attained, not even by the use of secret Eastern techniques of meditation, not even when a channeler had once brought forth the spirit of his dead mother at a seance in Pacific Heights, not even with peyote or vibrating crystals or high-colonic therapy administered by an innocent-looking twenty-year-old technician dressed accommodatingly as a Girl Scout. And judging by the lazy pace that she had set, Eve expected to spend hours in the exploration of her magnificent self.
Consequently, Roy did something that he had never done before. He took his pager from his pocket, and because there was no way to switch off the beeper on this particular model, he popped open the plastic plate on the back and removed the batteries.
For one night, his country would have to get along without him, and suffering humanity would have to make do without its champion.
Pain brought Spencer out of a black-and-white dream featuring surreal architecture and mutant biology, all the more disturbing for the lack of color. His entire body was a mass of chronic aches, dull and relentlessly throbbing, but a sharp pain in the top of his head was what broke the chains of his unnatural sleep.
It was still night. Or night again. He didn’t know which.
He was lying on his back, on an air mattress, under a blanket. His shoulders and head were elevated by a pillow and by something under the pillow.
The soft hissing sound and characteristic eerie glow of a Coleman lantern identified the light source somewhere behind him.
The lambent light revealed weather-smoothed rock formations to the left and right. Directly ahead of him lay a slab of what he supposed was the Mojave with an icing of night, which the beams of the lantern couldn’t melt. Overhead, stretched from one thrust of rock to the other, was a cover of desert-camouflage canvas.
Another sharp pain lanced across his scalp.
“Be still,” she said.
He realized that his pillow rested on her crossed legs and that his head lay in her lap.
“What’re you doing?” He was spooked by the weakness of his own voice.
She said, “Sewing up this laceration.”
“You can’t do that.”
“It keeps breaking open and bleeding.”
“I’m not a quilt.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Are you?”
“No.
“It hurts.”
“Of course.”
“It’ll get infected,” he worried.
“I shaved the area first, then sterilized it.”
“You shaved my
“Just one little spot, around the gash.”
“Do you have
“You mean in terms of barbering or doctoring?”
“Either one.”
“I’ve got a little basic knowledge.”
“Ouch, damn it!”
“If you’re going to be such a baby, I’ll use a spritz of local anesthetic.”
“You have that? Why didn’t you use it?”
“You were already unconscious.”
He closed his eyes, walked through a black-and-white place made of bones, under an arch of skulls, and then opened his eyes again and said, “Well, I’m not now.”
“You’re not what?”
“Unconscious,” he said.
“You just were again. A few minutes passed between our last exchange and this one. And while you were out that time, I almost finished. Another stitch and I’m through.”
“Why’d we stop?”
“You weren’t traveling well.”
“Sure, I was.”
“You needed some treatment. Now you need rest. Besides, the cloud cover is breaking up fast.”
“Got to go. Early bird gets the tomato.”
“Tomato? That’s interesting.”
He frowned. “I say tomato? Why’re you trying to confuse me?”
“Because it’s so easy. There — the last suture.”
Spencer closed his grainy eyes. In the somber black-and-white world, jackals with human faces were prowling the vine-tangled rubble of a once-great cathedral. He could hear children crying in rooms hidden beneath the ruins.
When he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying flat. His head was now elevated only a couple of inches on the pillow.
Valerie was sitting on the ground beside him, watching over him. Her dark hair fell softly along one side of her face, and she was pretty in the lamplight.
“You’re pretty in the lamplight,” he said.
“Next you’ll be asking if I’m an Aquarius or a Capricorn.”
“Nah, I don’t give a shit.”
She laughed.
“I like your laugh,” he said.
She smiled, turned her head, and ruminated on the dark desert.
He said, “What do you like about me?”
“I like your dog.”
“He’s a great dog. What else?”
Looking at him again, she said, “You’ve got nice eyes.”
“I do?”
“Honest eyes.”
“Are they? Used to have nice hair, too. All shaved off now. I was butchered.”
“Barbered. Just one small spot.”
“Barbered and then butchered. What are you doing out here in the desert?”
She stared at him awhile, then looked away without answering.
He wouldn’t let her off that easily. “What are you doing out here? I’ll just keep asking until the repetition drives you insane. What are you doing out here?”
“Saving your ass.”
“Tricky. I mean, what were you doing here in the first place?”
“Looking for you.”
“Why?” he wondered.
“Because you’ve been looking for me.”
“But how’d you find me, for God’s sake?”
“Ouija board.”
“I don’t think I can believe anything you say.”
“You’re right. It was Tarot cards.”
“Who’re we running from?”
She shrugged. The desert engaged her attention again. At last she said, “History, I guess.”
