Nine
When the two closely spaced gunshots sounded, Lennox pulled Jana behind a wall of rock and they crouched there breathlessly, listening. Silence prevailed again, heavy and unbroken.
She whispered, “That was gunfire, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“And not far off.”
“Too close,” he said. “Too damned close.”
“They weren’t shooting at us, were they? They’re not that close, are they?”
“No, not at us. A snake, maybe. I don’t know.”
“We don’t have much longer, do we?”
“What kind of talk is that?”
“I’m tired, Jack. I’m so tired.”
“Listen, don’t give up on me now.”
“It seems so useless, all this running.”
“Maybe, but I’m not quitting, I can’t quit.”
“Hope springs eternal,” she murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“I won’t let you quit either, Jana.”
“All right.”
“We’ll have to find a place to spend the night,” he said grimly. “We can’t stay here, it’s too open.” His eyes moved over the surrounding terrain. “We’ll follow these rocks to that high ground over there. Should be enough cover, if we’re careful. It’ll be dark pretty soon, and they won’t be able to find us in the dark. They probably won’t even try.”
Jana nodded and he took her hand and she did not pull away; the dry, cracked surface of his palm seemed to comfort her somehow. There was a tenderness in him, a gentleness that she had not expected to exist in a man so obviously plagued by fear — fear that went deeper, went beyond that which their current predicament had generated. It was as if he had lived with fear of one kind or another for a long time, as if it had distorted the genuine qualities he possessed. She wondered again who he was and why he had not told her his real name until that afternoon, why he had hidden his true identity — and why he had finally decided to confide in her. She had wanted to ask him that, in the shade under the stone arch, but he had risen abruptly, telling her it was time to be moving again, they couldn’t afford to stay there any longer.
Now, following him across the rough ground, Jana wanted to ask him again. It was somehow important that she know more about this man, this Jack Lennox who had unwittingly endangered her life, and then saved it — if only for a little while. Maybe, she thought, it’s because he cares. And because he’s the first person I’ve ever known who could possibly understand what it’s like to live within the shell of oneself, lonely and afraid...
The last of the flaming sun had dropped beneath the horizon, and the sky was streaked in smoky pink and tarnished gold, when he found a night refuge for them.
It was a large, flat, sheltered area hollowed out between several sheer pinnacles, a natural water tank that would fill with cool, fresh rainwater during the wet months; seepage and gradual evaporation under the drying sun had left the surface cracked and powder-dry, and so it would remain until the rains came once again. There was only one entrance, a narrow cleft which Lennox had very nearly missed in the sheer rock facing. It would be virtually impossible to locate once darkness settled; even with the wash of moonlight, deep shadows would hide the entrance — the dry stream path which angled upward through the cleft, crested, and dropped away into the hollowed tank several feet below.
On level ground, where the path began its rise to the rock spires, a barrel cactus grew rounded and green. Once Lennox had discovered and cautiously examined the tank, and returned to tell Jana of what he had found, he used the granite knife to slice off the crown of the barrel; they dipped out pulp hurriedly, watching their backtrail, sucking greedily at the bitter droplets of cactus juice. Then, silently, they soothed the cool pith over their rawly burned faces and climbed into the tank.
They lay on the dry floor of it, weak and spent. Half forgotten in the urgency of their flight, pain came to them again, harsh and lingering — the pain of hunger, the pain of sunburn, the pain of blistered foot soles. Dozens of tears and tiny holes in their clothing marked the location of stinging cuts and abrasions and cactus bites, and their exposed arms and hands were tapestries of scabrous scratches. The cactus liquid had soothed their burning throats, and momentarily appeased the bodily cry for moisture; but they were badly dehydrated and their need had grown greater, would continue to grow greater, with each passing minute.
Darkness settled, erasing the polychromatic sunset from the sky, and the moon leaped high with that surprising desert suddenness. The stars began to burn like fired crystal. Outside the tank, a soft, silvery wraith slipped quickly in and out of shadows — a bushy-tailed kit fox, the size of a large house cat, prowling for wood rats and kangaroo rats and other nocturnal rodents. Overhead, owl wings made faint, faraway sounds in the ghostly silence.
It was pleasantly cool for a time, and the night wind salved Lennox and Jana, soft, gentle. But then it turned cold and disdainful, chilling them, and they stirred and awoke, almost simultaneously. After a moment, without speaking, they left the tank and returned to the barrel cactus and drank again of its pulp. The air, there below, was filled with a heady fragrance that came from a night-blooming cereus somewhere nearby — and if it had not been for the pain and the weakness and the fear that was theirs, the night might have held a deep magic allure.
In the tank again, they sat facing one another, close but without touching. Jana said softly, “Talk to me, Jack. I need something to keep my mind off how hungry I am, and what’s out there behind us. And tomorrow — I don’t want to think about tomorrow.”
“What should I talk about?”
“I don’t know. You — Jack Lennox.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Why not?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“There’s always something to say.”
“Not in my case.”
“Jack,” she said simply, “I want to know.”
“All right. I’m thirty-three years old, a native of the Pacific Northwest, divorced and a gentleman of the road, as they used to say. I work when I feel like it, and play when I feel like it, and move on to new places when I feel like it.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
She was silent for a time, and then, softly, “Are you involved with those men out there?”
“What?”
“That story you told me about seeing them kill somebody — is that really true?”
“Of course it’s true.”
“And that’s why they’re chasing you — us?”
“Yes. What did you think?”
“I don’t know. You lied about your name...”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“What does it have to do with?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re running from something else, aren’t you?” she said. “Something besides those men.”
He stiffened slightly. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Suppose it is. What difference does it make?”
“None, I guess. I just want to know.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not — now?”
“You want my life history, but you won’t say a thing about yourself,” Lennox said. “Let’s try that tack for a while.”
“I told you all there is to know last night.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
Lennox studied her — and, slowly, he realized just what the bond was between them, the kinship he had intuited last night and today. “Maybe we’ve both got something to hide,” he said. “Maybe you’re running away from something else, too.”