“That I can’t tell you,” Nelson said. “Except to say… enough to create an ominous pattern.”
“But surely…”
“What?”
“I mean… it’s all so obvious. If it’s being done and you know it’s a plot of some kind—”
“That we don’t know,” Nelson responded. He gazed at Chris intently, making him nervous. “You haven’t told me everything, have you?” he said.
Chris didn’t know what to say. He had told Nelson everything.
“You didn’t mention Veering,” Nelson said. The kindness was gone from his voice now; his tone was coldly hostile. “You didn’t mention the wager.”
Chris stared at him dumbly, aware of his heartbeat thudding laboredly. His brain felt muddled. How could Veering be a part of all this? He remembered suddenly that his mother had suggested the same thing. He’d decided against it though. Now—
He started, gasping, as Nelson clamped the fingers of his left hand on Chris’s jacket and yanked him close. “Did you?” he shouted.
“I didn’t think—”
“That’s right, you didn’t think!” Nelson snarled at him.
Chris saw him reaching underneath his coat with his right hand and a jolt of horror stiffened him. “My God,” he gasped.
“You have to die, of course. You understand that,” Nelson said.
8
In some demented way, Chris did understand. In a moment of total clarity, he knew it was the only thing that made it all comprehensible—that he was valuable to the project and someone wanted the project to fail.
Self-preservation made him grab at Nelson’s wrist, pinning it beneath his coat. “Let go,” Nelson ordered. “You have to die.”
They rocked slowly on the seat, muscles straining. Chris saw Nelson’s face getting red as they struggled. He knew that the agent was stronger; soon enough, he’d pull free, snatch out his gun and fire.
“No,” Chris muttered, fighting for his life. They wrestled on the seat in a quiet frenzy, almost motionless except for their heaving chests.
The sound of the shot was so loud it made Chris jump back, gasping, releasing his grip on Nelson’s wrist.
Nelson was staring at him, looking dazed. Then, very slowly, he looked down at his chest, making a faint sound of disbelief. After a while, his eyes moved up at Chris again. “You… bastard,” he said in a feeble voice.
Chris flinched as Nelson twisted to the right and pushed open the door. Groaning, the agent tried to stand but collapsed instead. Chris stared at him in mute shock as the agent struggled to his feet and began to weave around, left palm pressed against his side, right hand reaching out as though to signal someone.
Chris couldn’t move. He kept staring at the blood on Nelson’s coat and shirt, oozing from between the fingers of the agent’s left hand as he stumbled around outside, his eyes like those of a blind man. Chris heard the agent’s shoes scuffling over the gritty sand. Then, suddenly, the man cried out, pitching forward.
And disappeared into the ground.
***
The vise was on his skull again, his heart pounding so violently it felt as though it would beat its way out of his chest. Chris was sure he was about to pass out. Dark waves pulsed across him. He gulped at the warm air, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs.
He didn’t know how long it had been, but eventually he realized that he wasn’t going to lose consciousness. He shook his head and got out of the car, knowing that if it was really true—if Nelson had literally been swallowed by the earth—then Veering would have won the wager and reality, for Chris, would be undone.
Moving on rubbery legs, he circled the car and walked across the sand to where Nelson had disappeared.
He stared down into a shallow arroyo, looking at Nelson’s back, praying that there’d be a sign of movement. There wasn’t any movement though and, underneath the agent’s body, Chris saw blood soaking into more and more dry sand.
“Jesus,” he murmured. A killing now. A killing.
He jerked up his head and looked around, expecting to see someone rushing at him to arrest him for the murder of the agent. I didn’t murder him, his mind pleaded with the unseen man. He was trying to kill me; it was an accident.
Chris covered his eyes with his left palm. Deeper and deeper, he thought. Dear God. Every minute that passed was driving him deeper into this inexplicable nightmare.
After a while, he drew down his hand and looked at Nelson’s body again. What was he going to do now? Drive away, try to escape? Take Nelson’s body back to Tucson, give himself up to the police?
“No,” he muttered. The man had tried to kill him, which meant that the CIA wanted him dead. The thought was chilling. How could he escape the CIA? No matter where he went, they’d find him. He shuddered, terrified. Goddamn it, what have I done to deserve this?!
He had to know more.
Bracing himself, he slid down the wall of the shallow arroyo and stopped beside Nelson’s motionless body.
He hesitated; then, pulling in a deep, tremulous breath, squatted down. Placing his hand on the agent’s body, he tried to turn it over. He could scarcely budge it. Dead weight. Grimacing, he bent over and reached under Nelson’s body, trying to slide his hand under Nelson’s coat to reach his billfold.
He couldn’t do it; the man’s weight made it impossible. With a faint groan, he straightened up, hissing, teeth bared, as he saw blood on his fingers. “God,” he muttered, shuddering.
Just get out of here, he thought. He shook his head. If he did that, he’d be as much in the dark as ever. He simply had to get some answers. Drawing in a quiet breath, he put both hands on the agent’s right shoulder and used all his strength to turn over the inert body.
He jerked back with a wince of sickened dread as he saw that Nelson’s eyes were open, staring. He couldn’t take his gaze off the agent’s eyes. They seemed to be made of glass. The stare of a dead man, he thought, lowering his gaze with a convulsive shiver. Reaching down without looking, he felt under the tweed jacket until his fingers touched the top edge of Nelson’s billfold.
A hollow cry of shock wrenched back his lips as Nelson’s fingers clamped onto his wrist.
Snapping his head up, he saw that Nelson’s eyes were looking at him, that his chest was moving faintly with labored breath. He stared at the agent’s pain-twisted face. He hadn’t seen Nelson reach beneath his coat; he stiffened as the red-haired man raised a .45 and pointed it between his eyes. I’m dead, he thought. He closed his eyes abruptly, waiting for the muzzle blast, the blinding pain and darkness.
When they didn’t come, he opened his eyes a little, looking at the agent apprehensively. Nelson was trying to say something. His breath was thin and ragged. “Take me… Tucson,” he whispered. The grip on Chris’s wrist tightened slowly and the agent pushed the gun so close to Chris’s eyes it made him blink uneasily.
“Now,” Nelson ordered in a weak, hoarse voice.
Chris nodded. All right, all right, he thought. Let it be. He couldn’t go on anymore; he was too tired and confused. At least he wasn’t going to be killed. Nelson needed his help now.
“I’ll help you up,” he said.
“No,” Nelson muttered. He released Chris’s wrist and waved Chris back with his bloody hand. Chris stood up, wavering, almost falling back against the arroyo wall, then regained his balance. He stood, breathing with effort, as Nelson started to get up. The agent made sounds of agony in his throat as he struggled to rise. Chris glanced down at the man’s shirt. The left side of it was soaked with blood.
It took Nelson three minutes to get on his feet, shifting the .45 to his left hand and pushing the right one under his jacket to press against the wound; he cried out softly as he did. How badly was the agent hurt? Chris wondered. Would he make it to Tucson? He visualized himself driving up to a hospital with a dead man in his car and a fantastic explanation no one could verify.
“Car,” Nelson mumbled.
Chris turned and,
leaning forward, clambered up the arroyo wall, shoes crunching on the hard soil. Standing up, he looked back at Nelson. The agent was trying to climb from the arroyo, head down. He could kick Nelson’s head, make a run for the car, escape.
He couldn’t make himself do it. The agent was badly hurt. He couldn’t just leave him here to die. He had to take him to a hospital. Once again, he felt a kind of barren relief knowing that he had to do it. At least he’d find out what was going on.
And how far could he run anyway before they caught him?
Nelson was having trouble getting up to the surface. Chris hesitated, then asked, “Do you want a hand?” Nelson made an impotent, growling sound and Chris looked down at him almost angrily. I should leave you here, he thought. You deserve to be left, you son of a bitch.
With a final groaning hitch, Nelson got out of the arroyo and pushed himself on his knees, wavering from side to side, his eyes looking as though they were going in and out of focus. Chris felt himself tensing involuntarily. He could kick the gun from Nelson’s hand, make a run for the car.
He waited too long. Nelson had struggled to his feet now and was making a feeble gesture toward the Pontiac.
Chris turned and walked to the car, got in and closed the door. He sat motionless, staring out through the windshield as Nelson followed him; he heard the erratic crunching of the agent’s shoes as he stumbled to the car. Then he tightened as the passenger door was opened and Nelson dropped down, grunting, on the seat beside him.
Chris looked at him. The agent’s expression was frightening, teeth bared, animal-like, dark eyes glaring at Chris. He made a twitching gesture with the .45 which Chris took to mean he wanted to be driven to Tucson now.
“You’d better close the door,” he said.
With a moan of pain, Nelson reached out and pulled in the door. It clicked in its frame, barely closing. Chris was going to tell him that it wasn’t properly shut, but said nothing as the agent pushed his right hand under his coat again to apply pressure against his wound. “Go,” Nelson muttered.
“I have to turn around,” Chris said.
“Well, turn then,” the agent snapped.
“I’m afraid the wheels might get caught in the sand.”
“Then look for a pullout,” Nelson said through clenched teeth, twisting on the seat in agony.
“All right.” Chris started the engine and pulled back onto the dirt road, looking for a place ahead where he could turn around. There was nothing in sight, the narrow road flanked by sand as far as he could see. Was he going to have to drive all the way into the desert with the wounded man? Sooner or later, he’d have to try a turn regardless, or time would run out on Nelson.
“All right, dammit, all right,” Nelson said in a pain-thickened voice and Chris looked at him quickly. The agent’s breathing was thin and labored. It was like the panting of a dying dog. His eyes had a glaze to them that frightened Chris. “If I’m going,” he muttered, barely able to speak, “you’re going too.”
Chris stared at him in shock. No! he thought. He looked blankly at the barrel of the .45 as the agent shakily raised it to point at Chris’s head.
***
His body moved before his mind did.
His right foot jumped from the gas pedal to the brake and jammed it down. The car jolted to a yawing stop and, with a cry of agony, Nelson was flung against the dashboard.
Again, Chris moved without thinking, lunging to his right and shouldering the red-haired man as hard as he could, throwing him against the door. Barely shut, the door popped open and Nelson was thrown out onto the sandy shoulder.
Instantly, Chris straightened up and threw the transmission into reverse, pressing down on the accelerator. He saw the agent briefly through the open door, raising his automatic. Chris floored the pedal, panicked eyes looking across his shoulder at the road. He jerked his head down as a pair of shots rang out. He looked to the front and saw the agent falling back into a twisted heap. Oh, God, he is dead now, he thought.
So what?! raged his mind. He tried to kill you twice, are you sorry for him?!
He looked back at the road again, slowing down so he could steer more easily. The anger of his reaction had already faded. He felt sick to be driving away from Nelson, leaving him dead or dying. Still, what else could he do? He groaned in frustration and suddenly twisted the steering wheel to the right. He couldn’t just drive backward all the way to the highway.
The car bumped across the rutted ground, then stopped as its rear wheels sank into the sand. “Oh, no,” he said. “Don’t do this.”
Face set into a mask of pleading, he put the transmission into drive and pressed down slowly on the gas pedal. The back wheels spun in the sand. “No!” Chris shouted. Goddamn it, was this nightmare ever going to end?!
Easy, easy, he told himself. He felt a trickle of perspiration on his right cheek. Just control yourself.
Swallowing, he inched his foot down on the accelerator until the Pontiac began to move. He let it rock back and forth a few times, then pressed down harder on the gas pedal, groaning with relief as the car jumped forward. He turned back onto the dirt road, braked, then put the transmission into neutral and twisted around.
About a hundred yards away, he saw the agent’s body still lying in the same twisted posture. He had to be dead now, had to be— Chris swallowed dryly; his throat felt parched. Well, he’d stop at a phone booth anyway and call the nearest hospital. Maybe there was still a chance of saving Nelson’s life.
Why bother? his mind demanded cruelly. The bastard tried to murder you twice.
“Oh, shut up; just shut up,” he told it angrily.
Putting the transmission into drive again, he started for the highway.
9
When he reached the highway six minutes later, he turned left without thinking. Then he began to wonder why he had. Was he going back to Tucson? His sigh was one of weary defeat. What difference did it make which way he went? They’d find him regardless.
Not yet though, he thought. He wasn’t ready to give himself up right now. He had to stop somewhere, rest, try to think. “Use your skills,” he remembered his mother’s words. Analysis was one of them. He had to get off the road, lie down and rest, then think.
A few miles down the highway, he came to a rest stop and pulled in. He stopped and got out, checking the contents of his right trouser pocket. Eighty cents. Enough for one call? Tucson wasn’t that far.
First he went into the men’s bathroom and relieved himself, then washed off his face. There were no paper towels so he unrolled a handful of toilet paper to dry his face and hands.
He went outside and walked toward the telephones, feeling a little dizzy in the bright sun. Should he just call the police and wait here for them to pick him up?
No, his mind responded instantly. The way things were? The CIA after him? Nelson probably dead? Heroes didn’t surrender themselves anyway. They kept on going until—
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he muttered. How many times do I have to tell you? he demanded of his mind. This isn’t a story, it’s reality!
Reality, he thought as he reached the telephones. Forget that, he thought. He didn’t want to get re-entangled in that web of thinking right now.
Should he tell his mother? he wondered. Let her call an ambulance?
No. He didn’t want to involve her any more than she was already.
He pulled up the directory and looked up Hospitals in the yellow section. Picking one out, he memorized the number and let the directory flop back. He slipped two dimes into the phone and dialed the number.
The operator asked for fifty-five cents more (thank God it wasn’t more) and he put in sixty. “I can’t return the overage,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Chris responded.
“Thank you,” said the operator.
“You’re welcome,” Chris replied. Politeness in the midst of nightmare, he thought. Too much for the heart.
Just as the call was answered, Chris saw a f
igure walking into the rest stop. “Tucson Memorial,” the woman’s voice said.
“Emergency, please,” Chris said. He squinted, looking at the approaching figure. There was something familiar about—
“Emergency,” a man’s voice said.
Veering.
Chris shuddered violently. “No,” he murmured.
“Beg your pardon?” the man inquired.
Chris’s throat felt blocked. He wanted to drop the phone and bolt for his car. But he couldn’t do it without—
He cleared his throat spasmodically. “There’s a man in the desert, he’s been shot,” he blurted, “on—”
He broke off, wincing, staring at the old man. Had he seen Chris yet? Recognized him?
Then the sign leaped into his mind, he saw it as clearly as though he were standing beside it. “Mesquite Road,” he said. “South of the highway a little more than a mile.”
“May I have your name, please?” the man asked.
“The man is dying. Hurry!” Chris slammed the handset onto its cradle and broke into a run for the Pontiac.
He looked at Veering as he ran. The old man had seen him now. He had his hand raised. He was smiling, the bastard! “Hi!” he called.
Chris couldn’t seem to breathe. He raced the rest of the way to the car and jumped in, his gaze darting to the rearview mirror. Was Veering going to reach him before he could leave? Get in the car with him?
Chris twisted the ignition key, starting the motor and slapping the transmission indicator to drive in the same moment. He jarred his foot down on the accelerator and, with a squeal of tires, the car jumped forward. Chris twisted the steering wheel around as quickly as he could, just missing a concrete table. The car roared down the exit drive, headed toward the highway.
As he turned onto the highway, he looked into the rearview mirror. The old man was running after him, waving both arms now. No chance, old man, he thought. He pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car already going sixty-five.
As he sped along the highway, he kept looking back. It wouldn’t surprise him, he thought with a shudder, to see Veering racing after him, so fast that he would overtake the Pontiac and, running beside it, pull open the door and jump in.