slope from the highway. Three have flashlights, which they’ve used to flag down the SUVs.
Above this group, on the interstate, a larger crowd — forty or fifty strong — has formed along the shoulder, watching the activity below. They have assembled just west of the Windchaser owned by the psychotic teeth collectors.
Alerted by Curtis’s warning as he’d fled the motor home, maybe other motorists investigated the Windchaser. Having found the grisly souvenirs, they have made a citizens’ arrest of the geriatric serial killers and are holding them for justice.
Or maybe not.
From the roadblock, vehicle to vehicle, word might have filtered back to the effect that the authorities are searching for a young boy and a harlequin dog. A motorist — the jolly freckled man with the mop of red hair and one sandal, or perhaps the murderous retirees in the Windchaser — could then have used a cell phone or an in-car computer to report that the fugitive pair had only minutes ago created a scene on the interstate before fleeing north into the wildland.
Below, the three flashlights swivel in unison and point due north. Toward Curtis.
He’s at too great a distance for those beams to expose him. And in the absence of a moon, although he stands on the ridge line, the sky is too dark to reveal him in silhouette.
Nevertheless, instinctively he crouches when the lights point toward him, making himself no taller than one of the scattered clumps of sagebrush that stipple the landscape. He puts one hand on the back of the dog’s neck, Together they wait, alert.
The scale of these events and the rapidity with which they are unfolding allow for no measurable effect of willpower. Yet Curtis wishes with all his might that what appears to be happening between the motorists and the law-enforcement officers in those two SUVs is not happening. He wishes they would just continue westward, along the base of the highway embankment, until they reach the helicopter. He pictures this in his mind, envisions it vividly, and wishes, wishes, wishes.
If wishes were fishes, no hooks would be needed, no line and no rod, no reel and no patience. But wishes are merely wishes, swimming only the waters of the mind, and now one of the SUVs guns its engine, swings north, drives maybe twenty feet deeper into the desert, and brakes to a halt, facing toward Curtis.
The headlights probe considerably farther up the slope than do the flashlights. But they still reach far less than halfway toward Curtis and Old Yeller.
On the roof of the SUV, a searchlight suddenly blazes, so powerful and so tightly focused that it appears to have the substance of a sword. Motorized, the lamp moves, and each time the slicing beam finds sagebrush or a gnarled spray of withered weeds, it cuts loose twisted shadows that leap into the night. Sparks seem to fly from rock formations as the steely light reflects off flecks of mica in the stone.
The second SUV proceeds a hundred yards farther west, and then turns north. A searchlight flares on the roof, stabbing out from the jeweled hilt of red and blue emergency beacons.
Paralleling each other, these two vehicles move north, toward Curtis. They grind along slowly, sweeping the landscape ahead of them with light, hoping to spot an obviously trampled clump of weeds or deep footprints where table stone gives way to a swale of soft sand.
Sooner rather than later, they are likely to find the spoor they seek. Then they will pick up speed.
The officers in the SUVs are operating under the aegis of one legitimate law-enforcement agency or another, and they most likely are who they appear to be. There’s always the chance, however, that they might instead he more of the ferocious killers who struck in Colorado and who have pursued Curtis ever since.
Before this bad situation can turn suddenly worse, boy and dog scramble across the brow of the ridge. Ahead, the land slopes down toward dark and arid realms.
Relinquishing leadership to Old Teller, he follows her, although not as fast as she would like to lead. He skids and nearly falls on a cascade of loose shale, thrashes through an unseen cluster of knee-high sage, is snared on a low cactus, crying out involuntarily as the sharp spines prickle through the sock on his right foot and tattoo a pattern of pain on his ankle — all because he doesn’t always proceed exactly in the dog’s wake, but at times ranges to the left and right of her.
Trust. They are bonding: He has no doubt that their relationship is growing deeper by the day, better by the hour. Yet they are still becoming what they eventually will be to each other, not yet entirely synchronized spirit to spirit. Curtis is reluctant to commit blindly and headlong to his companion’s lead until they have achieved total synergism.
Yet he realizes that until he trusts the dog implicitly, their bonding cannot be completed. Until then, they will be a boy and his dog, a dog and her boy, which is a grand thing, beautiful and true, but not as fine a relationship as that of the cross-species siblings they could become, brother and sister of the heart.
Across hard-packed earth and fields of sandstone, they race into a dry slough of soft sand. The surefooted dog at once adapts to this abrupt change in the terrain, but because Curtis is not fully attuned to his sister- becoming, he blunders after her into the waterless bog without adjusting his pace or step. He sinks to his ankles, is thrown off-balance, and topples forward, imprinting his face in the sand, fortunately quick-thinking enough to close his eyes and his mouth before making a solid but graceless impact.
Raising his face out of its concave image, snorting sand out of his nostrils, blowing a silicate frosting off his lips, blinking grains from his eyelashes, Curtis pushes up onto his knees. If his mother’s spirit abides with him now, she is laughing, worried, and frustrated all at once.
Old Yeller returns to him. He thinks she’s offering the usual doggy commiseration, maybe laughing at him a little, too, but then he realizes that her attention is elsewhere.
The moonless darkness baffles, but the dog is close enough for Curtis to see that she’s interested in the top of the hill that they recently crossed. Raising her snout, she seeks scents that he can’t apprehend. She clenches her muzzle to stop panting, pricks her ears toward whatever sound engages her.
A flux of light throbs through the air beyond the ridge line: the moving searchlight beams reflecting off the pale stone and soil as the SUVs ascend the slope.
Although Curtis can’t prick his ears — one of the drawbacks of being Curtis Hammond instead of being Old Yeller — he follows the dog’s example and holds his breath, the better to detect whatever noise caught her attention. At first he hears only the grumble of the SUVs… Then, in the distance, a flutter of sound arises, faint but unmistakable: helicopter rotors beating the thin desert air.
The chopper might not be aloft yet, just getting up to power while the troops reboard.
Whether already airborne or not, it will be coming. Soon. And if the craft itself doesn’t possess the latest electronic search-and-locate gear, the troops will. Darkness won’t thwart them. They have special ways of seeing that make the night as penetrable as daylight.
Trust. Curtis has no choice now but to put his full faith in the dog. If they are to be free, they will be free only together. Whether they live or die, they will live or die as one. His destiny is hers, and her fate is inseparably twined with his. If she leads him out of this danger or if she leads him off the edge of a high cliff, so be it; even in his dying fall, he will love her, his sister-becoming.
A little moonlight nevertheless would be welcome. Rising out of the distant mountains, great wings of black clouds span the western sky, and continue to unfurl in this direction, as though a vault deep in the earth has cracked open to release a terrible presence that is spreading its dominion over all the world. A generous seasoning of stars salts the clear pant of the sky, but still the desert steadily darkles, minute by minute, deeper than mere night.
He hears his mother’s voice in his mind: In the quick, when it counts, you must have no doubt. Spit out all your doubt, breathe it out, pluck it from your heart, tear it loose from your mind, throw it away, be rid of it. We weren’t born into this universe to doubt. We were born to hope, to love, to live, to learn, to know joy, to have faith that our lives have meaning… and to find The Way.
Banishing doubt, seizing hope with a desperation grip, Curtis swallows hard and prepares himself for an exhilarating journey.
Go, pup, he says or only thinks.
She goes.
With no hesitation, determined to make his mother proud, to be daring and courageous, the boy sprints after the dog. Being Curtis Hammond, he isn’t designed for speed as well as Old Yeller is, but she matches her pace to meet his fastest sprint, leading him north into the barrens.
