But he wasn’t into it. It wasn’t anywhere near as exciting—as dirty—as he had expected it to be. The whole idea had been huge in his mind, but this—this was paltry. And so his mind wandered to something he saw on the road on the way up here today: an abandoned airplane hangar baking in the desert sun. The Goth woman whimpered about how good he was—he noticed she worked herself into more of a lather the longer it took, like jockeys waling on their horses as they neared the wire—but his mind was on the checkpoint trailer at the California border, the two Homeland Security agents in their protective vests and their dark clothing, the sun bouncing off their sunglasses, the big German shepherd between them.
He liked their look. Easy enough to approximate. All he needed was a haircut and the right kind of sunglasses.
“Oh—my—
Bobby wondered if he should fake it like his girlfriend did, or just quit. But he was stubborn; he wanted his money’s worth. So he decided to put his mind to it, and with intense concentration, managed to put it over the top, just as the egg timer by the side of the bed rang.
It was the hardest work he’d done all day.
Feeling good about getting it done, he said, “How was that, sweetness?”
“Oh, it was
The way she said it made him want to slap her. That tone in her voice. He’d heard that tone all his life, and every time, it said he wasn’t worth talking to or listening to or even lying to. The way women could put you down just by the inflection.
Just once, he’d like to see something on a woman’s face besides contempt, disappointment, greed, or want.
“The tip jar’s over there,” Goth said.
For a moment he saw himself picking up the jar and tossing it into the mirrored closet doors, but then he remembered that he shouldn’t do anything memorable. He had to think about the big picture. He wanted to be like those two agents—anonymous in their dark glasses and their clipped haircuts.
He put a dollar in her jar and said, “Sorry to overtip you, but I don’t have any loose change.”
She slammed the door after him with her foot.
The Mean Green sat patiently outside, his only friend.
Well, his girlfriend thought she was his friend. She thought she was more than that. But the more she loved him, the less he felt like loving her. Human nature was funny that way. It had always been like that with him. He knew it, but still he kept digging himself into these holes. Now he was going to meet her in Vegas, and he knew what was coming. All these wedding chapels going to waste.
He had other plans for his life.
His mother would have socked him one for even thinking that. Her favorite expression was “Don’t blow your own horn.” But ever since he was a little kid, he was certain he’d make a name for himself. Sure, if you looked at it from the outside, if you were a stranger, you wouldn’t think much of that prediction. But he was just getting started.
He cruised back down the highway through the warm, velvet dark, The Mean Green’s windows open. Singing along with a Little Feat CD, shouting the lyrics into the desert air: “ ‘When the Feats are on the box, the speed just slips my mind, I start to sing along, tap my toe and slap the dash in time.’ ”
The Texas ranger in the song, who stopped the car, telling the guy: “Son those Feat done steered you wrong this time. Those Feat’ll steer you wrong sometimes.” Easy to get steered wrong; life surely was a slippery slope. He himself had spent most of the second half of his life trying to get out of the trouble he caused for himself in the first half.
But when God blew through your soul and told you it was
Back in Pahrump, he hit the slots at the casino. Thinking of all the people on the street and in this place. Wondering: Did they know how it could all change for them in an instant? Did they have any concept of God’s stern and unyielding judgment coming for them, rolling down the highway?
More than likely, they had their blinders on, like everybody else on the planet. Looking around at the people here filling their time, throwing their money away with both hands, he knew that was true. All most people did was try to get from one hour to the next.
Bobby quit while he was slightly ahead and went back to his room. Looked at his maps, thought about what he’d do the next day. Scouting mostly. And planning.
He thought about Death Valley just across the line—how appropriate was
2
There were two cops at the campsite when Laura Cardinal arrived at the scene, one of them looking at the tent as if he were trying to figure out how to pack it up.
The opening to the red, two-man dome tent was unzipped, the nylon door piece lying on the forest floor like a tongue. From this angle, Laura could see at least half the interior. The backside of the tent glowed orange-red where it was lit from the behind by the sun. Sunlight poured in through a fist-sized hole in the fabric. She could see little of the tent floor, but what she saw was empty and soaked with blood.
Warren Janes, the sergeant who had accompanied her to the scene, had to walk fast to keep up with her. “This is the second time something like this’s happened,” he said. “A kid drowned in the lake at the beginning of the summer.”
Laura was half listening. Her instincts had kicked up into high gear, and what they were telling her wasn’t good. Something wrong here. Not that there wasn’t plenty wrong to begin with—two college kids shot to death while sleeping in their tent.
“What happened?” she asked, her gaze still fixed on the campsite.
