Valley of Death (7 page)

N
ot even thinking, moving entirely by instinct, Jack rolled over on the concrete and pulled Leesa with him to crouch behind a parked car. But the man kept coming—coming toward them. Jack tried to shield Leesa with his own body, but what good would that do if the man started shooting? They'd both be dead!

And then the man was standing right above them, shouting. Finally Jack's mind connected to what he was saying: “Hey, you guys, chill out. This isn't a gun. It's a camcorder.”

Yeah, sure. Not believing, Jack stared at the shiny black object in the man's hand. In the dim light from above the motel door, all he could focus on was the dark circle that looked like the muzzle of a gun. It was pointed straight at Leesa. Jack was panting. Sweat stung his eyes. He knew—
he knew
—he was going to die. Several long seconds passed before his brain clicked in to what he was actually seeing—an object five inches high, four inches deep, one inch thick, with a gleaming round hole that was not the muzzle of a gun but happened to be the lens of a very small camcorder. Handheld. Hand-size. Jack had never seen anything like it.

Ignoring Jack, the man said, “Let me help you up, Leesa.” He pulled her to her feet, brushing bits of dirt and tiny twigs from her back.

“How did you know I was Leesa?” she asked, trying to control her voice. She was shaking so hard it trembled. “And who are you?”

“I saw your picture on television. You were on the evening news. My name's Jesse Hererra—I'm a student at UNLV, the University of Nevada at Las Vegas.”

“Wait a minute,” Jack said. Pulling Leesa aside, he whispered into her ear, “Why should you believe him? He might be a member of The Unit.”

“With a name like Jesse Hererra? No way,” she whispered back. “He's a Latino—one of the so-called mongrels The Unit says are destroying the purity of the Aryan race.”

Even though Jack knew that Leesa no longer believed that hate-group propaganda, the words still sounded shocking enough to make him cringe. “Well, if you're sure he's OK,” he murmured.

“Look at him, Jack. He looks like Ricky Martin.”

Jesse had pulled a card out of his wallet and was holding it in front of their eyes, even though in the dark they couldn't see much except a stamp-size photo of Jesse with his name underneath. “See, Jesse Hererra. I'm a TV reporter. This is my press card.”

“I thought you said you were a student,” Jack challenged him.

“I am. I'm a communications major at UNLV. Maybe I'm not all the way a full-time TV reporter, but I'm working on it. Look around you—do you see any other reporters? I was the only one smart enough to track down Leesa, and I recorded you guys on video tape. It'll make great footage with the two of you hitting the ground like you did.”

“Hey, that's not fair!” Jack cried. “Are you going to show
that
on
TV?
I'll look stupid.”

Leesa had been standing a little apart, eyeing Jesse. Now she moved forward and said, “That ID you just showed us—does that get you into places where other people can't go?”

“Yes. And I have a bigger press ID sign in my Jeep that I clip to the sun visor when I'm on my way to a story.”

“Would it get you through police barricades?” she asked.

“Mmmm….” Jesse rubbed his chin. “Depends on how strict the cops are.”

Taking Jesse's arm, Leesa said, “All right, Jesse Hererra, if you want a real story, get me through the barricades. On the way I'll tell you everything that happened. You'll have a real scoop.”

Even in the dark Jack could see Jesse's eyes light up. “You got it!” he cried. “But I want an exclusive. No other reporters, right?”

Still suspicious, Jack asked, “Just who do you work for? Which television station?”

Jesse didn't answer that right away. Pointing to Jack, he said, “This guy must be Jack Landon, the brother of the girl who's been kidnapped, am I right?” When Leesa nodded, Jesse went on, “Well, actually, I don't really work for any particular station—I'm a freelance journalist. I get the story, and I sell it to the networks.” Pointing to Jack, he asked, “Is he going with us?”

Leesa shrugged a little and replied, “You don't really need to, Jack. I'm all right now. I have a ride, so I won't have to hitch.”

Jack couldn't believe the change that had come over Leesa. Hours ago, she'd been a weepy, scared girl full of guilt. Suddenly she'd become this take-charge action heroine like he saw on television shows, putting her trust in a stranger she'd met only five minutes before, telling Jack she didn't need him now. “I'm going with you,” he announced. In this weird, surrealistic, nighttime scene, with a girl who'd been part of a hate group and a college kid who didn't look old enough to report anything scarier than a dog show, Jack felt like he was the only normal character with his head on straight.
Someone
had to keep touch with reality, and it appeared that job was going to fall on
him.

They climbed into Jesse's Jeep, Leesa sitting in the front seat, and Jack pushing junk around in the back to find enough room for him to squeeze in. The floor was littered with empty soda cans. Other cans, full ones, rolled around, hitting Jack's feet when the Jeep started moving. An open sleeping bag hung over the back seat and trailed into the tailgate. Boxes full of notebooks and loose papers slid around in the tailgate. The Jeep smelled like pizza, which was no surprise since there were two smashed pizza cartons stuffed between the seats.

“Here, hold this,” Jesse said, tossing the camcorder over the seat into Jack's hands.

That thing must have cost a ton of money! And there Jesse was, throwing it around like a candy bar. “So where are we going?” Jesse asked.

He meant the question to be for Leesa, but Jack answered. “Route 190. But we'll get stopped at the barricade at the old Harmony Borax Works, and that'll be the end of all this. Especially when the police see Leesa in here.”

“So,” Jesse said, glancing at Jack in the rearview mirror, “we shouldn't let them see Leesa. Or you.”

Leesa seemed to be on the same page as this guy. “Jack and I will hide,” she said. “We can scrunch down on the floor of the back seat while you talk your way through the barricade.”

“That'll work. Hey, Jack,” Jesse called to him, “look in one of those boxes back there. Find a baseball cap that says NBC, and in the same box you'll see a pair of glasses—they make me look older,” he explained to Leesa.

“How old are you really?” she asked.

“Nineteen. I'm a freshman. But I've been doing this since I was 16. I've even had some stories on national TV.”

“How many?” Jack wanted to know.

“Well, one so far. About a guy who claimed to have psychic powers. Said he could control the slot machines in Las Vegas with his thought waves. He really did seem to be able to. When I followed him around with my camcorder, he kept hitting one jackpot after another.”

“And that story got on national TV?” Jack asked, unbelieving.

“Yeah. On
News of the Weird.
”

Oh, great! Jack thought. “Let me ask you something. Is that a real press card you showed us?”

“It is. So's the one hanging from the visor. But I'll be honest with you—press cards like this aren't hard to get. You just join a certain freelance photographers' organization and pay the very big dues they ask for, and they send you the card. So it's real, but it's not what you'd call major-league credentials. But it works. Some of the time.”

What was Jesse getting them into? Leesa seemed intent on going ahead with her mission, putting her trust in this college kid, this would-be reporter, who would have to bluff his way to where she wanted to go. She started to talk to Jesse, telling him about everything that had happened from the time the Landons reached Skidoo. In a little while she stopped and said, “Slow down. We're coming to the turnoff.”

“OK, Leesa, get in the back,” Jesse told her. “Get on the floor and cover yourself and Jack with the sleeping bag.”

“Wait a minute!” Jack said. “You don't even know where we're supposed to go if we do manage to get through the barricade.”

“So tell me.”

“OK.” Jack was in this so deep already that he might as well play it out. “I have this theory,” he said, “that other members of The Unit are planning to make a rescue attempt. I mean, it could happen.” Jack had imagined the whole thing. “They could come from Darwin Falls and drive past Stovepipe Wells on Route 190, leave their vehicles, and strike out across the desert. Anyway,” he added weakly, “that's my theory.”

“Cool, dude,” Jesse told him. “You be the navigator when we get past the checkpoint. Now, both of you better cover up for this undercover operation. That's a joke, guys, but do it.”

Leesa quickly crawled into the backseat, then she and Jack started grabbing soda cans off the floor and throwing them into the cardboard boxes. “Don't you want your camcorder up there?” Jack asked Jesse. “If you're going to look like a reporter, you'll need it, won't you?”

“No. Give me that black press bag that's on the backseat next to the window. It's got bigger video equipment plus other cameras and rolls of film and tape. Hand over the tripod, too.”

When Jack found the right bag, he saw that it was unzipped. A glance inside revealed equipment worth thousands of dollars, all jammed together helter-skelter without even any partitions to keep valuable cameras from banging into one another. Jack couldn't imagine that kind of carelessness—if his dad saw that, he'd blow a gasket. Jesse had to be incredibly rich not to care about how badly his cameras got hammered.

“What does your father do?” Jack asked him.

“He owns a casino and a couple of hotels, which is how I was able to find out where you were staying—through my hotel connections. So, give me the camera bag and cover yourselves with the sleeping bag. I see the barricade lights up ahead.”

Like everything else in the Jeep, the sleeping bag smelled of pizza. Jack and Leesa pulled it over themselves as they flattened their bodies on the floor. When the Jeep stopped, they couldn't see anything, but they could clearly hear Jesse speaking to the officer who'd halted him. Jesse's voice sounded deeper now, more mature and very calm. “Good evening, officer.”

“You can't go past here. This whole area has been cordoned off.”

“I'm a member of the press corps, officer. I'm covering this story for national news. Here's my press pass.”

There was silence. Jack could imagine the officer examining the card by flashlight, then turning the light on Jesse, who now happened to be wearing very serious-looking glasses and an NBC cap. “Where is it you want to go?” the officer asked.

“Just a little way up Route 190 so I can get a few shots for my network. If you or one of your men wants to accompany me, that would be fine. That would be great, in fact.”

Jack sucked in his breath. What if the officer agreed?

“I can't spare anyone,” the officer said. “All right. I'll give you ten minutes, but you can't go any farther than that little rise just ahead. That's all. Take your video shots and then get out of here.”

“Thanks,” Jesse said. The Jeep started to move again. As it lurched forward, Leesa's elbow bumped into Jack, but he knew better than to yell out.

“How much longer do you think we'll have to stay down here?” she whispered.

“Not too much longer, I hope,” Jack muttered. “I'm suffocating.”

His watch was not the kind that showed the time in the dark. After what he thought must be about five minutes—during which the Jeep never stopped moving—he cautiously moved the sleeping bag off his head.

“You guys OK back there?” Jesse asked. “You can get up now.”

Jack gulped air, glad to be able to breathe again. “So what good is all this?” he asked. “I mean, we have to turn back right away, don't we? I heard the man say you could only stay for ten minutes.”

“Yeah, that's what he said.” Jesse kept driving, making no attempt to turn around. “So we're on Route 190—how far do we go?”

He wasn't going to turn back! Oh well—“Maybe about 15 miles,” Jack answered. He wished he had the map—he hoped he was remembering it correctly. “We should stop a few miles before we get to Stovepipe Wells.”

“And then what?”

Leesa leaned forward, her arms folded on the top of the passenger seat. “And then I'm going to walk across the desert to where Ashley is being held and ask them to let her go.”

The Jeep swerved suddenly to the side of the road and slid to a stop. Turning around to face Leesa, Jesse asked, “You're going back to The Unit?”

She nodded. “Yes. You'll get your big scoop.”

Taking off the baseball cap, Jesse smoothed his curly black hair. “I don't think I want a scoop that bad. Not just because I'll be prosecuted for letting you do that, Leesa, but because it sounds like the wrong thing to do.”

So Jesse had a conscience after all. Maybe between the two of them, he and Jack could talk Leesa out of her crazy plan.

“Keep driving,” Leesa told him. “Or if you don't want to, I'll just get out here.”

Overhead, the thump of helicopter rotors started faint but grew louder and louder until the chopper was right above the Jeep. Then a bright spotlight shone down on them and an amplified voice ordered, “You in the Jeep. Turn around and go back.”

Jesse stared long and hard at Leesa. “Tell me what to do, Leesa. If you want me to make a run for it in the Jeep, I'm willing. I don't think they'll shoot at us, and my dad will probably bail me out of jail.”

Smiling at him, Leesa answered, “Let's do it then. Let's go.”