What I needed was a barrel cactus. And what I saw, on the other side of the wash, leaning toward a path of sun that streamed through the tree branches, was one of the cylindrical, spine-studded plants. To me, it was as good as finding a lake.
I got up and stumbled over to the cactus, running my hand over its trunk, not caring that the thorns scratched my skin. It was a small one — around three feet high — but large enough to contain enough liquid to refresh me and get me back to civilization. Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, I found the Swiss Army knife. Thank God I’d stuffed it in there before I’d jumped out of the vent from the dungeon.
I opened the knife to the largest blade and began sawing at the cactus a few inches below its crown. It was tough and fibrous, and the knife cut slowly. I gave in to my impatience and hacked at it. In a few minutes I yanked the crown off like the lid of a pot.
Dropping the crown, I reached inside the cactus and scooped out a handful of the wet pulp. I pressed it to my mouth, sucking and gulping, feeling the moisture trickle down my face and throat and under my blouse. I reached in for more pulp, cupping my hands carefully now so I wouldn’t waste any. It was sticky and bitter-tasting and heavenly.
My stomach gave a sudden contraction, and I warned myself to take it easy. There was nothing in it — hadn’t been for almost two days now — and I didn’t want to dehydrate myself further by getting sick. I took my time sucking the pulp and resting, and when I felt stronger, I cut out chunks of the cactus and stuffed them in my pockets. They would provide extra moisture in my trek back across the desert.
Then I began moving toward the nearby outcropping of rock. I went slowly this time, telling myself that my earlier panic had cost me valuable strength and energy. Sugarman’s killer was not out here looking for me; he’d have been beating the brush in that wash long before this if he were. In all likelihood, he was waiting at the house, thinking I’d eventually double back that way.
I climbed the rocky outcropping and stood shading my eyes and peering around. At first I saw nothing but the brush-dotted sand stretching to the hills. But then I made out a leaning black spire with a dark square next to it. And behind it, a series of lumps. It had to be the outlines of the water tower, the loading platform, and the house.
I looked up at the sun, taking a fix on my position. Since the house was southeast of here, I’d be walking with the sun more or less at my back. It would beat down on my head and shoulders, but at least I wouldn’t be blinded by it.
Scrambling down off the rocks, I began my long trek. I moved carefully, stopping in what shade I found to suck on the chunks of cactus I carried. The sun sank lower and its rays were less punishing. I judged the time to be about five o’clock.
After what must have been an hour, I finally reached the sandstone outcropping several hundreds of yards away from the water tower. I paused beyond it, resting and sucking moisture from my last piece of cactus. Then I started up the steep, sandy slope and, when I had reached it, cautiously poked my head over the top.
In the distance, the house lay quiet in the afternoon heat. The Cadillac was still parked in front. And beyond it now was a maroon car — some sort of compact. My spirits rose slightly. It could be help. If I could get to the shed beside the loading dock, I could watch and wait. And after dark, if nothing else happened, I could walk to the ranger station — maybe hitch a ride, if there was some traffic out this way — and summon the law.
I stood, ready to drop to the ground if I heard any sound. All remained quiet. I slid down the other side of the outcropping, the rocks scraping my already battered flesh, and staggered toward the shed.
I was about twenty yards away from it when the man stepped out from behind it with a gun in his hand and opened fire at me.
A buzzing noise whined close to my ear, and then the shot cracked. Panic ripped through me. I whirled and ran back toward the outcropping, my feet churning on the rocky ground.
A second buzzing noise. A second crack. My goal was too far away. I knew I wouldn’t make it—
I felt a jarring impact in the middle of my body. It staggered me and pitched me forward as I heard the third shot. My face hit the sand. Numbness spread through me; the heat seemed suddenly gone, replaced by an icy, enveloping cold.
I thought: My God, I’m going to die...
42: “Wolf”
The private road that led in and up to what the Darrows’ gardener had called the old Matthews place was full of ruts and holes and dislodged rocks, the product of countless winter rains and maybe a flash flood or two. The rental car had a lousy suspension system, so that I had to drive at a crawl in order to keep from banging the top of my skull on the headliner at each bump. It was a little like being inside a big box that somebody was shaking up and down, none too gently.
After better than seven miles of this, I came up out of a dry wash to the top of a rise and saw the house. It was the one in Lauterbach’s photographs, all right, and an even weirder sight in reality. No wonder the gardener had called Leonard Matthews crazy as a coot; the place looked as if it had been designed and built by one of the mad characters in the old Shudder Pulps.
There was a car parked on the big flat area in front and to one side, a dusty white Cadillac. Beyond it, in the empty desert that fell away to the northwest, I could see the remains of the water tower and the loading dock. The railroad spur track, too: broken up by time and the elements, pieces missing, ties missing, parts of it hidden by sagebrush and greasewood, making a snaky line toward the eroded, humpbacked hills that rose behind the house. I drove on down toward the house and parked next to the Caddy. My mouth was dry and dusty; before I got out, I drank some of the bottled water I’d bought in Borrego Springs on the advice of the gardener. It had been good advice: this definitely was not a place you’d ever want to be caught in without water.
Nobody came out of the house. But then, if the Caddy’s owner was inside, he might not have heard me drive up; there were some big things on the roof that looked like air-conditioning units and they were making a hell of a racket. In contrast, the high rocks and the sunblasted desert were silent, motionless, empty.
I went over to the Cadillac and looked through the driver’s window. The first thing I saw were wires hanging down from under the wheel — ignition wires, as if somebody had been trying to hot-wire the car. On impulse I tried the door. It was unlocked, and I opened it and leaned inside. The interior didn’t contain anything interesting that I could see. Neither did the glove box: no registration, nothing that told me who the Caddy belonged to.
I continued on to the house. The front door was recessed in an opening that looked like the mouth of a cave, and it was standing wide open. I poked my head inside and called out a greeting.
No answer.
“Is anybody here?”
No answer.
I went into a wide foyer that had five archways opening off it. I took the one straight ahead and found myself in a sunken living room with a fireplace in the middle. The Darrows’ gardener had said the house was abandoned, but all the parked cars in Lauterbach’s photographs had indicated otherwise; and this room, full of expensive furniture and artwork, confirmed that people either lived or spent a fair amount of time here.
When I didn’t get an answer to another hail I went prowling through the place. And it didn’t take me long, once I saw the other rooms, to figure out just what kind of place it was. A mirrored bedroom gave me the first hint, a room fixed up for the screening of what were clearly pornographic films expanded the idea, and a series of other bedrooms containing different personal belongings fleshed it out completely. The club McCone and I had kept hearing about wasn’t anything so mundane as a health spa; it was a private sex club, a place where a bunch of kinky people got together to look at X-rated movies and to hold orgies. People like Elaine Picard, Lloyd Beddoes, the Darrows, Karyn Sugarman, Rich Woodall.