direction in connection with the position of the moon. Getting disoriented wouldn’t be good.
He killed the engine.
The silence of the night was complete, uncut by even a wisp of wind or the batting of an insect’s wings.
“January!”
No answer.
“Make a sound if you’re out here. Anything.”
No sounds came.
He listened harder, holding his breath, stilling the passage of air in and out of his lungs.
No sounds came.
He’d probably veered to the right or the left, but which? He fired up the engine, turned the front end to the right and paralleled the road.
January didn’t appear.
Then something bad happened.
The tire broke away from the rim, shredded or cut or whatever. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The rubber was off. Only the rim was left. As hard as it had been to control the front end with a flat, it was ten times worse with just the rim. The metal dug into the dirt.
Turning was hard.
He kept going.
Suddenly the front end stuck and the bike tipped to the left. River braced his foot down but not quick enough to get leverage.
He lost control.
The bike went down.
The headlight shattered.
The world went black except for a red glow at the rear end. River got the bike upright and turned the headlight switch on and off. It did no good. He felt the light and found jagged glass.
It was shattered.
A strange smell wove through the air.
What was it?
Gas?
Yes, that was it, gas.
What happened?
Did the gas line get pulled loose?
River got oriented with the moon and continued parallel to the road.
He could see nothing except stars.
The smell of gas got worse.
It must be getting on the engine or exhaust and burning.
Suddenly the engine died.
River cranked it over.
It wouldn’t start.
Damn it.
He tried again.
It wouldn’t start.
He tried again.
Same.
A rock twisted his foot. River worked it out of the earth to find it was the size of a basketball. He raised it over his head with both arms and smashed it down onto the guts of the bike with every ounce of strength he had.
The sound was terrible.
The taillight went out.
There.
They were even.
He looked at the sliver of moon, got oriented to the road and headed that way at a quick walk. Thirty steps later he stumbled on something.
It was January.
109
When the line died, thunder pounded through Wilde’s veins. “This is a problem,” he said. “I don’t know who was on the other end of that line but I do know one thing, it wasn’t who I thought it was.”
“You mean that Tarzan guy?”
He nodded.
“Dayton River,” Wilde said. “It wasn’t him. I can’t believe it wasn’t him. How come it wasn’t him?”
“Maybe it was that other guy, Mitchum.”
The name hadn’t been in Wilde’s brain for some time. Hearing it out loud made his shoulders tighten.
“Maybe,” he said. “Either way I have a bad feeling about this whole thing.”
“So what do we do? The cab’s waiting-”
“I know.”
He grabbed a pack of matches from his pocket and ripped one off. London snatched them from his hand. “We don’t have time for that.”
“I have to think.”
“We don’t have time to think.”
He knew that.
He knew that only too well.
“If we follow directions, he’s going to kill her anyway,” he said.
London made a face.
She wasn’t convinced.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, I just do.” A beat then, “She’s seen his face, that’s how I know. He’s better off if she’s dead.”
“He only wants the map.”
“Right, but he wants it without complications.”
“So what do we do?”
“I have to catch his ass.”
London took a step back.
“No.”
“It’s our only chance,” he said.
She didn’t agree.
“No, it’s too dangerous.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“No. Even if it works, he might not say where she is. She’ll end up rotting to death.”
