Elisha’s Bones (29 page)
“Can you drive and hold this at the same time?”
“I think so,” I say, then slip my hand over hers and she pulls away.
I give the Lexus some gas and use my free hand to crank the wheel, sending us toward Laverton. We’d accomplish nothing by heading in the other direction, other than provide distance from the horror of what just happened, and that would be a temporary salve. Jim and Meredith deserve to have the circumstances of their deaths made known.
Espy lapses into silence again. I pick up speed, and a small white sign indicating that Laverton is ahead comes into view.
“What now?” she asks.
“We have to tell someone what happened.”
She nods, still focused on the passing terrain out the passenger window.
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m getting tired of hearing you say that.”
“Do you want me to lie?”
“I want you to decide how far you’re going to take this.” She turns away from the window and I catch enough of the look in her eyes to understand that what she’s saying is not coming from some emotional well. There’s a calmness to her features that gives added weight to the words. “Six people are dead.” She pauses. “Make that seven, with the one you killed. Jack, you’re carrying a gun.”
“Eight.”
“What?”
“I’ve killed two people tonight, so that makes it eight. Just so you know.”
“Eight. And for what? You’re not even sure you believe in this thing we’re chasing.”
“That stopped being the point days ago.”
“So what is the point?” Her eyes flash with the spark that’s been missing for a while, and I mentally kick myself for wishing its return.
I’m not sure how to respond because it bothers me to think that the only honest answer is that there is no point. Beyond stubbornness, or spite, or the simple fact that I’ve become wrapped up in something that’s carrying me along despite myself. I can’t tell her those things. I’m saved from having to say anything when an insistent crackling cuts through the silence, followed by a voice.
“Status check.”
Esperanza and I exchange glances and then she’s bent over and rooting around the floorboard. When she straightens, she holds a radio. It’s a short- to moderate-range model, with a green indicator light signaling its readiness.
“Status check two.”
I’m not sure how to respond so, in this case, inaction seems to be the best option. We wait for the person on the other end to say something else but the seconds stretch into a minute.
“Now they know that something’s wrong,” Espy says.
“Which means they’ll either disappear or go to the house to see what’s happened.”
“Unless they have a Plan B.”
I have a feeling that there is, indeed, a Plan B. And we can’t wait around to find out what it is. I press down on the accelerator and send the Lexus flying down the road until I see the outskirts of the town. The dashboard clock reads 2:13 a.m. The streets, like the people who would travel them, are asleep. I have no way of knowing how many of them there are, but it seems logical they would have some sort of presence here—a place to regroup. It means we have to be quick.
Years have passed since I was last here and everything is new to me. Once we get closer to the center of town, I start to look for something open—a restaurant, a store, a gas station. But every establishment looks buttoned down. For a town with a reputation of having been the Tombstone of Australia—the quintessential Wild West town—it seems oddly tame. And the ominously silent radio serves notice that at any moment any number of identical vehicles could converge on us. I wonder if they would be able to track us with the GPS?
Running low on choices, I pull up next to a building that looks promising.
“Stay here.”
She puts her hand on the door handle. “I’m getting tired of hearing you say that, too.” Then she’s out the door, standing barefoot on the cold sidewalk.
I get out and walk to the back of the truck and find a tire iron under the rear seat. Then I join Espy on the sidewalk, where she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Without waiting for her to say anything that might give me pause, I walk up to the large glass window of the storefront and, after peeking in to make sure it has everything I need, smash in the glass. No alarm sounds, and I whisper quiet thanks for small favors. Of course there might be a silent alarm that’s been activated at a remote monitoring site. I use the tire iron to clear away the jagged edges, ignoring the fact that I can now officially call myself a burglar. Desperate times.
“Are you coming?” I ask as I stick my leg into the opening. When inside, I sprint to the men’s clothing section, where I grab a pair of pants and a shirt that looks to be my general size. Next, I snatch up two packs of socks. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement across the store and spot Esperanza in the women’s department. The last thing I take before heading down the shoe aisle is a coat—a thick, heavy one that can withstand an extended stay in the elements. I can barely hold everything now and have to set it all down in order to find some boots. That done, I gather up my bounty and double-time it toward the exit.
Espy’s beaten me to the truck and, as I open the door and toss the clothing in, she’s already changing into jeans and a sweater. Before I get in, I look up and down the street but don’t see anything moving, nor do I hear the telltale sound of sirens converging on us. I shut the door and run back inside the store, and it takes me a minute to find the food section. There’s only so much I can carry so I settle for a case of bottled water, a loaf of bread, six cans of soup, and a can opener.
I return to the SUV, load these into the back, and take off, all but burning rubber on the cold asphalt. The gas pedal hurts my bare foot, and I’ve sliced the leg of my pajamas on the window glass. Espy, on the other hand, looks like a new person in her stolen outfit. She even managed to ensure that everything matches.
“How much do you think all this stuff is worth?” I ask.
“I don’t know but these boots were on sale. Marked down to two hundred.”
“What a bargain.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I guess I’d just like to get an idea of what degree of larceny they’ll charge us with when they catch us.”
C
almly, without opening my eyes, I lift my hand from my knee and reach for whatever creature is burrowing between the seat and me, playing the odds that it’s not one of the poisonous variety. The problem is that, in Australia, the odds are against me. As my fingers close around the creature and wrest it from its comfy spot, I feel cool, dry skin, and I think
lizard
as a best-case scenario. Which is silly because some species of lizards here are almost as lethal as their legless cousins.
I bring my hand back up in front of me. It’s still dark in the truck and my eyelids, heavy with weariness, struggle to open. Two bulbous eyes, much more alert than I imagine mine appear, regard me with unblinking calm from only a few inches away. The yellow lizard’s back legs are engaged in a slow-motion flail but find only air. Its tongue flicks out in a test of the environment, gauging its situation, and then it licks its own eyeball. If I needed any help beyond the lizard’s coloring, the spiny pouch beneath its jaw tells me it’s a Bearded Dragon lizard. Harmless. And it’s not a spider. I’ll take a venomous reptile over a tarantula any day.
“Looking for a warm spot?”
Even though I know that it’s impossible for a lizard to manufacture a plaintive expression, the slight curl of the animal’s mouth produces a close facsimile.
The windows of the truck are all shut, and there’s no way the creature could have gained entrance via the ventilation system, so it’s either the Harry Houdini of lizard-kind, or it gained entry earlier when the doors were opened. With the latter being the most likely case, this boy is a long way from home.
I look past my captive to take in the vista beyond the curved window of the Ford. When we dumped the Lexus in favor of a more nondescript vehicle—F-250, with a busted taillight and a bumper sticker that reads,
Maybe a dingo ate your baby
—we removed any doubt about the sort of larceny that would appear on our rap sheets. It gives me some small pleasure to imagine the moods of the men who will find—or have already found— the luxury SUV.
A hint of red is only now drawing a crayon line in the distance, but it’s lightened enough so that I can see the entire desert spreading out in front of me. During the dark early morning hours, when I was driving through it, it was easy to give this place no more thought than I would the plains of Kansas. But the dawn reveals an entirely different animal.
Two hours’ sleep doesn’t come close to preparing me for the day. I yawn and open the door, and air with a respectable bite rushes into the truck. To my right, Espy stirs. I force my sore legs onto the uneven surface outside and stand—an exercise complicated by the fact that my right leg is numb from where it was pressed up against the console, and that I’m still holding my bunk buddy. I shut the door and then crouch and release the animal. As soon as its feet hit the ground it’s gone, scrabbling across the rocky landscape and darting behind a group of large rocks.
My muscles protest as I stand. I slip my hands into my jacket pockets and breathe in a long draught of air laden with microscopic icicles. As it tickles my nose, I consider that the comparison to Kansas was inaccurate. I’m now getting a definite Montana feel. It’s certainly remote enough to qualify as Montana, and since my cell phone and wallet are gone I might as well be on a desert island. The logistics of what I need to do—what I concluded as we drove through the darkness like exiles—are daunting under the best of circumstances, let alone cut off from my resources.
I decide to test my knee on the rugged terrain by walking slowly up the slope behind the Ford. The knee feels stiff and I take measured, careful steps. I grimace against the pain, knowing that if I don’t work it out now, it’ll only get worse, especially as we spend a good portion of our time driving.
By my estimate, it will take most of the day to reach our destination, and that’s taking into account having to make our own road in some places. I almost wish we’d kept the Lexus, only because the GPS would plot for us a passable route. Now I’m forced to rely on a paper map and whatever survival skills I’ve collected during my time in the field, and most of those pale in comparison to those that come naturally to the average Boy Scout. On a positive note, the Ford has two full gas tanks and a good set of tires, and the bed holds plenty of firewood, a tarp, a fishing pole, and a toolbox. With a little luck, we should have enough to keep us healthy and moving forward while we’re out here.
Out here
is the Great Victoria Desert, via the Gunbarrel Highway. It’s one of the most inhospitable places in all of Australia, and a place where only a fool would travel without extensive preparation. It’s also something of a tourist draw for those people into bungee jumping over a waterfall, or free-climbing a cliff face, or any other extreme activity that involves taunting death. There’s a slim chance we might run into somebody out here, but this part of the country is only now emerging from its dormant period, and the adventurous set won’t descend en masse for another few weeks. And few of them will take the path Espy and I need to follow. Most will head north, directly into the MacDonnell Range, past Ayers Rock and through aboriginal lands. It’s more than twenty-five hundred miles in which trekkers can test their self-sufficiency. Espy and I will take a circuitous route, crossing over just south of the mountains before heading southeast toward Adelaide, then on to Ballarat. And I doubt that anyone will look for us out there.
I reach the top of the hill where the vantage point affords me a view of the wide-open space between us and the distant mountain range, plateaus giving the red landscape texture. It’s beautiful, and my mind starts to traipse down an old, well-trod path. I imagine all the artifacts these mountains might hold. Nothing can compare to the exhilaration I feel when unearthing something that has avoided detection for thousands of years. I have to admit that, regardless of what’s happened over the last two weeks—the horrible things I’ve witnessed, as well as those I’ve done myself—the rush of discovery is what has kept me on course. More than anything, I want to find these bones—to hold them in my hands, to see if they’re worth the price I and others have paid. There might also be something akin to a fledgling belief, although giving that any serious thought makes me uncomfortable and forces me down a path I refuse to travel at this point in my life. Religion, God, the metaphysical—I haven’t had much use for these things for a long time, not since KV65. What was it Reese said?
“The power of God does not fade over
time.”
I grunt. That may be true, but I can still ignore it. And isn’t ignored power the same as impotence?
I sigh and turn back toward the truck, my knee feeling somewhat better as I descend. The case of bottled water is in the truck bed, and I cut the plastic holding the bottles together with a pocketknife and then pull one free. I think about the soup but my stomach seems to rebel against the idea. I wish I’d thought to steal something more suitable for breakfast.
The passenger door opens and Espy joins me in the great outdoors. This time she does a full-body stretch and yawn, and I’m amazed at how good she looks after jumping out a window, enduring an explosion, robbing a store, and only getting a few hours of sleep. I must look like death; I certainly feel like it. Hands on hips, she takes in the forbidding view.
“Nice place.”
“God’s playground.”
She walks to the back of the truck, lowers the tailgate and sits, reaching back to grab a bottle of water.
“Care to tell me where we’re going? And I’m warning you, if you tell me you don’t know, I’ll hurt you more than I did back in Caracas.”
I wince in remembered pain. Fortunately, I’m not without an answer to her question. The problem is that I’m not sure my response won’t bring about the same beating that indecision would.
