Elisha's Bones Part 19

"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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 gla.s.s. 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."

CHAPTER 21

Calmly, 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 lizard as a best-case scenario. Which is silly because some species of lizards here are almost as lethal as their legless cousins. 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 b.u.mper sticker that reads, Maybe a dingo ate your baby 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sable 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 ma.s.se 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. 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 ma.s.se 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 s.p.a.ce 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, G.o.d, 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 G.o.d does not fade over time." "The power of G.o.d 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 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 pa.s.senger 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."

"G.o.d'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.

"We're going to the Manheim estate."

"Excuse me?" Esperanza's eyes darken.

"It's the last place they'd expect us to show up."

"Because they wouldn't think even you would be that idiotic."

"They'd certainly be wrong about that." I understand her feelings because it took a while to convince myself that going to face the beast is the most logical course of action. "We're off the grid right now, and I intend to use it to our advantage. Up to this point, we've been operating under a microscope, and I think it's time for us to do something unexpected."

"Getting ourselves killed would qualify." She almost spits the words. She's on the verge of slipping into Spanish, a good indicator of the level of her anger.

"I don't think so," I say with more confidence than I feel. "If I were Manheim, I would be watching the airports. I'd track all calls to anyone on my cell phone log. He thinks I'm going to try to leave the country. It's the only logical decision he thinks I can make."

"So you're going to act illogically."

"At least it's something I'm good at." The trouble with trying to charm someone who knows you well is that they become immune to it. Espy looks unmoved. "What else is there to do? We can't go to the police. With Manheim's influence, it wouldn't surprise me if you're on Wanted posters all over Australia."

That catches her off guard.

"That's not funny. No one knew we were staying there . . ." The words trail off as she remembers the rental car. "All right, why just me? The car is in your name."

"It'll take them some time because of the fire, but a forensics team will find three bodies. For a while, at least, they'll think that one of them is me. That just leaves the beautiful dark-haired woman who will likely turn up on surveillance cameras at the rental agency, and then they'll get your name from the Qantas manifest."

The curses that fly from her mouth, regardless of her newly touted religious faith, are in her native language, and by the time she's done I'm sweating. She hops down from the tailgate and stalks off, kicking a rock in her path. It careens over the uneven ground, striking the pile of rocks behind which the lizard disappeared.

It's going to be a long drive.

Two hours' worth of ground that can only be called a road by someone with a generous disposition has pa.s.sed beneath us, with the sun beating down at us through the windshield. And Espy's stewing during the trip has made the truck's cab more confining than I'd like. I've tried the radio a number of times, but we're so far from civilization at this point that every station produces nothing but static.

We've reached a ridgeline-successive plateaus that act as buffers between the desert and the mountains. Foliage dots the rugged landscape, yet the barrenness of the place is only made more evident with the presence of a few scattered bushes and hardy plants. The only wildlife I've seen has been carrion birds, circling high on the dry desert winds. It looks as if they're following us, tracking our progress through an area where things die with regularity. I consider it a bad omen. I look down at the gas gauge. It's just over half full, and it's my only real concern right now, even though there's a second tank waiting in reserve.

"I'd guess it's about three more hours before we cut east below MacDonnell, and it looks like there's a road that runs along the base. And there's a town right before we turn south toward Adelaide, where we can get gas and some supplies."

"With what money?"

"I thought we could trade your boots. They're worth two hundred, right?" The punch that connects with my arm tells me that was the wrong thing to say, and I don't know if it is karma doing its business, or if the birds have jinxed me, but a red light appears on the control panel and I feel the truck lurch with some slip in the engine.

"No, you don't," I mutter as I ease up on the gas. But the Check Engine light stays on, and I smell something sickly sweet. Now I'm the one who's cursing. We cover less than a hundred yards before the truck loses power and I give the steering wheel a single brutal punch. When we stop rolling, the silence is deafening. I refuse to look in Esperanza's direction.

Above us, through the tint on the upper portion of the windshield, I see three birds making lazy circles.

I wake to the sound of Esperanza snoring. It's still dark and the desert air has cooled to the point where I'm uncomfortable. Overhead, the tarp blocks my view of the stars, and I like to think it also discourages the carrion scavengers from making any advances. The fire has burned down so that only a faint glow remains. We used two of the pieces of wood we brought with us, which leaves two more for tonight's fire, provided we need one. And provided we last that long. It was difficult to leave so much wood back at the truck, but there was no way we could carry any more with us, along with the water, the food, the tarp, and a dirty, stained blanket that Espy discovered beneath the pa.s.senger seat. She's got most of the blanket wrapped around her, and I make do with the corner she's left me. I'm glad for the coat I picked up during our nighttime shopping spree.

My body is tired but I know that falling back to sleep won't be easy.

There's no way to tell how far we walked after finally giving up on the Ford. I'm guessing that we covered a good fifteen miles, and I'm thankful there was an unusual layer of clouds that persisted for most of the day. And the ground is harder than I'd antic.i.p.ated; I'll take that over wading through sand any day.

I shift position and Espy stops snoring until I'm still, and then the soft sound starts up again. I'm angry with myself for carrying Esperanza this far into things. If I thought her brother was going to hurt me when we returned from San Cristobal, I'm doubly concerned about what he might do when we get back this time. I have to cling to that last bit; I refuse to entertain the possibility that we're going to die out here, even though hardier and better-prepared men and women have met just that fate in this wilderness. G.o.d's playground. I wonder if that makes me G.o.d's plaything? Like an action figure.

As much as I've tried to minimize the obvious connection, this business is like a bully, forcing me to think about things that I'd rather not consider. The problem is that you can't have bones with divine power and withhold the divine element. There's a part of me that hopes Elisha's bones, if they do exist, turn out to be nothing more than dusty relics. It would make things a lot easier; it would allow me to avoid dealing with the list of items I've ignored for a very long time. At least when Duckey pushes my b.u.t.tons, he placates me with cigars.

I chose to continue on toward the Manheim estate. Going back the way we'd come would have been just as long, and we know what waits for us back there. No, if fate is forcing us to face a grueling march through this hostile place, we might as well try to accomplish something.

The fire pops and there's a momentary flare of light, enough so that I can make out the tarp overhead where we secured it to a nearby boulder. Staring at the glowing embers, I allow myself to drift off.

There's a scene in an old Western-I think it's a Clint Eastwood film-where a man comes crawling out of the desert, drags himself into the nearest saloon, and asks the bartender for whiskey. Women cross to the other side of the road to avoid him, shielding the eyes of their children, and men look upon the pathetic creature with contempt and no small amount of wonder that he's somehow managed to triumph over the elements. I imagine this is close to the response that Espy and I generate as we enter town on the single road that bisects it.

The sign we pa.s.sed a half mile back when we reconnected with the road-coming down through rocks larger than the truck we abandoned five days ago-read, Kent Station, population 435. From what I can see, through a haze of weariness, we're approaching the town center: several one-story buildings built in straight lines on either side of the sun-bleached road. It really is like something from a movie; I almost expect to find that the structures are facades-that I could walk around them and see the angled beams that prop up the fronts.

Every step I take sends pain shooting up and down my leg and into my hip. But I've been dealing with the pain for the better part of three days, and it's become something I'm able to ignore. Like the blisters on both feet, and the sunburn on my face and neck. None of them carry an urgency rivaling constant thirst. My throat and mouth have had every bit of moisture sucked from them; I can hardly produce saliva anymore.

I stop and swing the gathered blanket from my shoulder and set it on the ground. From it I pull our last nearly empty bottle of water. I hold it out to Esperanza, who accepts it with a weak eagerness. She takes three measured sips before handing the bottle back, and I down the rest.

Spotting a gas station on the corner, I return the blanket to my shoulder, then reach for Espy's hand, and together we head toward the station. Two cars are parked at the pumps, and a middle-aged man stands near one of them, attending to the tank. He slips his hand under his cap and scratches his head.

"You all right?" he asks.

I try to speak but can't utter anything beyond a croak. Instead, I nod and then push through the store entrance. There are two people inside: a young woman at the cash register, and an older woman buying cigarettes. The conversation between them comes to an immediate stop when they see us. Neither of them says a word as I pull Esperanza through the store, toward the cooler along the far wall. A blast of icy air hits me in the face when I swing open the cooler door. I grab two bottles of apple juice, noticing how weathered my hands have become, and give one to Espy. It's the most wonderful thing I've ever tasted. Deprivation enhances the senses; I had no idea that the flavor of something as basic as apple juice could be so satisfying. By the time I've drained the bottle, I feel immeasurably better, enough to notice the stares directed our way from the vicinity of the cash register.

"What on earth happened to you?" the clerk asks.

My initial response consists of a raspy chuckle-a sound which means to convey that condensing what's happened over the last two weeks so it fits in the span of a short answer is near to impossible. How can I describe even the last five days of walking through much of the night and early morning, huddling beneath the tarp, following the hint of road and hoping for a car in the hazy distance, taking the risk to leave the road and cut a half-day's travel from the journey, watching my companion fall three times in the s.p.a.ce of an hour and trying to force warm water past her lips? Even fresh from the ordeal, much of it is a blur.

"Good morning," is about all I can muster, my voice carrying the timbre of a heavy smoker. "Can you spare a few sandwiches?"

CHAPTER 22

The estate is enormous. Seen from where I've been studying it over the last four days-from a hilltop half a mile away-it's a colossus of windows and gardens and well-manicured labyrinths, all surrounded by an imposing yet tasteful wrought-iron gate. It is as if some force gathered all the old buildings back at Evanston to form one complementary structure of aged stone and tiled roofs with Italian influences.

Using binoculars I scan every inch of the place, as I have numerous times in committing it to memory. Once again I count seven security cameras, but there's likely several more than that, just not that I can see from here. Either way, it's clear that there is little chance of anyone entering the grounds of the estate without attracting notice.

I lower the binoculars and return to the van. Esperanza is leaning against the fender, adjusting the ill-fitting legs of her borrowed pants. The rightful owner of the white uniform is taller, forcing Espy to roll up the pant legs to keep from stepping on them.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

She nods. The time for arguing logistics is over, finished sometime during our six-day convalescence. We spent a day in Kent Station, the only occupants of a run-down motel, licking our wounds and doing our best to avoid others' curiosity. There was also the problem of money. Everything Espy and I owned went up in flames with Jim's house, including the money we borrowed from Angie. And I couldn't think of a safe way to get a message to Duckey, not with the likelihood that, having lost track of us, the ones pursuing us would turn to bugging our friends and family. It was Espy's chance now. Through her network a message found its way to Romero, and soon we were five thousand dollars richer. Thus fortified, we bought a ride to Adelaide, then caught a bus to Ballarat, where we disappeared, allowing the city to swallow us up.

The Manheim estate begins ten miles south of the city limits and stretches for miles beyond that. From what I've been able to learn, most of the land is undeveloped, designated as a private wildlife refuge-a status with tax benefits, also exempting the owner from undergoing an inspection of the area by a local or government agency. The Manheims probably earn a tax write-off of a few hundred thousand dollars solely by leaving the land alone.

Espy and I have spent much of the last four days doing nothing but watching the grounds. We've noted and cataloged the comings and goings of every vehicle, the movements of the staff-who seem few in number, considering the size of the estate-even the pattern of light usage through visible windows. We're as prepared as we're going to be. There comes a point when one must take some decisive action to move things forward. I can't stay in this place forever, living under Manheim's nose. Nor can I return to Evanston while this thing remains unfinished. Each time I leave my apartment, I would be looking over my shoulder.

The landscaping van was Espy's idea. We watched them drive in on our second day here, and they spent almost six hours working among the mult.i.tude of hedge mazes, flower beds, and the lawn on the east side. By the time they knocked off for the day, we had our plan sketched in. I walked into the shop at Green Gardens Landscape Service expecting suspicious questions as I pried for information about the crew responsible for the Manheim grounds. Instead, I was met with an indifference that marked the employees as average working stiffs who didn't care about anything beyond their next paychecks. Soon I had the names of the two operators of van number three, even the location of their favorite after-work hangout-a dive located less than a mile from Green Gardens. Three rounds of beer and two hundred dollars are all it took to convince my new friends, Joel and Napalm-I never got a definitive answer about whether that is the man's given name-to take a paid sick day, misplace their uniforms, and lose their keys. According to Napalm, Green Gardens would cancel the next maintenance trip with a promise to double up the following week. That way, Espy and I wouldn't run into a replacement crew when we a.s.sume our new ident.i.ties.

Behind the steering wheel of the van, Espy shifts gears as we turn onto the road that leads to the estate's entrance. It's almost anticlimactic when, less than three minutes later, we pull into the long and stately driveway. I barely have time to get my hat on before we're climbing a gentle slope of stone pavers, approaching the security gate. I glance at the shrubbery on both sides of the concourse-beautifully shaped, and the s.p.a.cing is spot-on. I agree with Napalm: no one would know that the third bush on the left is new, a replacement for one that succ.u.mbed to a fungus. It matches the others in every way.

"Those guys do great work," I say.

I slouch down in my seat as Espy slows the van and stops next to the security station. She leans out the window and presses a b.u.t.ton, and I hear a faint buzzing sound coming from the call mechanism. I keep my head low, the hat all but covering my eyes, while trying to make it appear as if I'm not hiding. A moment later the gate swings open, and Espy drives through without any change in her expression. As we watched the crew do earlier, we park in the front roundabout, near the cherub fountain on the east side.

We exit the van and go straight for the back of the vehicle, where I open the door and pull out a gas-powered edger. Espy reaches for a wheelbarrow. It's upside down, resting on a cushion of pine mulch ten bags strong. She gives it a yank and then guides it into a twist while in the air so that it comes down on its wheel. It bounces once and she steadies it at an angle so she can reach the bags of mulch and pull them across and into the wheelbarrow.

"Nice," I say.

"I grew up on a farm, remember?"

"Just don't wear yourself out. We're not here to plant daisies."

"Daisies would never survive in this climate. The soil is mostly clay and there's too much sun."

"I'll remember that. Thanks."

I start the edger and work my way toward the front door, keeping my eyes to the ground. I pa.s.s three of the security cameras that I noticed during our reconnaissance, and two that are hidden in trees along the walkway. Whoever owns this place-be it Victor or his father or some other relative who exists solely for cooking the books-they exhibit an elevated cla.s.s of paranoia.

While I've been edging, Esperanza has brought the wheelbarrow to the bed of perennials nearest the front door. She sits a mulch bag on its end and slits it across the top with a pocketknife, then puts an arm along the side and hoist-dumps it along the curved line of the bed. I'm aware that she's faking it, yet she almost convinces me that this is her day job, so I imagine it's good enough to fool anyone zooming in with a camera.

I reach the break in the roundabout's curve and ease up on the gas, letting the edger idle. Espy turns in my direction and starts working her way toward the flower bed closest to the front door. She uses a hoe to push the new mulch between the flowers.