Diablo Mesa(46)

As if on cue, the screen went black.

“Son of a bitch!” he cried.

His heart began to pound. The sky in the west was deepening to purple. He had been stupid—very stupid. He should have started back to camp an hour ago. But he’d been too afraid Noam would return and not find him—and be angry.

He squinted back at the distant cliffs of Diablo Mesa. It was already too dark to follow his own faint footsteps. What he would do was walk in the direction they’d come as best he could estimate, and when he hit the cliffs he’d search for the trail. If he didn’t find it in one direction, he’d go try the other. Once atop the mesa, he hoped he’d be able to get a visual bearing on the distant lights of camp. “Okay, pardner,” he said to Mitty. “Let’s go.”

Having a plan reassured him, and he set off at a fast walk toward the distant line of cliffs. The stars began appearing over his head, first the brightest ones along with the planets, and then the vast panoply. The air was cooling nicely, and he still had a little water. He figured it was about eight o’clock. If all went well, he and Mitty would be back in camp by ten, and then he’d rally the group and return in the vehicles for a proper search. The mesa top could be easily crossed by jeep, and the trail down to the lake bed, next to the tower, was broad enough to be traversable—steep though it was.

This would be over soon. Keep calm and carry on, he kept murmuring, repeating the phrase that had gotten the British through the Blitz.

He continued toward the dark line of cliffs until night closed in for good. The stars, out here with no light pollution, were amazing, like vast clouds of glowing dust. The moon had not yet risen, and he could no longer see where he was going—the land ahead was just a sea of black. But he scanned the sky and quickly located the North Star, and from that adjusted his route to a southeast heading. If he kept the star at his back, behind his left shoulder, he should be able to maintain a steady course without getting turned around or going in circles.

An hour went by, and finally the alkali crust of the lake bed petered away. He felt the ground rising, and in another ten minutes he was standing at the foot of the cliffs—a black wall blotting out the night sky.

So far, so good. But where was the trail? He took a guess it would be to his left and began hiking along the base of the cliffs in that direction. It was so dark, and the cliffs so devoid of form, that he found himself having to stop and explore every ridgeline and slope for the trail—none of which panned out, the climb always ending in sheer rock.

A half mile brought him at last to a promising ridge. He wished for the thousandth time that he’d brought a headlamp—but who could have imagined they’d be out after dark?

He started up the ridgeline, his heart soaring with hope. It grew steeper—steeper than he remembered—but he kept going. Now it became steeper still. This wasn’t the trail, he realized, but it still might be a route to the top.

He kept scrambling up, the rock face to the left and right falling away into sheer blackness, using his hands now as well as his feet. Mitty, with four legs, was doing better than he was, and he placed a hand on the dog’s furry head, feeling reassured by the touch. The wind picked up and he abruptly felt wobbly, disoriented by vertigo, and quickly sat down to gather his nerves. He turned to look back over the Plains of Atalaya and suddenly caught his breath.

There were lights!

He peered at the tiny points, moving in the ocean of black. They were definitely lights, very distant, hard to resolve. As he stared, he became aware they were moving. One blinked out, then another, then both came back on again. It was impossible to tell exactly where they were in the dark landscape, but it seemed likely they were in the Horse Heaven Hills or possibly beyond.

Had Noam brought a flashlight or headlamp with him? He hadn’t mentioned it. And he certainly wouldn’t have taken more than one. Skip stared at the lights, growing thirsty as he did so, and took out his water bottle. Damn. He shook it, then took a swig, leaving the last bit. Skip and Nora had grown up on a ranch, and one of the unbreakable rules their father had taught them was never, ever drink the last bit of water in your canteen. Their father had tragically died of thirst in the desert, but when he was found, there was still water in his canteen.

After hesitating, he gave the last of the water to Mitty, who lapped it up in seconds.

He turned his attention back to the lights. They suggested Bitan might have encountered other people, by accident or design. Were they helping him? Were they just random people? Surely it wasn’t a rescue party from camp—not yet. What the hell were they doing out there, with no roads for miles? The lights seemed to be moving around in strange, almost random patterns, but maybe that was an illusion caused by the blankness of the terrain. It was hard to tell with no fixed landmarks. On top of that, his eyes were dry and irritated from the dust and sun.

He tucked the empty water bottle back in his pack and continued up the ridge, which grew ever more terrifying. And then it dead-ended in a wall of rock.

Christ almighty, he would have to make his way back down that slope. Going down was always worse. He turned gingerly, knelt, and began scooting on his butt, little by little, but the slope was extreme and the ridge all loose gravel and sand, and he suddenly found himself sliding faster and faster. He raked the ground with his hands and dug in his heels, but it did nothing except scratch the hell out of his palms. He cried out, scrabbling desperately, Mitty suddenly barking, as he fell faster still, terror gripping his heart.