Panic!

“Children’s books.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

“I ... yes. Yes.”

“What were you doing all alone today? Research?”

“I was making some sketches.”

“You do your own illustrating?”

“Yes.”

“It must be a fine thing to have artistic talents.”

“It’s a lot of hard work.”

“Where do you live in New York? Greenwich Village?”

“I don’t live in New York any more.”

“Well, where do you live? Out here? This state, I mean?”

“Oh God,” she said, “what difference does it make? We’re going to die on this desert, you know that, don’t you?”

“We’re not going to die,” Lennox said.

“How are we going to get away?”

“I don’t know. We’ll get away.”

“No,” she said, “no, we won’t.”

He had a sudden thought, and hope touched him faintly, clinging. “Are you living here? Or are you just staying in the area—with friends, maybe?”

“In a hotel,” Jana answered. “Why?”

“In Cuenca Seco?”

“Yes.”

“Does anyone know you came out here today?”

She frowned. “The desk clerk. He showed me how to get here on a map.”

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did the clerk seem interested in you?”

“His eyes were all over me, if that’s what you mean. What are you getting at?”

“I was thinking that when you didn’t come back tonight, he might have gone to the police and reported you missing. And that they might send out some men to look for you.”

“Why should he go to the police if I don’t come back right away? He’d be a fool to do that.”

“It’s a chance, that’s all.”

“Is it the only chance we have?”

“No. No, not the only one.”

“What will we do when we leave here? Keep running the way we did today?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to think what to do.”

The wind whistled in a gentle monotone between the rocks and stroked Jana with chill intimacy; she hugged herself again, shivering. “God, it’s cold. I had no idea it got this cold on the desert at night.”

Lennox watched her rocking slightly and he felt very sorry for her. He crawled stiffly across to her, raised himself up on his knees. “We’d better huddle together for warmth,” he said softly, and put a tentative arm about her shoulders. “If we don‘t—”

She pulled away from him viciously, pushing him off balance, so that he fell on his right elbow. Her eyes, in the moonshine, were wide, flickering pools. “Don’t touch me!” she said. “Damn you, don’t you touch me!”

He stared at her. “I was only thinking—”

“I don’t care what you were thinking.”

“For God’s sake,” Lennox said, “I only wanted to make it a little easier for you, for both of us.”

“Leave me alone, just leave me alone.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“Just keep your hands off me, that’s all. I don’t like to be touched. I don’t want you to touch me.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

She lay down in the sand, facing toward him but not looking at him, her body pulled into a fetal position, her arms folded tautly over her breasts. He stared at her for a long time, but she did not move and her eyes did not close; finally he rolled onto his back and covered his own eyes with his arm, shielding out the moonlight, embracing the darkness.

What’s the matter with her? he thought. I only wanted to make her warm.

And then he thought: I wonder if I can sleep?

And slept.

The Third Day...

One

It had been this way for Brackeen in San Francisco:

A patrolman with an impressive record in his four years on the force, one soft step from a promotion to plain clothes and an inspectorship, he had been teamed with another good, young officer, Bob Coretti. Their cruise beat was the Potrero District, and the industrial and waterfront area extending from China Basin to Hunters Point; it was not the safest or the cleanest patrol in the city, but they knew it well and they functioned well in its jungle of streets and alleys and dark old buildings. They were known, even respected, as tough but decent heat—and as a result they had even built up a small but dependable stable of informants who would put them on to minor rumbles for a few dollars’ cash.

It was one of these tipsters, a pool hustler named Scully, who gave them the line on Feldman.

They were cruising on South Van Ness, a few minutes before ten of a bleak Thursday in early February. It had been a quiet night, like you can get in early winter, the sky filled with a biting wind and a thin rain; the heater in their patrol car was not working, and Coretti, who was driving, had been complaining about the fact for the past hour. He was telling Brackeen that he was tempted to fix the damned thing himself and send the city a bill for repair costs, when Scully came out of one of the bars along the strip and gave them the high sign.