The Old Man(102)

He would have to keep going a few hours to get far enough from the roadblock he had escaped, then try to find a village where he could get water. If he failed, he would die. The rule of thumb was that it took three days to die of dehydration, but he had spent much of his first night running.

Spencer set a marching pace by counting cadence. He kept his head up and picked a hill that lined up with his shadow and walked toward it so his course would be straight. The road to Tobruk was an arc that swung to the north and then back down, all of it roughly parallel to the sea. If he aimed his steps correctly, then at some point he would intersect with the road.

It was late night when he saw something new ahead of him and to the left. A set of headlights was moving along, the beams shooting into the darkness. From this distance he couldn’t actually see the vehicle. He had no idea if it was a car, a truck, or a bus, but it didn’t matter. It was what the vehicle was driving on that mattered. He had met the road.

He kept walking, unable to resist swinging farther to the left to meet the road sooner, and then he was there, stepping-onto the pavement. He felt the luxury as he walked along on the pavement toward the east. Now there was nothing to trip him, no irregularities or loose stones to turn his ankles. He walked steadily and made better time, always listening for the sound of an engine.

At five thirty in the morning another set of headlights illuminated the road ahead. A car was about to overtake him.

He was starving and parched, and he knew that if he didn’t get help he would be dead by midafternoon. He stepped into the middle of the highway and waited. He watched the headlights grow nearer and brighter, and when the car was close enough to see him he waved his arms.

The car slowed to twenty miles an hour as the driver looked him over. When the car reached him, it stopped.

Spencer leaned over to look into the car. The man behind the windshield was dark, with a short beard and close-cropped hair, about thirty-five years old. He was a little bit chubby, certainly not a laborer.

The passenger window whirred down. The man said in Arabic: “What are you doing out here?”

“My car got wrecked,” Spencer said. “I lost control and it ran off the road and crashed. Praise Allah I’m alive. I thank you so much for stopping.” He bowed deeply.

“If I take you to the next village, what will you give me?”

“I’ll buy gasoline, and if you’d like me to, I’ll drive your car so you can rest,” said Spencer. “If you’re going all the way to Tobruk, I would give you two hundred and fifty dinar to take me with you.”

“Did you say two fifty?”

“Yes. Two fifty.”

“All right. Get in.”

“On this side or the driver’s?”

“That side. If you crashed your car, I don’t want you driving mine.”

Spencer got in beside the man and felt his legs release their tension in the soft cushion of the seat while the man accelerated, moving along the road toward Tobruk.

They drove for a few miles, and then the man said to Spencer:

“You must be rich, huh?”

“No, not really,” Spencer said.

“You must be. You smashed your car and you walked away from it, as though it meant nothing to you.”

Spencer looked at him. “I’m sad that my car was wrecked, but I’m very happy that I could walk away from it without dying or having a serious injury. Now I’m even happier that a kind and good man was the one to come along the road at night and pick me up.”

The man nodded and drove on.

Spencer distrusted and disliked this man. The driver knew that Spencer had been walking through wilderness all night, but he had not offered him a drink of water or even asked about his health. But Spencer needed him to stay alive, so he was determined to keep him friendly.

Spencer decided that the best thing he could do was to lean back and appear to fall asleep, so he wouldn’t risk irritating or alienating him. He leaned against the door, his eyes closed, and he began to breathe slowly and deeply. The way he kept it up was to count. He would count to sixty slowly and call it a minute, and then count the next sixty and call that two minutes. He got to nine minutes and started the tenth, when he awoke in full sunlight, startled.

The car was stopped off the road. The driver was touching him, feeling his pockets for his wallet.

Spencer stiffened and started to sit up, but the man held a knife in his free hand, and it hovered above Spencer’s chest, where he could see it. The knife was about four inches long with a symmetrical blade like a boot knife.

“Where’s the money?” the man asked.

“What’s the knife for?” said Spencer. “I’m planning to pay you.”

“I’m taking the money you promised me. It’s my money now.”

Spencer wondered where they were, and how long he had been sleeping, but he had no idea. He said, “I’m going to pay you the two fifty as soon as we get to Tobruk. That’s where it is. Most of the money I had with me got burned in my car.”

“You didn’t say the car burned. You’ve been lying to me. I’m taking you nowhere.” The man raised the hand that held the knife.

Spencer’s left hand batted the man’s forearm to the side while his right moved to the pistol in his belt. He grasped the pistol through his loose shirt, twisted his torso, and fired through the cloth.