underbrush. It was hundreds of yards away, across open country where I could easily be sighted, but it was my only chance.

Once again I ran.

The sand was not so rocky here, and I felt as if I were running in slow motion. The intense heat seared my lungs. Every step brought wrenching pain to my side; my tongue was so dry it felt swollen. For moments it seemed as if I were running on an endless tan treadmill, but then the wash grew closer, and closer...

It was deep and rocky, full of mesquite and dead-looking cheesebush. I barely broke stride at its edge, sliding and tumbling down to the bottom. The rocks cut into my skin, tore at my clothing. I rolled to a stop against a low, rounded chuparosa bush, its thorny branches poking into my side.

There had been no sign of the man as I crossed the open sand, but that didn’t mean I was safe. This wash, with its tall mesquite trees, was probably the only shelter within miles; it wouldn’t take the man long to figure out I’d run for it. And it might be sheltering other things than me: there might be rattlesnakes; they went for shade in the heat of the day. I couldn’t stay here.

Looking around for snakes, I got up and moved under the nearest mesquite, temporarily out of the sun, and looked off along the wash. It curved away for a long distance, becoming rockier, with sparser vegetation.

Not promising, I thought, but I’ll have to follow it.

I felt a trickling on my upper arm and looked down. Blood oozed from a deep cut. Funny — the blood didn’t feel warm, the way it usually did when you cut yourself. But of course, my skin was heated to a degree far higher than ninety-eight point six. I brushed the blood away, wiped my hand on my jeans. Then I started along the wash.

It curved and branched, as unpredictable as the flash floods that had helped to form it. I followed the branches that afforded the most protection from the sun, ever alert for the presence of snakes, trying at the same time to maintain my mental fix on the direction of the road. If the wash eventually came out closer to it, I would chance moving into open country and going for help.

The terrain kept getting rougher. After a while I was stumbling over large rocks, then clambering over boulders. Periodically I glanced over my shoulder and up at the rim of the wash, but there was no sign of a man with a gun. Gradually the wash narrowed, and finally it ended in a rough V of sandstone.

The V created shade, and I slumped down in it. My head was pounding, my tongue swollen. Sweat came out on my body, but dried almost immediately. Even the matted hair at the nape of my neck was barely damp. Dust caked my nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.

Got to have water, I thought.

A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the sandstone.

Can’t stay here without water, I thought. I’ll die without it.

I thought of Don. His familiar, swarthy face swam in the darkness behind my eyelids. A couple of days ago I’d been worried because of an unknown woman named Laura, a lie he’d told me. Now I was worried I’d never see Don again. And what of my family? Or Wolf? What about my other friends, and the folks at All Souls?

I pictured them all, and then the images blurred and were gone. The dizziness passed, and I opened my eyes. I was looking at the sharply sloping side of the wash above me.

You’ve got to climb it, I told myself. You’re boxed in down here.

I struggled to my feet and started up.

There were very few hand or toe holds, and I kept slipping backward. For minutes it seemed I lost more ground than I gained. The knees of my jeans tore out and my already sunburned skin became scraped and bloody. Sliding on my stomach, I finally gained the rim of the wash.

I lay there gasping, looking around. No one was in sight, and all around stretched the barren, sun-washed desert. It was dotted with spiny cactus, sand verbena, and ocotillo, but otherwise there were no signs of life. None of the little animals that lived out there were stirring, and there wasn’t even a jeep track to show that anyone had been here before me.

I couldn’t see the house or the water tower. I couldn’t see the road to Les Club, or Split Mountain Road, or the utility lines that stretched along it. If those lines had been visible, I could have got to the ranger station and help. But they were nowhere in sight.

I stared bleakly into the distance, realizing I was lost.

I’d lost all sense of direction while following the curving, branching wash. The hills ranged around me, but I couldn’t tell if the ones I was looking at were the same I’d seen earlier as I’d lain on top of the sandstone outcropping within sight of the old water tower. I stood up and searched for a landmark, but saw nothing.