whispered briefly, but then fell silent as the air went still.
Gazing north, toward the distant thunderheads, I said, 'What about the white van?'
'Stolen. We didn't get any prints off it worth spit.'
'No other leads?'
'Not unless county CSI finds some strange DNA or other trace evidence at the Jessup place. What's the situation with you, son?'
I surveyed the surrounding wasteland. 'I'm out and about.'
'Feeling at all magnetic?'
Lying to him would be harder than lying to myself. 'I'm being pulled, sir.'
'Pulled where?'
'I don't know yet. I'm still on the move.'
'Where are you now?'
'I'd rather not say, sir.'
'You're not gonna Lone Ranger this,' he worried.
'If that seems best.'
'No Tonto, no Silver-that's not smart. Use your head, son.'
'Sometimes you've got to trust your heart.'
'No point in me arguing with you, is there?'
'No, sir. But something you could do is run a search of Danny's room, look for evidence that a woman might’ve come into his life lately.'
'You know I'm not cruel, Odd, but as a cop, I have to stay
'This might be a discreet relationship, sir. And I'm not saying Danny got anything from it that he hoped to. Fact is, maybe he got a world of hurt.'
After a silence, the chief said, 'He would be vulnerable, you mean. To a predator.'
'Loneliness can lower your defenses.'
The chief said, 'But they didn't steal anything. They didn't ransack the house. They didn't even bother taking the money out of Dr. Jessup's wallet.'
'So they wanted something other than money from Danny.'
'Which would be-what?'
'That's still a blind spot for me, sir. I can sort of feel a shape in it, but I can't yet see the thing.'
Far to the north, between the charred sky and the ashen earth, the rain resembled shimmering curtains of smoke.
'I have to get moving,' I said.
'If we turn up anything about a woman, I'll call you.'
'No, sir, I'd rather you didn't. I need to keep the line open and save the battery. I just called because I wanted you to know there's a woman in it, so if anything happens to me, you've got a starting place. A woman and three men.'
'Three? The one who Tasered you-and who else?'
'Thought one must be Simon,' I said, 'but now he can't be. All I know about the others is, one of them has big feet.'
'Big feet?'
'Say a prayer for me, sir.'
'I do each night.'
I terminated the call.
After hoisting my backpack, I continued the climb that had been interrupted by the woman's call. The slope rose a long way but at a gentle incline. Rotten shale crunched and slid from under my feet, repeatedly testing my agility and balance.
A few small lizards skittered out of my way. I remained watchful for rattlesnakes.
Rugged leather hiking boots would have been better than the softer sneakers that I was wearing. Eventually, I would probably have to do some sneaking, and these once-white shoes would be ideal for that.
Maybe I shouldn't have worried about footwear, snakes, and balance if I was destined to be killed by someone waiting behind a white paneled door. On the other hand, I didn't want to rely on the theory that the repetitive dream was reliably predictive, because perhaps it had just been the consequence of too much fried food and spicy salsa.
Distant and celestial, a great door rolled open, rumbling in its tracks, and a breeze stirred the day again. When the faraway thunder faded, the air did not fall still as it had earlier, but continued to chase through the sparse vegetation, like a ghost pack of coyotes.
When I reached the top of the hill, I knew that my destination lay before me. Danny Jessup would be found here, captive.
In the distance lay the interstate. A four-lane approach road led from that highway to the plain below. At the end of the road stood the ruined casino and the blackened tower, where Death had gone to gamble and had, as always, won.
TWENTY-ONE
THEY WERE THE PANAMINT TRIBE, OF THE SHOSHONI-Comanche family. These days we are told that throughout their history-like all the natives of this land prior to Columbus and the imposition of Italian cuisine on the continent-they had been peaceful, deeply spiritual, selfless, and unfailingly reverent toward nature.
The gambling industry-feeding on weakness and loss, indifferent to suffering, materialistic, insatiably greedy, smearing across nature some of the ugliest, gaudiest architecture in the history of human construction-was seen by Indian leaders as a perfect fit for them. The state of California agreed, granting to Native Americans a monopoly on casino gambling within its borders.
Concerned that the Great Spirit alone might not provide enough guidance to squeeze every possible drop of revenue out of their new enterprises, most tribes made deals with experienced gaming companies to manage their casinos. Cash rooms were established, games were set up and staffed, the doors were opened, and under the watchful eyes of the usual thugs, the river of money flowed.
The golden age of Indian wealth loomed, every Native American soon to be rich. But the flow did not reach as deeply or as quickly into the Indian population as expected.
Funny how that happens.
Addiction to gambling, impoverishment therefrom, and associated crime rose in the community.
Not so funny how that happens.
On the plain below the hilltop where I stood, about a mile away, on tribal land, waited the Panamint Resort and Spa. Once it had been as glittering, as neon-splashed, as tacky as any facility of its kind, but its glory days were gone.
The sixteen-story hotel had all the grace of a high-rise prison. Five years ago, it had withstood an earthquake with minor damage, but it had failed to weather the subsequent fire. Most of its windows had been shattered by the temblor or had exploded from the heat as the rooms blazed. Great lapping tongues of smoke had licked black patterns across the walls.
The two-story casino, wrapping three sides of the tower, had collapsed at one corner. Cast in tinted concrete, a facade of mystic Indian symbols-many of which were not actual Indian symbols but New Age interpretations of Indian spiritualism as previously conceived by Hollywood film designers-had mostly torn away from the building and collapsed into the surrounding parking lot. A few vehicles remained, crushed and corroding under the debris.
Concerned that a sentinel with binoculars might be surveying the approaches, I retreated from the hilltop, hoping that I had not been spotted.
Within days of the resort disaster, many had predicted that, considering the money to be made, the place would be rebuilt within a year. Four years later, demolition of the burned-out hulk had not begun.
