Shadowfires

point of cover to another. From
the leafy dogwood to a clump of wild azaleas. From the azaleas to a
low limestone formation, where the desiccated corpse of a ground
squirrel lay as if in warning. Then over a small hill, through rough
weeds that scratched his face, under another split-rail fence.
    Five minutes later, almost forty minutes after setting out from
the cabin, he bulled his way down a brush-covered slope and into a
dry drainage ditch alongside the state route that circled the
lake.
    Forty minutes, for God's sake.
    How far into the lonely desert had Rachael gotten in forty
minutes?
    Don't think about that. Just keep moving.
    He crouched in the tall weeds for a moment, catching his breath,
then stood up and looked both ways. No one was in sight. No traffic
was coming or going on the two-lane blacktop.
    Considering that he had no intention of throwing away either the
shotgun or the Combat Magnum, which made him frightfully conspicuous,
he was lucky to find himself here on a Tuesday and at this hour. The
state route would not have been as lightly used at any other time.
During the early morning, the road would be busy with boaters,
fishermen, and campers on their way to the lake, and later many of
them would be returning. But in the middle of the afternoon-it was
2:55 -they were comfortably settled for the day. He was also
fortunate it was not a weekend, for then the road would have been
heavily traveled regardless of the hour.
    Deciding that he would be able to hear oncoming traffic before it
drew into sight-and would, therefore, have time to conceal himself-he
climbed out of the ditch and headed north on the pavement, hoping to
find a car to steal.

----
27 ON THE
ROAD AGAIN
    By 2:55, Rachael was through the El Cajon
Pass, still ten miles south of Victorville and almost forty-five
miles from Barstow.
    This was the last stretch of the interstate on which indications
of civilization could be seen with any frequency. Even here, except
for Victorville itself and the isolated houses and businesses strung
between it and Hesperia and Apple Valley, there was mostly just a
vast emptiness of white sand, striated rock, seared desert scrub,
Joshua trees and other cactuses. During the hundred and sixty miles
between Barstow and Las Vegas, there would be virtually only two
outposts-Calico, the ghost town (with a cluster of attendant
restaurants, service stations, and a motel or two), and Baker, which
was the gateway to Death Valley National Monument and which was
little more than a pit stop that flashed by in a few seconds, gone so
quickly that it almost seemed like a mirage. Halloran Springs, Cal
Neva, and Stateline were out there, too, but none of them really
qualified as a town, and in one case the population was fewer than
fifty souls. Here, where the great Mojave Desert began, humankind had
tested the wasteland's dominion, but after Barstow its rule remained undisputed.
    If Rachael had not been so worried about Benny, she would have
enjoyed the endless vistas, the power and responsiveness of the big Mercedes, and the sense of escape and release that always
buoyed her during a trip across the Mojave. But she could not stop
thinking about him, and she wished she had not left him alone, even
though he had made a good argument for his plan and had given her
little choice. She considered turning around and going back, but he
might have left by the time she reached the cabin. She might even
drive straight into the arms of the police if she returned to
Arrowhead, so she kept the Mercedes moving at a steady sixty miles an
hour toward Barstow.
    Five miles south of Victorville, she was startled by a strange
hollow thumping that seemed to come from underneath the car: four or
five sharp knocks, then silence. She swore under her breath at the
prospect of a breakdown. Letting the speed fall to fifty and then
slowly to forty, she listened closely to the Mercedes for more than
half a mile.
    The hum of the tires on the pavement.
    The purr of the engine.
    The soft whisper of the air-conditioning.
    No knocking.
    When the unsettling sound did not recur, she accelerated to sixty
again and continued to listen expectantly, figuring that the unknown
trouble was something that occurred only at higher speeds. But when,
after another mile, there was no noise, she decided she must have run
over potholes in the pavement. She had not seen any potholes, and she
could not recall that the