and Jana feels him erect against her, oh no, no, and her hips move faster under his hand now, under his hand, I don’t want this, “No, please no,” and she is burning, she is burning, Love me, no, love me love me love me
and Lennox says her name, “Jana,” and hears her moaning and wants her desperately and his fingers on her clothing are deft, quick, gentle
and Jana helps him, helps them both, the wind blowing cold over naked flesh, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her lips saying “No” and her mind saying Yes, yes! and she is afraid, she is terrified, but he is whispering to her now, calming her, stroking her, and the fire, the need, the need
and they are one, murmuring, clinging, moving, and it is savage, it is tender — together, reaching upward, reaching the zenith, together, together, it happens together, incredibly, perfectly, the way it had to be...
They lie silent, holding tightly to one another, and there is no need for words. Jana knows, and inside she weeps — but the tears are clean and good, purging. Lennox knows, and inside there is a peace, unstable but rich and promising. They are one now, in many ways.
In many ways.
The Final Day...
One
Vollyer came awake just before dawn — and he was blind.
A soft, strangled cry bubbled in his throat; he sat up, pawing at his eyes. Darkness, darkness, with light shimmering faintly at the edges, with light flickering a long way off like candles at the end of a long, dark tunnel; but there were no images, no colors, there was only the light and pain, pain hammering behind the swollen lids, pain pulsating at the core of each eyeball. He shook his head and kept on shaking it, scratching wildly at the mucus-crusted sockets with the tips of his fingers.
Di Parma had been sitting on a rock nearby, watching the eastern horizon turn a dusty gray with the approach of dawn, eating the last of the tinned meat with chilled fingers. He came running over to Vollyer and knelt beside him. “Harry, what’s the matter? Jesus, Harry, what is it?”
“Get away from me!” Vollyer snapped at him. Control, control, get control of yourself, don’t panic, only the losers panic. Hands away from your eyes, only makes it worse rubbing at them, that’s it, blink now, blink, blink, light growing brighter, yes, taking away the darkness, force those lids up all the way, blink, blink, the sky, you can see the sky now and Di Parma, fuzzy but it’s Di Parma, concentrate, blink, his features, eyes, nose, mouth, blink, concentrate, blink, fuzziness fading, focus coming back, you’re all right, you’re not really blind, only temporary, bad strain that’s all, you can see now, you can see as well as before...
Vollyer dragged cool air into his lungs and sat up again, looking around him. The solid objects had faint, dancing perimeter shadows until he stared at one in particular and then the shadow went away. His head ached massively, malignantly, and there were searing needles probing at the retinas of his eyes. He got shakily to his feet and held his hands out in front of him and stared at their backs; the hands were trembling, but there were only two of them and they had no dancing shadows.
Di Parma said, “Was it your eyes, Harry? Mine have been giving me hell, too. It’s the glare of that sun...”
Vollyer said nothing. He walked slowly to the rock on which Di Parma had been sitting and took the binoculars from it and then went to where he could look out over the desert to the north. He lifted the glasses, squinting through the lens. The moon was gone now, the stars fading, and the landscape lay cold and starkly quiet under the retreating gray-black of the sky. He could see a long way, he could see cactus, rocks, bushy shrubs, distinct and identifiable forms. He released a long, soft breath, turning, calm again.
“Come on,” he said to Di Parma. “It’s time to be moving. We’re close to them, I can feel it. Even with you shooting at that snake last night, we’re close to them. It won’t be long now...”
Two
Brackeen said, “I can’t take any more of this sitting around. I’m going out and check with the deputy I posted at the junction.”
“If he had anything to report, he would have radioed in,” Gottlieb said. He sat across from his partner, Dick Sanchez, at one of the desks in the substation, drinking his tenth or eleventh cup of coffee and chain-smoking cork-tipped cigarettes. Both men owned tired eyes and disheveled suits, and they were playing two-handed pinochle with no enthusiasm at all.
Brackeen stood at the front counter, looking out through the window. The first pale, cold light of dawn touched the empty street beyond, an inchoate dissolution of the shadows resting in doorways and alleyways and at the corners of the false-fronted buildings. “I know that,” he said without turning. “But I’m ready to climb the goddamn walls.”
“Lydell will have those men I asked for here any minute now,” Gottlieb told him. “Why don’t you wait for him and we’ll all go out together?”
“I’d feel better moving around, that’s all.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Radio when you’re coming?”
“As soon as we leave.”
“What time are the choppers going up?”
“They should be in the air any minute now.”
“Then we’ll have a report in another hour or less.”
“About that.”
Brackeen passed a hand across his face. There were deep circles etched into the puffy flesh beneath his eyes, and the lack of sleep had made the lids heavy and put a cottony taste in his mouth that was enhanced by the amount of coffee he had drunk and cigarettes he had smoked since last night. His nerves were raw-edged from inactivity, fatigue, caffein, nicotine. But his mind was clear and alert, kept that way by the prospect of movement and accomplishment, and by the presence of Gottlieb and Sanchez; the three of them had passed the hours since the arrival of the state investigators shortly after midnight in talking Brackeen’s theory through, examining every possibility, planning the moves to be made on this day.
As Brackeen picked up his Stetson and crossed to the front door, Gottlieb said mildly, “Stay loose, huh?”
“As loose as the two of you,” Brackeen said, and went out.
He drove to the junction and talked to the deputy again, and there was nothing to report. The sky was much lighter now, splashed with gold and deep red on the eastern horizon, and it would not be long before the rounded rim of the sun edged up there like a huge golden shield. A narrow wash paralleled the county road for a short distance here, beginning just beyond the rutted surface of the abandoned rail company road; a red-topped, black-and-white striped Gila woodpecker swooped low over it, shrieking maniacally all the while. There was no other sound; the county road was deserted at this hour of the morning.
Brackeen stood by his cruiser, looking up into the lightening heavens. The hell with this, he thought. He slid under the cruiser’s wheel and entered the abandoned road, driving slowly, his head moving in careful quadrants from the road surface to the terrain stretching away to the east. He did not expect to see anything, but this was better than just sitting, waiting for Lydell to show up, waiting for the choppers to report.