Desert Places (Andrew Z. Thomas/Luther Kite Series 1)

As we waited for my duffel bag, I asked him, “So you know where to take me?”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“Where?”

He frowned reproachfully. “Now, I was told to keep that a surprise, Mr. Thomas. I got a pretty penny for keeping this a secret, so I can’t go spoiling it for you.”

“You won’t spoil it for me,” I said, forcing myself to laugh good-naturedly, attempting to put him at ease. “Really. I’ll double what he’s paying you.” Hiram laughed and shook his head.

“He said you’d probably try something like this. Told me to tell him if you did and he’d pay me twice what you offered.”

“Fine,” I said. “Forget it. Let it be a secret, then. Don’t tell him I asked.”

I saw my bag gliding toward us, but when I reached for it, Hiram grabbed my arm.

“Now, that’s my job, Mr. Thomas.”

“No, really, it’s okay. That’s a heavy bag.”

“I get paid well for what I do, Mr. Thomas. Let me do my job.” He stepped in front of me and heaved my bag awkwardly off the conveyor belt.

“I have breakable items in there,” I said. “I’d prefer to carry it.”

“No,” he said flatly, and began walking away.

“Stop!” I yelled, drawing glances from the other passengers waiting for their luggage. He stopped, and I ran up to him and jerked the bag off his shoulder. “I’d prefer to carry it,” I said. Hiram’s sagging eyes narrowed. “I have to use the bathroom,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

I found a rest room and squeezed into the last stall. Sitting down on the toilet, I opened the bag and could immediately tell it had been sifted, for my clothes were in shambles. Reaching down, I retrieved the black gun case I’d declared at the ticket counter.

I unlocked and opened the case, took out the .357, and set it on top of the clothes. I found the box of rounds buried under my socks, and I tore it open and loaded five semijacketed hollow-points into the cylinder. Then, with the .357 stuffed into the waistband of my khakis, and my oversized green polo shirt pulled down over my waist, I put the empty gun case and the box of rounds back into the duffel bag, zipped it up, and exited the stall.

Three men stood at the urinals, and I strode nervously past them. If you get caught, this is prison, I thought, moving through the swarm of people back toward Hiram. The gun felt so heavy, like it might fall out of my pants onto the floor.

We reached the entrance of the airport, and Hiram led me outside to a black limousine. I let him load my bag into the trunk, and then he opened the door for me and I climbed inside, half-expecting to find someone waiting for me. But there was no one—just the immaculate gray interior of the limousine.

When Hiram had settled into the driver’s seat and started the car, he looked back and said, “There’s a minibar and a TV if you’re interested. Just let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Thomas.”

Hiram pulled out of the parking space and drove away from the airport. Staring out the deeply tinted windows, beyond the glare of the tarmac, I saw a brown throng of mountains in the western distance. I wanted to lose myself in them and escape whatever hell awaited me.

3

AN hour later, I stood watching Hiram’s black limousine roll down the exit ramp and speed away on the interstate, heading back toward Denver. Lifting my bag, I carried it into the shade of an aspen near the Motel 6 office. In the heat of the sun, it seemed impossible that snow glistened on the mountaintops. Across the interstate, thirty miles west, the front range of the Rocky Mountains swept up out of the plain without the warning of foothills, and though the sky shone blue directly above, thunderclouds clustered around the highest peaks. Lightning flickered farther back in the mountains, but I never heard the thunder that followed.

Sitting in the cool grass, I opened the envelope Hiram had left with me. The note inside, identical in form to its predecessor, put knots in my craw as I read the black type:

You should be reading this around two in the afternoon at the Motel 6 on 1-25 north of Denver. Get a room and pay cash for it so you can check in under the name Randy Snider. Be packed and ready to go at 6:00 A.M. tomorrow.

Room 112 was on the ground level. My nerves were frayed, so I checked the closet, the shower, even under the bed—anyplace large enough for a man to hide. When I felt confident I was alone, I closed the blinds and locked the door. Then I lay down on the bed with the gun and a book and read all afternoon.

Sometime after nine o’clock, the sky slipped from navy into black. Unable to keep my eyes open, I noticed the words on the page beginning to blur. Fatigue wore me down, though I fought to stay awake. A line of storms was rolling in from Rocky Mountain National Park, and every few seconds, thunder cracked and lightning flashed through the blinds.

Starving, I ran outside to the vending machines and bought a pack of crackers and two cans of soda. By the time I returned to my door, a drenching rain was falling from the sky, and the wind gusted, flinging dust in my eyes. As I opened the door and stepped across the threshold, I glanced back at the parking lot. There were only three cars, briefly visible when lightning stoked the sky with a yellowish blue explosion of electricity.

I shut the door and locked it. Storm warnings scrolled across the bottom of the television screen in alarming red. Within minutes, I finished the sodas and devoured the crackers, and, having satisfied my appetite, my exhaustion became complete. I cut out the lights, slipped out of my tennis shoes, and climbed into bed. Nothing could stop my eyes from closing, not even the knowledge that he was coming.

I felt constrained beneath the covers, so I lay on top of them and placed the .357 on the bedside table. I’ll only sleep for an hour, I promised myself. One hour, no longer.

A deafening blast of thunder shattered the sky—so loud, it seemed the storm was in the room. My eyes opened, and I saw the door swinging back and forth and lightning striking a mountain peak. I glanced at the alarm clock: 3:15.

The door is open, I thought, and I reached for the gun on the bedside table but only palmed the smooth surface of the wood. A stabbing pain shot through my left arm, and I jerked up in bed. When I looked down at the floor, I shrieked. A dark figure crouched on all fours.

My mouth turned cottony, and I could think of nothing but running before it stabbed me again. I tried to lunge off the other side of the bed and move toward the door, but nothing happened. It felt as if boulders had been strapped to my arms and legs. Even my fingers were incapacitated, and I fell back, my head sinking into the soft pillow. My eyes began to close as the dark figure stood and moved to the foot of the bed. It spoke to me, but the words melted.