Panicked, he saw McCoy facedown in a pile of ash and grabbed him, twisting him, directing his soot-covered face to the sky. Each time McCoy coughed, he groaned, shuddering from pain. His blood was stark against the blackness.
13
T HEY WERE IN A CHARCOAL - FILLED CRATER that was formed by the collapsed walls of an incinerated building.
The shotgun, Coltrane thought. Where is it? I dropped it.
Groping among the brittle burnt ruins, he saw an unscorched chunk of wood protruding from a blackened pile and grabbed the shotgun’s stock, tugging it free. He squirmed in a frenzy toward the crater’s rim, peering warily above it, ready to shoot if he saw Ilkovic coming.
McCoy coughed behind him, straining to say something. “. . . arrel.”
“What?”
“Barrel. Ash in it.”
Coltrane’s stomach convulsed when he realized what McCoy was trying to tell him. The shotgun had fallen barrel-first among the burnt timbers. Ash and chunks of grit would have been wedged up the barrel. If Coltrane pulled the trigger, the plug might be tight enough to make the weapon backfire. Imagining an explosion of buckshot into his face, he hurriedly reversed the weapon and tensed when he saw that the barrel was indeed jammed.
Hands shaking, he opened the pocketknife he had taken from McCoy and shoved the blade into the plugged barrel—only to flinch when he realized, What am I doing? I’m staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
Desperate, he put on the safety catch. But he still felt nervous about peering down the barrel, and he racked the pump slide under the barrel, ejecting shells without firing them.
Now! he told himself. After peering urgently toward the valley to make sure Ilkovic wasn’t in view, he raised the pocketknife to free the jammed grit from the barrel.
A ballpoint pen appeared before him, McCoy’s left hand trembling as he offered it.
Coltrane understood. The plastic pen would go deeper.
As he pried a thumb-sized chunk of charcoal from the barrel, he marveled at McCoy’s determination. The wounded man shakily withdrew his revolver from the shoulder holster under his suit coat and aimed it toward the valley.
Coltrane was equally shaky. Staring intermittently toward the wasteland beyond where they had abandoned the car, he freed the barrel, wiped each shell before he shoved it into the weapon, and pushed the safety catch to the off position. Feeling a surge of triumph, he aimed toward his unseen target.
“Pump it,” McCoy forced himself to say.
“What?”
“You need to rack a shell into . . .”
Coltrane’s surge of triumph dissipated. In its place, he felt a dismaying humility. He had forgotten that after loading the shotgun, he had to work its pump to insert a shell into the firing chamber. Otherwise, the weapon was useless.
“Right.” Pulling toward him on the handgrip beneath the barrel, Coltrane heard the satisfying snick of a shell being seated in the firing chamber. “Good to have you along.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.”
Coltrane aimed toward the wasteland, reminding himself that a shotgun was a short-distance weapon. Ilkovic would have to come within fifty yards before Coltrane’s gun would be effective. In the meantime, Ilkovic’s rifle gave him the advantage.
“Where is he?” Coltrane demanded.
“Maybe . . .” With tremendous effort, McCoy finished his sentence. “. . . coming behind us.”
A shadow loomed, but when Coltrane whirled, he saw only a continuation of the wasteland. The shadow had been caused by clouds—dark clouds. Throughout his effort to reach the scant cover the ruin provided, Coltrane had paid no attention to the roiling clouds drifting from the west. The ground, not the sky, had been what concerned him. But now the sky was definitely a concern. It was going to rain.
Hearing something scrape behind him, he whirled again. And again he saw nothing. The sound had been caused by a breeze against two charred boards.
The breeze turned into a wind. The clouds darkened.
“The storm will keep us from seeing him.” Coltrane kept glancing nervously toward the area behind him. “Do you have the strength to watch this side while I watch over there?”
“No.” McCoy’s barely audible answer made Coltrane’s scalp prickle.
“Dizzy.” McCoy lowered his head.
“Feel strange.” McCoy dropped his revolver and sank onto his chest.
Alarmed, Coltrane saw that the belt had slipped off McCoy’s shoulder. The blood-soaked pressure bandages had fallen loose. Grabbing the knife, he cut off the left sleeve on McCoy’s coat, slashed it apart at four-inch intervals, made two equal wads of the bandages, and eased them against McCoy’s entrance and exit wounds. He found the belt where it had slipped down McCoy’s right arm. Breathing hard, he again cinched it tightly around McCoy’s right shoulder, pressing the bandages against the wounds, hoping to stop the blood.
McCoy made no response. His only movement was from his chest as it raspingly took in air.
“Don’t die on me,” Coltrane said. “I’ll get you out of here. I promise.”
Sporadic drops of water pelted Coltrane’s face.
Get you out of here? Coltrane thought. How?
The drizzle intensified. Staring toward the dimming wasteland, Coltrane watched the drops hit the ash, raising puffs. Apart from that and the seething of the clouds, he detected no other movement.
“Photographer,” Ilkovic said.
Coltrane whirled, although an agitated part of him knew that he was only hearing a voice crackle from the walkie-talkie.
“It’s too bad you didn’t bring rain gear,” Ilkovic said. “This morning, you should have listened to the weather report as I did. A military surplus shop sold me an excellent camouflage rain slicker. I know that getting wet will be only a minor discomfort for you compared to what I intend to do, but every little bit counts.”
The deep, raspy voice was louder than it had been during Ilkovic’s last transmission. He was getting closer.
But from which direction?
The drizzle became a downpour. Soaked, his clothes sticking to him, his hair pasted to his scalp and his neck, Coltrane peered around uselessly, his vision so severely reduced that a gray wavering curtain seemed to surround him. He couldn’t see twenty feet away from him.
Ilkovic could be anywhere.
Immediately a corollary occurred to him. But if I can’t see Ilkovic . . .
He can’t see me.
McCoy’s car. While Ilkovic stalks toward these ruins, I can head for the car. I can get help.
As the warmth of hope fought the chill of the rain, Coltrane braced his legs to crawl out of the crater, then stopped instantly. No, I can’t leave McCoy.
But I can’t take him with me. I’ve got to move as fast as I can.
Coltrane surveyed the crater, squinting toward a jumble of charred beams behind him, to his left. They seemed to be a collapsed section of the roof. Dragging McCoy toward them, he came close enough to see a hollow underneath. Fearful that Ilkovic would find him as he worked, he tugged at one of the beams and created an opening. Despite his efforts to be gentle, he was dismayed by McCoy’s moan as he shoved the unconscious man into the hollow. He rearranged the beams, protecting McCoy from the rain, blocking him from view.
There were two things he did before shoving McCoy in there: He removed McCoy’s car key from his pants and the walkie-talkie from his coat, careful to shut if off. Slipping in the muck that the rain created, black from head to toe, he returned to the rim of the crater, where he grabbed McCoy’s revolver. Mindful of the mistake that he had made with the shotgun, he took care that the revolver’s hammer wasn’t cocked before he shoved the weapon under his belt. Try to think the way McCoy would, he told himself. He picked up the pocketknife, folded its blade, and put the knife in his jeans. He gripped the shotgun in one hand, the walkie-talkie in the other, and concentrated on the downpour. The slime of ash on him was so greasy that it wouldn’t wash off. He imagined he loo
ked as if he’d risen from hell. Unable to detect any motion beyond the gray curtain of water, he told himself that he might as well die trying to do something instead of hiding.
He crept from the ruins.
14
T HEN HE RAN , unable to tell if he shivered from fear or the cold rain lancing against him. His wet clothes sticking to his skin, he felt exposed, naked. His rib cage tightened in anticipation of a bullet that would blast his chest. But a frantic part of his mind tried to assure him that Ilkovic wouldn’t shoot him in so vital a spot. The impact would probably be in an arm or a leg, disabling him, rather than killing him, so that Ilkovic could have his fun. That’s some consolation, Coltrane told himself. Don’t think about it. Move.
But as he tried to hurry through the cloak of the storm, his mind wouldn’t stop working. He kept wondering if he’d made a good choice by heading straight from the ruins in the direction from which he had come. Maybe he should have snuck away on an angle. But wouldn’t Ilkovic be more likely to suspect that he’d try something indirect? Perhaps heading straight out from the ruins was so obvious that it wasn’t obvious at all. For that matter, would Ilkovic even suspect that Coltrane would abandon McCoy and try to sneak away? The possible guesses and counterguesses were maddening.
A dark shape loomed before him. Coltrane dropped the walkie-talkie and aimed the shotgun, or tried to. Rain blurred his vision. His water-heavy eyelids blinked repeatedly as he struggled to peer along the barrel. If his first shot didn’t hit Ilkovic, he would give away his position and make himself a target. He had only one chance to—
The shape wasn’t moving. The shape didn’t resemble a man. It’s my car, Coltrane realized.
But that didn’t mean Ilkovic wasn’t hiding behind it. Retrieving the walkie-talkie, Coltrane backed away, simultaneously veering to his right, wanting to take a wide arc around the disabled vehicle. When he was far enough away that he couldn’t see it anymore, he increased speed, once more running in a crouch.
The air became darker. This time of year, sunset was around five. Soon it would be night.
And if this storm keeps on, I won’t be able to see a thing, Coltrane thought. He raced harder, knowing that he would eventually reach the gully that bisected the valley. A noise louder than the rain, the rush of water along the streambed, alerted him that he was getting closer. He stopped as the sound from the streambed intensified.
Peering down, he saw white-capped water churning along the gully. Not a flash flood. But if the storm persisted, the stream could easily turn into one. Even at its present strength, the flow of water looked dangerous. The problem was that to get to where McCoy’s car was on the other side, Coltrane would eventually have to cross it. But not here. The bank was too steep, the channel too narrow. The water would have too much strength.
Concerned that the bank might give way, he stepped back, then hurried along it. Although wary of Ilkovic, he couldn’t keep glancing around him. He had to concentrate on the stream. He had to find a shallow section where he could cross. But as he searched, he couldn’t help thinking of McCoy back at the ruin. Will he stay alive long enough for me to bring help? Maybe I shouldn’t have left him. What if Ilkovic searches the ruins and finds where I hid him? What if—
Coltrane tripped over a rock and landed on his shoulder. No! Rolling through a thick layer of mud, he banged against another rock and shivered from the chill of a puddle. He spat out gritty water. He restrained the impulse to cough, almost choking on fluid in his throat. He had no idea how much noise he had made when he fell, but he knew without doubt that he couldn’t risk making further noise, especially something so distinctive as a deep lung-clearing cough. Distraught that he had dropped the shotgun and the walkie-talkie, he crawled, pawing among the muddy puddles through which he had rolled. What if I can’t find—
His left hand trembled when he grasped the walkie-talkie. His right knee grazed the shotgun. Had they been damaged when they fell? Had the mud clogged them? In the darkening rain, he brushed them off. He fingered mud from the shotgun’s barrel. As for the firing mechanism, he had no way to check it.
Keep moving! If the stream gets higher . . .
Stumbling along the gully, he reached where it curved. Ahead, in the shadows, the embankment was less pronounced. Puddles filled what seemed to be wheel tracks coming out of it. Coltrane tingled as he told himself that he had reached where the road descended into the trough and then rose from the stream.
He started down. Near the bottom, the churning stream tugged at his calves. He waded farther, determined, feeling the rushing water strengthen. He lost his footing, regained it, willed his legs to move harder, felt the mushy ground tilt upward, and reached the other side.
He had only a hundred yards to go before he would reach McCoy’s car. His pulse swelling his veins, he anticipated the excitement of scrambling into McCoy’s car, starting it, and fleeing back to the Pacific Coast Highway to get help. By the time Ilkovic realized what was happening, it would be too late for him to do anything. If I can find a police car quickly enough, Coltrane told himself, the authorities might even be able to trap Ilkovic in the valley.
Hurry.
But just before he crested the slippery embankment, his body moved less willingly, a dark suspicion holding him back. From the distance of the ruins, it had seemed a good idea to come here. But now that Coltrane was actually close, doubts seized him. Wasn’t McCoy’s car an obvious target? Wouldn’t Ilkovic assume that if Coltrane got the chance, he would head for it, the only means of escape? Rather than risk getting shot stalking toward the ruins, wouldn’t Ilkovic want to wait at McCoy’s car and shoot Coltrane when he stalked toward the vehicle?
He felt paralyzed, unable to decide what to do. He wouldn’t accomplish anything by returning to the ruins. But he couldn’t stay where he was. A sense of déjà vu again possessed him. He was taken back to when he had driven into this valley, hidden his car in this trough, and crept toward McCoy’s car, although at the time he had thought that it was Ilkovic’s car. He had followed a stream that connected with this one at a right angle. That other stream paralleled the road on which McCoy’s car was parked. The stream and the road were thirty yards away from each other. Retreating from the crest of the trough, heading to the right, Coltrane approached the other stream as he had done earlier—with the major differences that now dusk was setting in and the stream’s gully was swollen with rain. This time, he couldn’t hurry along the bottom. He had to ease up the side and shift along the muddy incline.
He unbuttoned his soaked shirt, shoved the walkie-talkie under it, and rebuttoned the shirt. With his left hand free, he could now better balance himself and hold the shotgun as he proceeded cautiously along the side of the gully.
The rising stream licked at his mud-caked sneakers. His feet felt cold, the tips of his fingers numb. Inching higher to get away from the stream, reaching the limit of where he could crouch and still not be seen from McCoy’s car, he counted his steps, trying to calculate when he had gone a hundred yards. Just to be certain, he went a little farther, but his mounting sense of urgency finally compelled him to stop and peer over the top of the gully.
He couldn’t see the car. As the rain increased and the air became grayer, he wiped water from his eyes and stared harder, but he still couldn’t see it. Is it farther away than I guessed? Did I go too far?
Easing over the rim, pressing himself flat, he crawled through mud, using his elbows for traction, keeping his hands and the shotgun they held out of the water. The revolver under his belt and the walkie-talkie under his shirt gouged against his stomach, but he hardly noticed the pain, too intent on what was before him.
After squirming forward for what he estimated was ten yards, he saw a vague hulking shape in the wavering curtain of the storm. McCoy’s car. To his left. He had indeed gone past it while he made his way along the gully. Adjusting his direction, trying not to make noise in the mud, he crawled toward it.
He stopped as the vehicle became mo
re distinct. He was about fifteen yards from the car’s left-rear fender. There wasn’t any sign of Ilkovic behind the car or on this side. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t on the other side.
Changing direction, Coltrane kept a distance and warily maneuvered around the back of the vehicle. All the while, he strained to see beneath it. If Ilkovic was hiding on the other side, his legs might be visible through the gap underneath. But the myriad splashes of rain made it impossible for Coltrane to see anything that close to the ground. Cautious, he reached a place where he had a view of the opposite side of the car. Still no sign of Ilkovic.
Coltrane dared to hope.
But what if Ilkovic is inside the car? I can’t just keep lying in the rain. McCoy needs help. Rising to a crouch, he braced himself to run toward the car. When he reached the rear window, he planned to aim the shotgun and blast the backseat, spraying it with buckshot. If Ilkovic was inside, that would be his likely hiding place. If he wasn’t in the car, the blast from the shotgun would bring him running, but not before Coltrane could rush into the car, start it, and escape.
Mustering his nerve, Coltrane couldn’t help worrying that the car wouldn’t be able to get traction in the mud. He never got the chance to find out.
The car burst into flames.
15
I T DIDN ’ T SO MUCH EXPLODE AS ERUPT , fire spewing from the gas tank, engulfing the car. With a grotesque whooshing sound, a wall of heat struck Coltrane and thrust him backward, the flames so powerful that the storm was powerless to extinguish them.
No! Coltrane’s mind wailed. Stumbling farther back, he turned his singed face from the fire, desperate for the rain to cool his skin. The flames turned dusk into day. The fire exposed him. He had to race for cover, to reach the protection of the gully. Scrambling into it, almost sliding into the raging stream, he pressed his stomach against the mud and peered over the gully’s rim.