He walked over to the Cougar. An elderly couple sat in the front seats, both doors open. They looked hot, disheveled and distraught. On the back seat a brown mutt with a white ruff panted in the heat, his tongue dripping on the upholstery. Paul squatted down beside the car on the driver's side. The mutt's ears at once grew alert.
Paul addressed the man. “Mr. Hastings,” he said, “I'm Captain Jarman, United States Air Force. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
It was the woman who answered.
“It was Brendel that found him, poor soul,” he said. “It was horrible. Absolutely horrible. We'd let him out to—
well, to run a little.” She reached back and scratched the dog's ears. He mustered up enough energy to wag his tail — just once.
“He ran over to that — that rock.” She pointed to the outcropping. “And he started to bark and whine, carrying on something awful. And scratching at the stones. We called to him, but he wouldn't come. And he always minds. So Marvin got out and went over, and I went with him. And one of the rocks rolled away where Brendel was digging at it, and — and a hand fell out! Just plopped right out. It was — horrible. Just horrible. A dead hand. Just like that…”
Paul nodded. He knew that the grisly discovery had made the woman's trip. A story to be told and retold to anyone who'd listen back home. He resented it. He turned to the man.
“I wonder if I could have an address where you can be reached, Mr. Hastings,” he said. “In case there should be any further questions.”
“Of course,” the woman said. “Marvin, give the officer your card.” She looked at Paul, her face glowing with excitement. “Marvin's in hardware. We'll be glad to cooperate. Any way we can.”
“Thank you,” Paul said. “We appreciate it.’”
He walked back to his scout and Sergeant Hays. The matter of Adams was in Stark's hands. Finding Tom was his job.
He had a nagging feeling that the killing of the young Ranger had ramifications he was not aware of. But he was totally unable to put them together. It irritated him.
It bothered him that the killing was so elaborately done, so expertly concealed. It was too professional. No detail forgotten. And all for the money in Adams’ wallet? The man couldn't have been carrying that much. Then — what? Why? Did it have something to do with Tom? The search for him was the only extraordinary happening taking place in Death Valley. If so — who could possibly be involved? And how?
Perhaps he felt the way he did because Adams had lost his life while he had been searching for Tom. That was probably it. But he did not feel satisfied. The answer was too glib.
Was he missing something? He dismissed it. He knew his priority consideration.
Find Tom.
5
The furnace-like heat lay over Death Valley like a suffocating blanket as Tom and Randi toiled across the burning sand.
Tired, spent, tortured by the scorching sun, Randi valiantly tried to keep up with her husband. Hot, grimy with dust and sweat, she ran a dry tongue over her cracked lips. She fixed her smarting eyes on Tom. Relentless, he plodded on. He seemed obsessed with the urge to keep moving — as if he felt himself in constant danger.
Hopelessly she let her sun-scalded eyes sweep the expanse of desert. She had the bleak feeling that she and Tom were the only beings left alive in the seething inferno.
She struggled to stay with him. Her mind clung to the thought that she was the only link to his survival. Somehow, somewhere she would be able to do something. If she stayed with him. She did not know what — but she had to believe she'd find a way. Perhaps she would be able to attract someone's attention, if the opportunity came again. Another thought pressed to enter her awareness; her fear of being left alone herself. To perish in the desert caldron. Alone… She refused to acknowledge it.
She slipped on the gravelly sand and steadied herself with one hand. She looked at her fingers. Her nails were broken and chipped from climbing among the rocks. She had always been proud of her nails. She'd always taken care of them. Her only fear when she played tennis had been breaking a nail. Not winning or losing. She'd won the Singles Cup in the last OWC Tennis Tournament, one of the big events in the Officers’ Wives Club at the Base. She belonged to the club, of course, although she'd never quite accepted the girls-together isolation of the other Air Force wives, nor the fact that as a Mrs. “Major” she “outranked” all the Mrs. “Lieutenants” and Mrs. “Captains” on the Base. No — not winning or losing, but breaking a nail…
And she'd joined the 500-mile Joggers Club at the Base — shooting for the 1,000-mile one — all in the last several months. Tom had called her an exercise nut, even while he did his own roadwork every morning togged out in a heavy sweatsuit. She’d felt he meant she substituted those strenuous activities for an active sex life. But he'd never said so. Practically the only sport she did not pursue was golf. Neither she nor Tom played. They simply didn't think it offered enough activity…
She stared at her nails. Ruined. It did not seem important.
It struck her that it wasn't — and she went on…
Tom felt apprehensive and tense as he moved across the open desert. He had wanted to get away from the disturbing and noisy monsters that pursued him in the hills. But the open expanse of the desert floor made him uneasy. He eyed the distant mountains. They promised refuge. They were his goal. He never thought that the frightening sounds would be there as well. He was aware of his companion following him. He accepted it totally without question. It could not be otherwise.
His lips were parched and he worked his mouth and throat in an impotent effort to swallow imaginary moisture as he squinted up at his blazing enemy in the sky. He had come to accept its presence — its disappearances and reappearances. He was still wary of it. His mind retained its memory of the terrifying attack in the night.
He stopped. For a moment he stood still, testing his surroundings. Randi caught up with him. He gave her a quick glance and began to run up a sandy incline. Dully Randi stared after him. Then she followed — drained with fatigue and thirst.
Tom crested the dune. Ahead of him lay a large pool of clear water looking inviting and refreshing. He ran for it.
He fell to his knees at the water's edge. He plunged his burning face into its coolness. Eagerly he gulped a deep draught. Immediately and violently he spat it out. His body shook as he gagged convulsively, racked with spasms of coughing.
He stopped, heaving air. He wiped his mouth. Stolidly he sat back on his haunches. Dully he stared at the water, his eyes uncomprehending.
Randi came hobbling up. She sank down beside her husband, cupped her hands together, dipped them greedily in the water and brought them to her face.
Tom looked up. Suddenly, savagely, he hit Randi's hands, making her spill the water before she could drink. Deeply shocked, she stared at him. He stood up. Roughly he grabbed her and hauled her to her feet, angrily pushing her away from the pool.
Wildly Randi tried to escape from his grip. She needed the water desperately. Why? What was Tom doing to her? Frantically she looked around. Her eyes fell upon a wooden sign erected near the pool.
And she froze.