The mountains offered some protection from the wind as I neared, but only a little. At least now I could occasionally see their silhouettes through the sand, which had to have been so high up into the atmosphere as to be visible from space. I tried not to dwell on the fact that asphyxiation was the primary cause of death during a sandstorm, as I’m sure I’ve pointed out, but it bears repeating now that I was preparing to climb out of my car to brave one. I had to focus on the positives. Of all the ways to die, I’d heard that drowning was probably one of the most peaceful, although I did question the validity of whatever survey gathered those results. Most people I knew who nearly drowned tended not to have too many good things to say about the experience.
I had to cut straight through the open desert to get from the drag I had thought would lead me there to an actual road that wended up through the foothills toward the peak. I crossed over a dry creek lined with what looked like massive ghostly cottonwoods through the dust and then through fields packed with so many palo verdes I couldn’t even see a lone patch of bare ground. When I eventually emerged into a stretch of spotted shrubs and cacti again, I found myself nearing the end of the road. It widened into a parking lot of sorts. I assumed the sign nailed to the split-rail fence marked a trailhead, but it had been peppered by so much buckshot that it was impossible to tell for sure.
I rolled to a stop and parked. The windshield wipers flapped back and forth, drawing dirty arcs through the dust. I released a long sigh as I stared uphill beyond the range of my headlights. Saguaros and ocotillos materialized from the blowing sand only to vanish again. Just when I thought I had a handle on the topography and the route I was going to take, the wind shifted and completely altered my perception of the terrain. I was just going to have to trust my instincts.
I grabbed my laptop, looked at the Man in the Maze pattern one last time, then opened the Landsat files I had downloaded from the campus library. With the way the wind and the sand obscured my view, the three-dimensional elevation map wasn’t going to do me a whole lot of good. Instead, I concentrated on the sonographic and magnetometric readouts. As with the majority of the mountains in the range, this one had several distinct subterranean features. One was larger than the others, but it was lower down and, if I was correct, the opening would be clearly visible from this lot under better conditions. If I were to interpret the myth literally, I was looking for something as close to within the peak itself as I could find. In my mind, that meant I needed to look higher. Unfortunately, that also meant greater exposure to someone coming and going and a higher probability of accidental discovery. I took that into consideration as I pondered the remaining two locations. Both were on the eastern slope, which meant that unless I wanted to backtrack to the highway and waste hours driving in from the other side, I had a decent hike ahead of me. One cave was significantly larger than the other, but that didn’t exclude the possibility that the smaller one could be modified like the ones at the crime scenes had been.
Modified.
That was the key.
I examined the magnetometer readings, but both caves were enclosed within substrates of nearly identical density and mineral composition. One would be no easier to modify than the other. I overlaid the sonographic images and studied their shapes, which were little more than vague outlines. The only real difference was that one appeared to be more circular than the other. I zoomed in on the center. The resolution was grainy and pixelated and yet it still almost…almost looked like there were other densities in there. Nothing as solid as rock, but something nonetheless. Maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see, or maybe, just maybe, I had found exactly what I was looking for.
There was only one way to find out for sure.
I donned my ball cap and windbreaker, killed off the bottle of water in the console cup holder and pocketed two more, and drew my Beretta and Maglite. I used the charger cord from my phone to tie the light to the side of the barrel in order to keep one hand free and the sightline unobstructed at the same time. I jacked the slide to make sure it still slid freely, grabbed two spare clips from the glove compartment, and tucked my cell phone into my pocket. I shut off the engine and sat there a moment longer, running through a mental checklist to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything that might help save my skin. I focused on slowing my heartbeat, on breathing slowly in and out.
A gust of wind struck the car with enough force to rock it on its suspension. It sounded like the sand pitted the glass.
I pulled the handle and the wind ripped the door from my grasp and hammered it against its hinge. I had to throw my full weight into it to force it closed. Sand and debris blew sideways through the headlights, limiting their range and effectiveness, but I was still grateful for even that little illumination. The sand pelting my jacket sounded like rain on an umbrella, only I can’t recall rain ever smacking the side of my face and ear so hard I could feel it peeling off the top layer of skin.
I lowered my head in an effort to use the brim of the cap to shield my eyes and struck off away from the car. I found the trail without much effort and figured I’d try to follow it as long as possible. Eventually I was going to have to cross the dark ridge high above me. I assumed this path led either to a good vantage point from which to take pictures of the famous peak or to the peak itself. Whatever the case, I was counting on it to get me high enough that I could pick my way eastward between peaks.
I had to remind myself that my brother—that the Coyote—had been one step ahead of me the entire time. It was safest to assume that he had anticipated my choice of routes. Hell, for all I knew he could be watching me through the storm or otherwise monitoring my progress by other electronic means. Regardless, I was confident he knew I was coming and would be ready and waiting for me.
Coyote is the master of deception.
I needed to remember that more than anything else. After all, the Coyote fancied himself a mischievous creator god.
Good thing bringing down men who thought themselves gods was my specialty.
THIRTY-SIX
Ever been struck by a chunk of cactus hurled by a sixty mile-an-hour wind? It feels pretty much like you’d imagine. Worse still is the pain of prying it back out. Those needles may look straight to the naked eye, but I’m convinced they’re covered with little barbed hooks that latch into your flesh and make them next to impossible to excise. It could have been worse though. The wind could have whipped up a rattler and slung it at me instead.
Don’t let anyone tell you I don’t know how to keep things in perspective.
Navigating the path was harder than I thought it would be. The wind did its best to shove me into the bushes and cacti and down hills slick with talus and over the edge of various precipices. Not to mention the fact that the sand it kept perpetually airborne made it nearly impossible to see. It also helped mask whatever subtle sounds lurked beneath it, and those were definitely the ones that were in my best interests to hear. It screamed through the valleys with an almost human voice, and, from time to time, made a high-pitched sound that reminded me of a horse whinnying. I slid the sleeve of my jacket over my entire hand and the majority of the pistol to keep any grit from getting inside and screwing with the firing mechanism. And I couldn’t have that. I had a pretty good hunch I was going to need to use it.