He searched the nearest dunes. Nothing. What he'd heard was probably the hee-haw of a wild burro, he thought. They roamed the foothills all over the valley.
He started up again. He'd decided he'd drive through Furnace Creek and into the mountains just south of there.
He hoped for good hunting…
As the vehicle disappeared down the road, Tom relaxed his vise-like grip on Randi. She sat up. She rubbed her arm and shoulder where he had hurt her.
He scowled at her, puzzled and angry. Why would she want to attract the attention of the demons hunting him? He pushed her to get up. She did.
They emerged from the dune. Ahead of them stretched the barren, hostile desert. In the far distance a vast panorama of utterly naked, wind-sculptured sand hills could be seen, spilling its expanse of rolling, sun-baked Sahara-like dunes to the horizon.
He pushed her to go. She stared at the forbidding land.
“Oh, Tom,” she whispered. “Not out there. We'll never make it.” She turned her tear-bright eyes to him. “How can I make you understand?”
Roughly he prodded her.
Together they started out, trudging through the sand.
And the blazing sun rising overhead offered no respite…
3
Someone was following them.
Once again he glanced in his rearview mirror. The little blue Volkswagen with the oversized wheels was still there. He turned to Hays.
“Sergeant,” he said, “someone's tailing us.”
“I know,” the big black said calmly. “Blue VW. Been with us quite a piece.” He nodded at the rearview mirror. “I've seen you checking him out.”
Paul guided the scout along the dirt-road upgrade. It was tough going on the loose gravel and he was grateful for the four-wheel drive. They were headed for the site of a ghost town, Schwab, in the hills a short distance up Echo Canyon. If Tom had sought the high ground again, it would be a perfect spot to hole up. It was worth checking out.
And now they had picked up company.
Ahead, a flimsy iron gate hung across the road from two poles. A sign on it read:
CLOSED
SITE NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC
Tacked up on one of the poles was a cardboard notice: Due to extreme hot weather and lack of patrol this road is closed.
Paul steered the scout around the gate. His was not the first vehicle to do so. He continued to labor up the washboard road.
Perched in the hills above the valley, Schwab was a mining town that had been born and died in a single year seventy-five years in the past. Several wooden structures and rundown board shacks, splintered and sagging with age, lined the sole street. Occasional boardwalks, edges curled by time, aproned boot-worn steps. A few rusty and broken pieces of mining equipment stood guard over the deeply weathered buildings, ghostly fragments from a brief boom period a quarter of a century after the little town's heyday, and the surrounding hillsides were dotted with mining adits and stopes. Schwab, dozing in the sun-baked hills, was a true ghost town — where time had died. Silent. Deserted. Not restored for the tourist trade.
They passed the age-worn markers of a venerable cemetery brooding on a windswept knoll, and turned toward the ghost-town street, which made a bend into the built-up area.
“Sergeant,” Paul said, “as soon as we round the bend, I'm getting out. Slide over and take the wheel. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep going. Slowly. Until you reach the end of town. Then stop. Get out and go into one of the houses. Leave the scout empty.”
Hays nodded. He did not seem surprised at the instructions.
They turned down the street. For a moment they were hidden from the VW tailing them. Quickly Paul jumped out and ran for concealment behind a tumbledown shack. Hays continued down the deserted street.
Paul crouched down, out of sight, near a pile of broken-down barrels, their staves split and unfettered by rust-crumbled rings and gradually drooping toward the horizontal. He listened. The stalking car was drawing near.
Slowly the VW crept around the corner. It stopped. Up ahead the scout could be seen, halted on the roadway. No one was in it. The driver leaned forward intently.
Paul stepped from the shack to stand behind the car.
“What are you doing here?” he asked brusquely.
The man behind the wheel stiffened. He did not turn at once.
A chill shot through Paul. He had an icy thought:
He was unarmed.
For a fraction of a second he regretted his decision not to carry any weapon on the mission. He suddenly felt naked. Angrily he dismissed the feeling. How could there possibly be a need for violence?
The driver got out of the car. He leaned against it, insolently peering at Paul.
The two men sized each other up. The VW driver was a young man; longish hair, a well-trimmed beard. He wore casual but good clothes. On the passenger seat in the front of the car Paul could make out a large thermos bucket, and a map was lying on the dashboard. The stranger was well prepared for his desert trek.
“What are you doing here?” Coldly he repeated his question.
The man stepped away from the car. He planted his booted feet in the dirt and faced Paul squarely.
“Why?” he asked brazenly. “What business is that of yours?” There was instant antagonism between the two men.
“You're trespassing on posted property.”
“Are you the caretaker?” The stranger made a point of looking Paul up and down. “Is that what we're using Air Force officers for these days?” He smirked derisively. “Not a bad idea.”
Paul chose to ignore the insult. “Didn't you see the sign?” he asked. “This place is closed to the public.”
“What sign?” The young man sneered. “You mean the one you went around?”
“I have business here,” Paul said icily. “You don't.”
“Oh?” The man looked around in mock surprise. “What is this place? A secret Air Force base?”
Paul found it increasingly difficult to tolerate the young man's impudence. “I advise you to leave,” he growled. “Now!”
“Or?” The young man raised a dubious eyebrow. “Or what? Neither you nor the Air Force have any jurisdiction here.”
Paul glared at him. “Perhaps not,” he snapped. “But I can sure as hell get someone up here in a hurry who damned well does!”
The young man contemplated him for a moment. Then he shrugged.
“I think you'll find I have a pretty good reason for being here, too,” he said. He reached into his back pocket and brought out his wallet. He removed a card from it and handed it to Paul.
Paul took it. It was a press card. He looked at it. THE BERKELEY QUESTIONER. He looked up at the young man.
“You are David Rosenfeld, Jr.?” he asked.
The man nodded. He reached for his ID. Paul gave it to him. “I ask you again,” he said grimly. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, come off it, Captain.” The reporter eyed him condescendingly. “You know that better than I. Why don't you tell me?”
Paul suddenly felt chilled. There had been a leak. The press was on to something. And of all possible media, a rag like the Questioner. It would have a field day with anything anti-military. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said acidly. He suddenly felt on the defensive. The roles had been reversed.
“Really?” Rosenfeld again raised a doubting eyebrow. “Well, I suppose it's not the first time the Air Force has been in the dark.” He grinned unpleasantly. “My information is that something extremely interesting is going on up here.”