THREE
HE GREW AWARE OF heat rays against his hands where they rested flat on his thighs. The sun had reached and passed its zenith, was robbing the shelter of shade. If they didn’t leave soon, he would have to reset the position of the lean-to.
“How do you feel?” he asked Casey. “Strong enough to try walking?”
She was still resigned. “I can try,” she said.
“Stay where you are for a couple of minutes, while I get ready. I’ll work around you.”
He gathered and stowed the empty water bottles, took down the lean-to and stowed the stakes, strapped on the pack. When he helped Casey to her feet, she seemed able to stand all right without leaning on him. Carefully he put his sun hat on her head, easing it down to cover her sunburned forehead and scalp. Shook out the blanket, draped it over her head and shoulders so that her arms were covered, and showed her how to hold it in place under her chin. Then he slipped an arm around her thin body and they set out.
Long, slow trek to the Jeep. And a painful one for her, though she didn’t complain, didn’t speak the entire time. They stayed in the wash most of the way, despite the fact that it added a third to the distance, because the footing was easier for her. He stopped frequently so she could rest; and he let her have most of the remaining water. Still, by the time they reached the trail her legs were wobbly and most of her new-gained strength was gone. He had to swing her up and carry her the last hundred yards. Not that it was much of a strain: she was like a child in his arms.
He eased her into the Jeep’s passenger seat, took the blanket, and put it and his pack into the rear. There were two quarts of water left back there. He drank from one, a couple of long swallows, before he leaned in under the wheel. She had slumped down limply in the other seat, with her head back and her eyes shut. Her breath came and went in ragged little pants.
“Casey?”
“I’m awake,” she said.
“Here. More water.”
She drank without opening her eyes.
He drove back to the Toyota, unlocked the driver’s door, opened it carefully because the metal was hot enough raise blisters. He fetched her purse from under the seat, then slid into the stifling interior. Usual junk in the glove compartment; he rummaged through it until he found the registration and an insurance card. He put these into the purse.
When he switched on the ignition, the gas gauge indicator hovered close to empty. He twisted the key to see if the car would start. The engine caught on the third try, stuttering a bit; he shut it off immediately. If the only serious damage was the ruptured oil pan, repairs wouldn’t cost much. It was arranging for a tow truck to come out and haul the Camry to the station at Furnace Creek Ranch that would be expensive.
He pulled the trunk release, got out and went around back. Two pieces of luggage in the trunk, a small suitcase and an overnight case. He took these out, closed the lid, locked the car again, and carried purse and luggage back to the Jeep and stowed them in the rear. Casey still slumped low on the seat with her eyes closed. She didn’t open them until after they were moving again in the opposite direction and the heated slipstream fanned her face through the open window.
Fallon drove slowly, trying to avoid the worst of the ruts, but a few times as they bounced over the track she gave out low groans. Otherwise she made no complaint, said nothing at all. When they reached the smoother valley road above the Ashford Mill ruins, her breathing grew less labored and he thought she was asleep. If so, the sleep didn’t last long. They were halfway between Mormon Point and Badwater when she stirred, shifted position, and drank thirstily from the water bottle. When she lowered it, her pained gaze turned to him.
“How much farther?”
“Forty-five minutes. You okay?”
“Do I look okay? It feels like we’ve been riding for hours.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I can’t stop you.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Where? Where you found me?”
“No, I mean Death Valley. Nearly four hundred miles from San Diego.”
“I came from Las Vegas, not San Diego.”
“Why were you in Vegas?”
“Fool’s errand,” she said bitterly.
“Is that where you got those bruises? In Vegas?”
“… You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
For a time she was silent. Then abruptly, staring straight ahead, she said in flat tones, “A man called me a few days ago. He said his name was Banning and he knew where Court and Kevin were living, but he wanted two thousand dollars for the information. In cash, delivered to him in Las Vegas.”
“Somebody you know, this Banning?”
“No.”
“But you believed him.”
“I wanted to believe him,” Casey said. “He claimed he’d known Court years ago, mentioned the names of people I knew. He said he’d heard that the detective I’d hired had been asking questions about Court.”
“Did he say how he’d heard?”
“No. I know I should’ve asked him, but I didn’t.”
“What’s the detective’s name?”
“Sam Ulbrich. He managed to trace Court and Kevin to Las Vegas last week, but that was as far as he got.”
“You tell him about Banning’s call?”
“No.”
“Why not? Why not send him instead of going yourself?”
“He stopped working for me when I couldn’t pay him anymore. I had nothing left to sell, nobody to borrow from.”
“What about your family?”
“I don’t have any family. Except for my son.”
“So you couldn’t raise the money Banning demanded.”
“Oh, I raised it. I went to Vegas with two thousand dollars in my purse.”
“Where’d you get it?”
It was several seconds before she answered. Then, in the same flat, lifeless voice, “I stole it.”
Fallon didn’t say anything.
“I was desperate,” she said. “Desperate.”
“Stole it where?”
“From the man I work… worked for. From the office safe. And I drove to Vegas and gave it to Banning.”
“And it was all just a scam,” Fallon said. “He didn’t know where to find Spicer and your son.”
“Oh, he knew, all right. He knew because Court set the whole thing up. That was part of the message Banning delivered afterward.”
“Afterward?”
“After he beat me up and raped me.”
“Jesus.”
“Your ex-husband says you’d better stop trying to find him and Kevin, otherwise there’ll be more of the same. Only next time he’ll do it himself and it won’t just be rape and a beating, he’ll kill you. End of message.”
“You call the police?”
“What for? Banning isn’t his real name. What could the police have done? No. No. I stayed in the motel room where it happened until I felt well enough to leave, and then I started driving. By the time the car quit on me, I was out here in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t want to go on living.”
