The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(98)

I move away from the rock nest, not sure yet which way I’m going. Just that, if and when Jim spots me, I don’t want to be anywhere near it. I need to get him away from Laurel’s hiding place. My best guess is he’s searching farther down the trail by now, but I want a better vantage point. The outcropping he used to spot us would do.

There’s a thick branch, like a staff, lying off the trail. I pick it up to use as a walking stick. I lean on it heavily, climbing up and up toward the ledge.

By the time I reach it, my head is pulsing, the pain so bad my eyes are running with tears. A light rain is falling, deepening the red sandstone to a dark brick. My foot slides on the slick surface. The temperature has dropped even more; the wind’s picked up, slapping the sleeves of Laurel’s blouse around my face. I move carefully to the edge of the outcropping, wary of being seen from below, in case Jim is down there, looking up toward the top of the mesa. The goal is to spot him first.

I peer over the edge. My eyes sweep the desert landscape. A flash of lightning arcs across the sky, stabs at massive black clouds tumbling over one another at a rapid boil.

“I see you.”

It’s coming from right behind me.

My blood freezes, but there’s no panic. No hurry to turn to face him. Nowhere to go.

I straighten, leaning on the staff. Then I shuffle around, till there he is, standing just a few yards away. His face is streaked with blood, misshapen. His eye’s swelling shut, nose bashed in.

I look at the damage and feel a swell of pride.

“What are you smiling at?” He’s frowning. I notice he’s slurring a little.

“Missing some teeth, are you?” I ask calmly.

His good eye narrows to a slit. He takes a step toward me and I see he’s unsteady on his feet. A stiff gust of wind hits him and he staggers back. Thunder rolls in the distance like a growl.

And suddenly I remember. I remember the missing bits of that ride out from Wheeler, the mad dash to Albuquerque. The first place for gas was the big truck stop halfway to Grants. The same one where Trang, heading for San Francisco, hitched a ride one day. I was pumping in regular, not sure how many gallons the punctured tank would hold, but sure it would let me know. A redheaded boy with a cowlick and an earplug, who didn’t look old enough to drive, wearing a Rolling Rock T-shirt, was at the pump next to me when the gasoline started running out from under my car. “Whoa, lady!” he cried. “You’re leaking!”

I bought three gallon containers, filled them with gas and threw them in the trunk. Back in the car, back on the road—I never got the chance to use them. Twenty miles out, I glanced in the rearview and saw a sheriff’s unit in the distance, lights flashing, sirens screaming, coming up fast. I knew I couldn’t outrun him, so I careened off the road and headed straight for the red rocks, praying for a miracle.

That was where Jim caught up with us. Six months ago. Two hours ago.

I remember it. Like a bad dream somebody told me once. But not my dream. Not anymore.

Now I’m untouchable.

I tip my face to the wrathful sky, eyes shut. Cold rain streams down my cheeks as the storm overtakes us.

“Like it?” I ask. “It’s for you.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I open my eyes. He’s staring at me. Staring like he’s not sure if I’m contagious.

But he’s not moving toward me.

I feel a rush of adrenaline. Not sure what I’m doing. What I’m saying. Why I feel with all my might that I want to poke the rattlesnake.

I stare back, certain I look as bad to him as he does to me.

“You’re f*cking nuts,” he says.

“I’d say you’d know, but that’s giving you too much credit. To know what nuts is, you need a point of reference. You’d have to know what sane is. Do you know what sane is, Jim?” I shake my head sadly. “That would be no. A thousand times no.”

The rain is coming down harder now and starts to sting. Tiny ice pellets. Sleet. Jim looks at the sky, at the boiling clouds. He looks at his bare arms, like he’s seeing something unusual.

“What the f*ck—?”

“Dear God, get a vocabulary,” I snap. “Buy a vowel, Alex! Get some consonants! Mix them together. They’re called words. I’d get better conversation out of a monkey.”

His arms drop to his sides. He moves forward. But only a step.

He snarls deep in his throat. “Finally grow some backbone, eh? Didn’t know you had it in you.”