left Phnom Penh the day before on their way to Thailand. They had stopped for a few days in Siem Reap to see the temples of Angkor Wat-a sightseeing detour that was part of their cover. Only a week before they had learned that Julie was pregnant, and to celebrate they booked a suite at the Royal Khampang Hotel. He would never forget his last evening with her, standing on the Naga Balustrade of Angkor Wat, watching the sun set over the temple's five great towers. They could hear, coming faintly from a hidden monastery in the forest on one side of the temple, the mysterious, hummed chanting of Buddhist monks.
Their assignment had gone off without a hitch. That morning they had deliv-''.' ered the CD-ROM with its data to their operative in Phnom Penh. It had been a j clean finish-or so they thought. The only hint was that he'd noticed they were :, being followed by an old Toyota Land Cruiser. He had washed the guy's laundry- shaken him off his tail-in the crowded streets of the capital before leaving town. It didn't seem like a serious thing, and he'd been followed plenty of times before.
After sunset they had a long dinner in one of the cheap open-air restaurants along the SiemReapRiver, the frogs hopping about the floor and moths bumbling against the lightbulbs strung on wires. They'd gone back to their obscenely expensive hotel room and passed a good part of the evening cavorting on their bed. They slept until eleven, ate breakfast on their terrace. And then Julie had gone to get the car while he brought down their luggage.
He heard the muffled explosion just as the elevator doors opened into the lobby. He assumed an old land mine had gone off-Cambodia was still plagued with them. He remembered coming through the palm court and seeing, through he lobby doors, a column of smoke rising in front of the hotel. He ran outside.
The car lay upside down, almost split in half, billowing acrid smoke, a crater in the pavement. One of the tires lay fifty feet away on an immaculate stretch of lawn, burning furiously.
Even then he didn't recognize it was his car. He figured it was another political killing, all too common in Cambodia. He stood at the top of the steps, looking up and down the street for Julie coming in with the car, worrying that another bomb might go off. As he stood there, he saw a piece of torn fabric ught in a gust of wind; it fluttered up the steps of the hotel and settled almost his feet-and he recognized it as the collar of the blouse Julie had put on that morning.
With a wrenching mental effort Ford brought himself back to the present, to the campfire, the dark canyons, the sky sparkling with stars. All those terrible memories seemed far away, as if they had happened in another life, to another person.
But that was just it: was this really another life-and he another person?
19
THE LIGHTS Of Espanola twinkled in the night air as Bob Biler approached the town. The cop was still behind him but Biler was no longer worried. He was even sorry he'd kicked the bottle under the seat in his panic, and several times he tried to weasel it out with the toe of his boot, but the truck began swerving so he gave up. He could always pull over and fish it out, but he wasn't sure if it was legal to pull off the highway there and he didn't want to do anything to attract the attention of the cop. At least the golden oldies station was finally beginning to come in. He cranked up the knob, humming tunelessly along with the music.
A quarter mile ahead he saw the first set of traffic lights at the outskirts of the city. If he hit a red light it would give him just enough time to fish out the bottle. Damn if driving didn't make you thirsty.
Biler approached the lights, braking carefully and smoothly, watching the cop car in his rearview mirror. As soon as his car stopped he leaned over and reached under the seat, fumbling around until his greasy hand fastened on the cold glass bottle. He slid it out and-keeping himself well below the level of the seat- unscrewed the cap and fastened it to his lips, sucking down as much as possible in the shortest period of time.
Suddenly he heard the screeching of rubber and the sounds of sirens, a wailing chorus all around him. He jerked up, forgetting he had the bottle in his hand, and was blinded by a blast of white light from a spotlight. He seemed to be surrounded by cop cars, all with their pinball machines flashing. Biler was stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening. He winced, trying to blink away blindness, his mind having moved beyond confusion to utter, total blankness.
He heard a harsh megaphone voice saying something, repeating it. 'Step out of the car with your hands up. Step out of the car with your hands up.'
Were they talking to him? Biler looked around but could see no people, only the glare of flashing lights.
'Step out of the car with your hands up.'
They were talking to him. In a blind panic, Biler fumbled with the door handle, but it was one of those handles that you had to push down instead of up, and he struggled with it trying to shoulder the door open. Suddenly the door gave way and flew open, and he tumbled out, the forgotten pint bottle of Jim Beam flying from his hand and shattering on the pavement. He lay all in a heap on the asphalt beside the truck, too stunned and confused to get up.
A figure loomed over him, blocking the light, holding a badge in one hand and a revolver in the other. A voice barked out, 'Detective Wilier, Santa Fe Police Department, do not mover
There was a momentary pause. Biler could see nothing but the man's black outline against a brilliant backdrop. In the background, he could hear the stat-icky wail of Elvis's voice coming from the truck, 'You ain't nothin' but a hound
dog.. .'
A beat passed, and then the silhouette holstered the gun and leaned over him, looking intently into his face. He straightened up and Biler heard him speak again, this time to someone offstage. 'Who the hell is this?'
20
SALLY CLIMBED UP the unstable pile of rocks, the match clenched between her teeth, seeking out footholds and handholds. With every step she could feel the rocks shifting underneath her, some dislodging and tumbling to the bottom. The whole pile seemed to creak and move.
Her breathing came so hard that it put the match out.
She felt in the box-one match left. She decided to save it.
'I'm coming!' the hoarse voice echoed down through the tunnels, maniacally distorted. Sally kept climbing, moving upward by feel, more stones raiding down. Then she heard, above her, a deep groan of shifting wood and rock, followed by a cascade of pebbles. Another step, another creaking shift. It was about to go. But she had no choice.
She reached up, fumbled for a handhold, tested it, drew herself up. Another handhold, another foothold. She moved with the utmost care, easing her weight from one foothold to the next.
'Sally, where are youuu?'
She could hear him splashing through the tunnel. She drew herself up farther and grasped a length of beam above her. Leaning her weight on it, she tested it. It groaned and shifted slightly, but seemed to hold. She paused, trying not to think of what it would be like to be buried alive, then she lifted herself up. Another groan, a flurry of falling pebbles, and she was up and over it. Above, her hands encountered a tangle of splintered wood and broken rock.
She would have to light the last match.
It scraped against the side of the box and flared to life. Above, she could see the dark hole she had to go into. She held the matchbox over the flame until it
caught fire, casting a much brighter light into the dark space, but it was still not enough to see where it went.
With one hand holding the burning box, she hoisted herself over the next shifting beam. In a moment she was standing on a precarious ledge just inside the dark opening. By the dying light of the burning matchbox she saw the hole ended in a broad, half-moon crack going off at a shallow angle of about thirty degrees. The crack looked just wide enough to fit in.
There was a sudden crash below her as a large rock from the ceiling fell to the ground. The flame went out.
'There you are!'
The beam of a flashlight lanced through the darkness, scouring the rock pile below her. She reached up, grabbed a handhold, and hoisted herself up. The flashlight beam was probing all around now. She climbed quickly, even recklessly, scrabbling upward toward the two damp faces of stone and crawling into the broad fissure. The crack went up at a shallow angle and it was wide enough so that she could wedge herself in it and move up by
