away.
Wes cursed silently. There had been a small part of him hoping they would leave the truck behind. He’d been toying with the idea of using it to get out of there.
He looked back at the sedan with the spotlight. It was almost parallel to his position now.
Again the urge to flee nearly overwhelmed him. But he resisted. He wasn’t simply trespassing on private property. This was a military base. If he ran, there wouldn’t be a shout ordering him to stop. The only shout would be from the gun firing the bullet aimed at his back.
When the spotlight touched the bushes only a few feet to his left, Wes tucked his head down as far as he could, burying his face in the dirt.
Five seconds passed. Then ten.
With each breath, he felt like he was inhaling more dust than air. But he didn’t move, not even a fraction of an inch. He waited for the sound of car doors opening, then shouting and weapons being drawn, but the only thing he heard was his own heartbeat.
Finally, when he was sure he should have already been spotted, he twisted his head to the right and opened an eye. His view of the world was limited to sky and the edge of the shallow ravine. But it was all dark.
He listened intently, trying to pick out the sound of the sedan. After a moment, he heard the tires passing over dirt, faint and getting fainter.
The relief that coursed through him was tempered by the knowledge he wasn’t out of trouble yet. He held his position, and counted off the minutes in his head, telling himself he’d take another look when he reached ten. Then when he did, he made himself take another five just to be safe.
Once that had passed, he carefully raised himself up so that he could see above the crest of the depression.
Unbroken night on all sides.
He focused on the buildings. Both the sedan that had been circling with the spotlight and the ones that had still been parked were gone.
He did a full scan, examining every inch in case this was some kind of trick.
No one.
He was alone.
53
In many ways, the journey to get off the base was more nerve-racking than lying in the ditch waiting to be caught. Keeping at least twenty feet off the road, Wes paralleled the route the sedans had arrived on, hoping that if he suddenly needed to hide, he could do so without being seen.
He had determined his location first by spotting the distant shadowy line of the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west, then by the much closer form of B Mountain-so called because of the white
The quickest way to the fence would have been to take a hard left to the south, toward the highway to Trona, where he could probably hitch a ride. But going in that direction would have meant crossing a couple of miles of untouched desert. Not necessarily an attractive option.
If he went west, though, he would not only be heading in the direction of the motel, but also toward a portion of the fence where he felt confident he could find an easy place to get over.
So onward he hiked, ever mindful of any light he saw or sound he heard.
An hour later, he reached the road that led up to where his house used to stand. It was on this very strip of asphalt that he’d first gotten behind the wheel of a car. It had been his mom’s 1975 VW van. Red bottom, white top, with a stick shift longer than his arm. He’d stalled twice, but eventually got it to the top of the incline.
Now he ascended it on foot, then crossed into the area that had once been the neighborhood he’d grown up in. Just that afternoon he’d looked at it from the other side of the fence, but now he was actually standing on the same streets where he’d played.
Angling southwest, he headed toward the fence that separated the area from the high school. Teens had been hopping that particular section since before Wes was born. That meant there’d be at least one spot along the expanse that could easily be scaled.
It wasn’t until he’d already passed it that he realized he’d walked right through the space where his family’s home had been. But as he turned back to look, what caught his attention wasn’t the structural ghost from his childhood, but two sets of headlights moving quickly up the hill, one right after the other.
“Dammit.” He started running.
He had to assume he’d been seen. The problem was there was absolutely nowhere to hide in his old neighborhood. His only hope lay with the high school on the other side of the fence.
There was no time to hunt for the easiest section, so Wes headed straight for the expanse closest to him. When he was three feet away, he leapt, his hands reaching for the support rail that ran across the top. As soon as he clamped on, he pulled himself up and over. But while he might now be on the town side of the fence, he was still in plain sight.
Wes ran, his eyes desperately searching for a place to hide. The closest structure was the school administration building, but he wouldn’t be able to reach it without being seen first. He glanced left and right, trying to locate an alternative.
His target was a six-toot-high red cinder-block wall with the words SHERMAN E. BURROUGHS HIGH SCHOOL on the front.
He sprinted flat out, skidding around the wall just as the first set of headlights crested the hill.
He peered around the edge of his hiding place and watched the cars race into his old housing tract. Almost immediately spotlight beams shot out from the windows and began panning across the empty land. One of the cars came near the section of the fence Wes had gone over, but its light never turned toward the high school.
The cars then headed toward Hubbard Circle on the other side of Knox Road. Once they’d moved off, Wes made a dash for the admin building, then moved deeper into the school. By the time he reached the student parking lot near the lecture center, the cars on the base were gone.
He allowed himself a moment to lean against the building and catch his breath. As he did he felt a stinging sensation along his ribs on his right side. He reached down and found an inch-long, upside-down L-shaped tear in his T-shirt. Underneath, his skin was sticky with blood. It must have happened when he’d hopped the fence.
He winced as he probed the wound. He didn’t think it needed stitches, but it did need to be cleaned as soon as possible. Scratched arm, singed wrist, cut on his rib cage, and no doubt bruises everywhere else from the ride in the back of Lars’s truck-there was nothing like coming home.
54
Wes finally reached the Desert Rose Motel at nearly 2 a.m., a sorry mix of pain and exhaustion. He carefully opened the door to his room so as to not wake Anna, but he needn’t have been so cautious. She wasn’t there. She’d apparently gotten tired of waiting for him and gone back to her own room. He thought about letting her know he was back, but he was just too exhausted. She’d be mad at him in the morning, but he convinced himself it was better to just let her sleep.
He took four Advils, then forced himself into the shower and washed out his wound. The gash was as unattractive as it was painful, but his initial instincts had been correct-he wasn’t going to need any stitches.
Once he was finished with the shower, he found a couple of Band-Aids in his shaving kit and slapped them over the wound-inadequate at best, but better than nothing-then stretched out on the bed with the papers Lars had shoved in his hand. The last thing he remembered was looking at the top sheet and trying to make sense of the words. Sleep had other ideas.
