she whispered to him: “They look like. . . I can’t. . . . I’m just
afraid. . .”
Jim put a hand on her shoulder, stared directly into her eyes.
“Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Frank and Verna are okay.
You trust me?”
“Yes. Now. of course”
“Then believe me. You can trust them.”
“But how can you know?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“I know,” he said firmly.
She continued to meet his eyes for a few seconds, then nodded and said,
“All right.”
The rest was easy. As docile as if she had been drugged, Susie allowed
herself to be lifted into the back seat. Her mother joined her there,
cuddled her. When Frank was behind the wheel again and Verna at his
side, Jim gratefully accepted a can of root beer from their ice chest.
Then he closed Verna’s door, leaned down to the open window, and thanked
her and Frank.
“You’re not waitin’ here for the cops, are you?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“You’re not in trouble, you know. You’re the hero here.”
“I know. But I’m not waiting.”
Frank nodded. “You got your reasons, I guess. You want us to say you
was a bald guy with dark eyes, hitched a ride with a trucker going
east?”
“No. Don’t lie. Don’t lie for me.”
“Whatever you want,” Frank said.
Verna said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of them.”
“I know you will,” Jim said.
He drank the root beer and watched the Trans Am until it had driven out
of sight.
He climbed on the Harley, thumbed the starter button, used the long
heavy shift to slide the gear wheel into place, rolled in a little
throttle, released the clutch, and rode across the highway. He went off
the shoulder, down the slight incline, onto the floor of the desert, and
headed directly south into the immense and inhospitable Mojave.
For a while he rode at over seventy miles an hour, though he had no
protection from the wind because the SP had no fairing. He was badly
buffeted, and his eyes filled repeatedly with tears that he tried to
blame entirely on the raw, hot air that assaulted him.
Strangely, he did not mind the heat. In fact he didn’t even feel it. He
was sweating, yet he felt cool.
He lost track of time. Perhaps an hour had passed when he realized that
he had left the plains and was moving across barren hills the color of
rust.
He reduced his speed. His route was now filled with twists and turns
between rocky outcroppings, but the SP was the machine for it.
It had dew inches more suspension travel fore and aft than did the
regular FXRS, with compatible spring and shock rates, plus twin disc
brakes on the front -which meant he could corner like a stunt rider when
the terrain threw surprises at him.
After a while he was no longer cool. He was cold.
The sun seemed to be fading, though he knew it was still early after
noon. Darkness was closing on him from within.
Eventually he stopped in the shadow of a rock monolith about a quarter
of a mile long and three hundred feet high. Weathered into eerie shapes
by ages of wind and sun and by the rare but torrential rains that swept
Mojave, the formation thrust out of the desert floor like the ruins of
an ancient temple now half buried in sand.
He propped the Harley on its kickstand.
He sat down on the shaded earth.
After a moment he stretched out on his side. He drew up his knees.
and folded his arms across his chest.
He had stopped not a moment too soon. The darkness filled him
completely , and he fell away into an abyss of despair.
Later, in the last hour of daylight, he found himself on the Harley
again, riding across gray and rose-colored flats where clumps of
mesquite bristled. Dead, sun-blackened tumbleweed chased him in a
breeze that smelled of powdered iron and salt.
He vaguely remembered breaking open a cactus and sucking the moisture
out of the water-heavy pulp at the core of the plant, but he was dry